To
To Scottie and Edy they keep me grounded and provide insight for dealing with life, and they also teach me about the true meaning of unconditional love.
Courtesy: noun: The showing of politeness in one's attitude and behavior toward others.
Contempt: noun: The feeling that a person or a thing is beneath consideration, worthless, or deserving scorn.
Summary
This story centers on the lives six intelligent upper middle class women embedded in family life, who unmask falsity and pretension on the ultimate path of pursuing a successful life. They try balancing financial necessity against other concerns: love, friendship, and morals.
A wealthy man dies and his entire estate goes to son, who promised to take care of the family, but his greedy wife takes him out of generosity, so the widow gets a tiny pension, forcing her to move with three daughters to a cheap country cottage. The family takes a step down in society and faces hardship as they are four women virtually penniless. The sisters with different perspectives on life and interests, keep one another in line and support one another through death, hardship, love, and friendship.
A conflict between marrying for love and marrying for economic reasons. A father driven to exasperation by his ridiculous wife and difficult daughters. None of the five daughters can inherit his estate, so they are pressured into finding security in "good" marriages. One of the daughters struggles with the societal pressures of marriage and resists advances and proposals of a wealthy and arrogant gentleman. She shares her father's distaste for the conventional views of society as to the importance of wealth and rank.Eventually, however, she finds that she does love him, and for that reason, she decides to marry him.
A poor young girl searches for her place in society. Her father is a former naval officer and a heavy drinker, while her mother has married beneath her and is undeniably the black sheep in the family. As a form of charity, yhe girlFanny is taken in to live with her wealthy aunt. At her new home, The girl is raised and lives with her four cousins and is never really considered their social equal. She is often mistreated by her aunt and treated as an inferior by her cousins. She is constantly reminded of her social status and grows up shy and humble, but nevertheless remains true to herself., and must decide whether she places a higher value on priceless morality or the expectations imposed on her by society.
A young woman living on the large estate with her elderly widowed father, is satisfied with her life and sees no need for romance or a marriage for herself, and is described as handsome, clever, and rich with a comfortable home and happy disposition, and is spoiled, snobbish, and yet charming. She delightfully interferes in the relationships of others without taking much notice of her own heart. She is quick to make prejudgments and decisions, and is warned of her high self-confidence and her efforts of having everything her way. But as she evolves from her self-centered ways into a sympathetic woman, well aware of others and her own desires, an is eventually able to notice her mistakes, and it is this revelation that makes her an endearing inspiration.
A story of seventeen-year-old girl’s story of maturation into womanhood. She is one of ten children of a country clergyman. She imagines life as living in one of the Gothic novels with which she is excessively fond of reading. She leaves her sheltered, rural home to enter the busy, sophisticated world of the city, and she experiences her first taste of the fashionable upper class society. Eventually she realizes that real life is not at all like that of a Gothic novel.
The overlooked middle daughter of a vain baronet who is all too conscious of his good looks and rank and spends excessive amounts of money. Her mother, a fine, sensible woman, is long dead, and her elder sister, resembles her father in temperament and delights in the fact that as the eldest daughter she can assume her mother's former position in their rural neighborhood. The younger sister, is a nervous, clinging woman who has made an unspectacular marriage to a bucolic but respected local squire. None of her surviving family can provide much companionship for the elegant-minded middle daughter, who, still unmarried at 27, seems destined for spinsterhood. Portrayed by the plight of young women who could escape the constraints of family life only by marrying, and suggest the foolishness of women who believed they were free and not dependent on the financial and social resources of men. An ironic and subtle ache to the true love that enables one woman to rise above straitened economic circumstances and the stifling social conventions that restricted women to narrowly circumscribed lives in the common sitting room.
Chapter 1
The Hargrove family had long resided in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was in Norland Park, at the center of their property, where they had lived for many generations in such a respectable way that they took advantage of the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintances. The late owner of this property was a single man who reached a very old age and had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister for many years of his life. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, brought about a great change in his house; for in order to compensate for their loss, he invited the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Hargrove, the legal heir of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he wanted to bequeath it, to his house and received it. In the company of his nephew and niece and their children, the old gentleman's days were pleasantly spent. His attachment to them all increased. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Hargrove's constant attention to his desires, which arose not only from interest but also from kindness of heart, gave him every degree of firm comfort his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added spice to his existence.
From a previous marriage, Mr. Henry Hargrove had a son, and three daughters from his current lady. The son, a steady, decent young man, was abundantly supplied by his mother's large fortune, half of which fell to him when he came of age. Also through his own marriage, which took place soon after, he increased his wealth. For this reason, the succession on the Norland estate was not as important to him as it was to his sisters; for their wealth could only be small, regardless of what they would be entitled to from their father's inheritance. Her mother had nothing and her father only seven thousand pounds at his disposal; for the remaining part of his first wife's fortune was also secured for her child, and he had only a lifelong interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, it brought as much disappointment as joy. He was neither so unjust nor so ungrateful as to leave his estate from his nephew – but he left it to him on terms that destroyed half the value of the legacy. Mr. Hargrove had wanted it more for his wife and daughters than for himself or son; but his son and the son of his son, a four-year-old child, were assured in this way, so as not to give themselves any power to care for those who were dear to him most and who most needed a supply from a burden on the estate or from a sale of his precious forests. The whole thing was tied up for the benefit of this child, who had hitherto won the affection of his uncle on occasional visits to his father and mother in Norland, through stimuli that are by no means unusual in children aged two or three; an imperfect articulation, a serious desire to impose his own will, many cunning tricks and much ado to outweigh the full value of all the attention he had received for years from his niece and her daughters. However, he did not want to be unkind, and as a sign of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds each.
Mr Hargrove's disappointment was severe at first; but his temperament was cheerful and confident; and he could reasonably hope to live for many years, and by living frugally, he could provide a considerable sum from the yield of an already large estate that can be improved almost immediately. But the fortune that had come so late was his only twelve-month year. He no longer survived his uncle; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that was left for his widow and daughters.
As soon as his danger became known, his son was brought in, and Mr. Hargrove recommended to him the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters with all the strength and urgency that an illness could command.
Mr. John Hargrove did not have the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by such a recommendation at such a time, and he promised to do everything in his power to make them comfortable. His father was relieved by such an assurance, and Mr. John Hargrove then had time to think about how much was reasonably in his power to do for them.
He was not an evil-minded young man, unless being rather cold-hearted and quite selfish means being evil-minded: but in general he was very respected; for he behaved decently in the performance of his ordinary duties. If he had married a more amiable woman, he might have become even more respectable than he was: – perhaps he himself would have become amiable; for he was very young when he married and loved his wife very much. But Mrs. John Hargrove was a strong caricature of himself; – narrow-minded and selfish.
When he made his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase his sisters' fortune by giving him a thousand pounds each. He really thought he was. The prospect of four thousand a year, in addition to his current income, in addition to the remaining half of his own mother's wealth, warmed his heart and made him feel capable of generosity. "Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be generous and pretty! It would be enough to make it easy for them. Three thousand pounds! he could do without such a considerable sum with little inconvenience." – He thought about it all day, and many days in a row, and he does not regret.
His father's funeral was barely over when Mrs. John Hargrove arrived with her child and companions without sending her mother-in-law a message of her intention. No one could deny her the right to come; the house belonged to her husband since the death of his father; but the indecency of their behavior was all the greater, and for a woman in Mrs. Hargrove's situation, who had only common feelings, it must have been highly unpleasant; – but in YOUR opinion, such a pronounced sense of honor, such generosity was romantic that any insult of this kind, by whomever it was committed or received, was a source of unshakeable disgust for them. Mrs. John Hargrove had not been popular with any of her husband's family members; but she had not had an opportunity until now,
Mrs. Hargrove felt this indecent behavior so much and despised her daughter-in-law so earnestly that when the latter arrived, she would have silenced the house forever if she had not been her request The oldest girl first made her think about the appropriateness of walking, and her own tender love for all her three children later determined her to stay and avoid a break with her brother for her sake.
Eleanore, that eldest daughter whose counsel was so effective, possessed a strength of reason and cool judgment that, even though she was only nineteen years old, made her her her mother's counselor and enabled her to often work to the advantage of all of them, that zeal of the spirit in Mrs. Hargrove, which must have generally led to unwiseness. She had an excellent heart; their affection was loving, and their feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern her: it was a knowledge that her mother still had to learn; and one of her sisters had decided never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were equal to eleanore's in many ways. She was reasonable and wise; but zealous in everything: their sorrows, their joys could not have moderation. She was generous, kind, interesting: she was anything but prudent. The similarity between her and her mother was strikingly great.
Eleanore saw with concern the excess of sensitivity of her sister; but it was appreciated and cherished by Mrs. Hargrove. They now encouraged each other in the ferocity of their suffering. The pain of grief that initially overwhelmed her was voluntarily renewed, sought, recreated again and again. They gave themselves completely to their grief, sought the increase of misery in every reflection it could afford, and decided not to allow any consolation in the future. Eleonore was also deeply affected; but still she could fight, she could make an effort. She was able to consult with her brother, receive her sister-in-law on her arrival and treat her with due attention; and could strive to shake her mother to similar efforts and encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humoured, kind-hearted girl; but since she had already absorbed much of Marianne's romance without much of her mind, at thirteen she didn't want to be fair enough to do the same as her sisters at a more advanced stage of life.
Chapter 2
It is a universally accepted truth that a single man in possession of good wealth must need a wife.
As little known as the feelings or views of such a man may be when he first enters a neighborhood, this truth is so entrenched in the minds of surrounding families that he is considered the rightful property of one or the other of their daughters.
"My dear Mr. Mitchell," his lady said to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is finally rented?"
Mr. Mitchell replied that he had not done so.
'But it is,' she replied; 'because Mrs. Long was just here, and she told me all about it.'
Mr. Mitchell did not answer.
"Don't you want to know who took it?" his wife shouted impatiently.
"YOU want to tell me, and I don't mind hearing it."
That was invitation enough.
"Well, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield was taken over by a young man of great fortune from the north of England; that on Monday he came down in a carriage and four to see the house, and was so pleased that he immediately agreed with Mr. Morris; that he should take possession of Michaeli and that some of his servants should be in the house by the end of next week.'
'What's his name?'
'Forest.'
'Is he married or single?'
'Oh! Single, my love to be sure! A single man with a great fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a beautiful thing for our girls!'
'Why is that? How can it affect them?'
"My dear Mr. Mitchell," his wife replied, "how can you be so tiring! You have to know that I'm thinking of him marrying one of them."
"Is this his plan to settle here?"
'Design! Nonsense, how can you talk like that! But it's very likely that he'll fall in love with one of them, and that's why you'll have to visit him as soon as he comes.'
"I don't see any reason to do so. You and the girls can go, or you can send them alone, which may be even better, because since you look just as good as everyone else, Mr. Woodland may like you most from society."
"My dear, you flatter me. I'VE certainly had my share of beauty, but I'm not pretending to be something extraordinary now. If a woman has five adult daughters, she should stop thinking about her own beauty.'
"In such cases, a woman often does not have much beautiful to think about."
"But, my dear, you really have to visit Mr. Woodland when he comes to the neighborhood."
"That's more than I'm advocating for it, I assure you."
"But think of your daughters. Just think what kind of facility it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to leave, just because in general they do not visit newcomers. In fact, you have to go, because it will be impossible for us to visit him if you don't.'
"You're certainly over-scrupulous. I dare say Mr. Woodland will be very happy to see you; and I will send a few lines from you to assure him of my warm approval of his marriage, which he chooses from the girls; although I have to throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."
"I wish you didn't do that. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I'm sure she's not half as pretty as Jane, half as good as Linda. But you always give her preference."
'They don't have much of them to recommend,' he replied; "they are all stupid and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has a little more speed than her sisters.'
'Lord. Mitchell, how can you abuse your own children like that? You enjoy annoying me. You have no pity for my poor nerves.'
"You are confusing me, my dear. I have great respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I've heard you mention them wisely for at least the last twenty years."
Mr. Mitchell was such a strange mix of quick moves, sarcastic humor, restraint, and capriciousness that the experience of twenty-three years had not been enough to make his wife understand his character. HER mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman with little understanding, little information and an insecure temperament. When she was dissatisfied, she imagined nervously. The business of a lifetime was to marry off their daughters; his consolation was visits and news.
Chapter 3
About thirty years ago, Miss Maria Ward of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, was fortunate enough to tie up Sir Thomas Schmidt of Mansfield Park in Northampton and thus be elevated to the rank of Baronet Lady. with all the amenities and consequences of a beautiful house and a large income. All of Huntingdon raved about the size of the match, and her uncle, the lawyer himself, allowed her to lack at least three thousand pounds of a fair claim to it. She had two sisters who benefited from her elevation; and those of her acquaintances who thought Miss Ward and Miss Frances were just as handsome as Miss Maria had no scruples about predicting their marriage with almost equal advantage. But there are certainly not as many men with large fortunes in the world as there are pretty women who deserve them. Miss Ward, At the end of half a dozen years, she was forced to be associated with Rev. Mr. Norris, a friend of her brother-in-law, who had little private fortune, and Miss Frances fared even worse. Miss Ward's match was actually not despicable when it mattered: Sir Thomas was happy to give his friend an income in mansfield's life; and Mr. and Mrs. Norris began their careers of marital bliss with very little less than a thousand a year. But Miss Frances married to disappoint her family, and did it very thoroughly, committing to a Lieutenant of the Marines with no education, wealth or connections. She could hardly have made a less favorable choice. Sir Thomas Schmidt had an interest both out of principle and pride – out of a general desire to do the right thing – and the desire to see everyone associated with him in respectable situations, he would have liked to have exercised to the advantage of Lady Schmidt's sister; but her husband's profession was one that no interest could achieve; and before he had time to come up with any other method to help them, there had been an absolute break between the sisters. It was the natural result of each party's behavior and as it almost always produces a very careless marriage. To protect herself from useless objections, Mrs. Price never wrote to her family on the subject until she was actually married. Lady Schmidt, who was a woman of very calm feelings and a remarkably light and sluggish temperament, would have been content to just give up her sister and stop thinking about it; but Mrs. Norris had a zest for action that could not be satisfied until she had written a long and angry letter to Esther to point out the folly of her behavior and threaten her with all sorts of negative consequences. Mrs. Price, for her part, was hurt and angry; and an answer that gripped each sister in her bitterness and gave the pride of Sir Thomas such disrespectful reflections that Mrs. Norris could not possibly keep to herself put an end to all intercourse between them for a considerable time.
Their houses were so far apart and the circles in which they moved so different that it was almost impossible to ever hear anything about each other's existence in the following eleven years, or at least to make it very wonderful for Sir Thomas that Mrs Norris should ever have it in her power, To tell them how she did it from time to time in an angry voice that Esther had had another child. By the end of eleven years, however, Mrs. Price could no longer afford to harbor pride or resentment, or to lose a connection that could potentially help her. A large and still growing family, a husband who was disabled for active service but no less able to cope with society and good alcohol, and a very low income to satisfy their needs, made them eager to win back the friends she had so carelessly sacrificed; and she addressed Lady Schmidt in a letter that expressed so much remorse and despondency, such an abundance of children, and such a lack of almost everything else that they all had to cause reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth sleep; and after lamenting the circumstances and begging her face as godfather for the expected child, she could not hide how important they could be for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? such an abundance of children and such a lack of almost everything else that had to lead them all to reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth sleep; and after lamenting the circumstances and begging her face as godfather for the expected child, she could not hide how important they could be for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? such an abundance of children and such a lack of almost everything else that had to lead them all to reconciliation. She was preparing for her ninth sleep; and after lamenting the circumstances and begging her face as godfather for the expected child, she could not hide how important they could be for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? how they could not help but induce them all to reconcile. She was preparing for her ninth sleep; and after lamenting the circumstances and begging her face as godfather for the expected child, she could not hide how important they could be for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? how they could not help but induce them all to reconcile. She was preparing for her ninth sleep; and after lamenting the circumstances and begging her face as godfather for the expected child, she could not hide how important they could be for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? it could not hide how important they were for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? it could not hide how important they were for the future maintenance of the already existing eight. Their eldest was a boy of ten years, a fine, spirited lad who longed to be in the world; but what could she do? Was there a chance that he could later be useful to Sir Thomas in the affairs of his West Indian property? No situation would be too bad for him; or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East? or what did Sir Thomas think of Woolwich? or how could a boy be sent to the East?
The letter was not unproductive. It restored peace and kindness. Sir Thomas sent friendly advice and professions, Lady Schmidt sent money and baby linen, and Mrs. Norris wrote the letters.
These were its immediate effects, and within twelve months it resulted in an even more important benefit for Mrs. Price. Mrs. Norris often remarked to the others that she couldn't get her poor sister and family out of her head, and that as much as they had all done for her, she apparently wanted to do more; and finally, she couldn't help but admit that it was her wish that poor Mrs. Price should be freed from the burden and cost of having a large number of children. "What if they were among them to take care of their eldest daughter, a girl who is now nine years old and needs more attention at an age than her poor mother could possibly give? The effort and cost of it would be nothing for them compared to the goodwill of the action." Lady Schmidt immediately agreed with her. "I don't think we can do any better," she said;
Sir Thomas could not give such an immediate and unqualified consent. He pondered and hesitated; – it was a serious accusation; – such an educated girl had to be adequately cared for, or there would be cruelty instead of kindness if she was taken from her family. He thought of his own four children, his two sons, cousins in love, etc. – but no sooner had he consciously begun to express his objections when Mrs. Norris interrupted him with an answer to everyone, whether said or not.
"My dear Sir Thomas, I fully understand you and live up to the generosity and tenderness of your ideas, which are in fact entirely in line with your general conduct; and I totally agree with you, in the main, as far as the adequacy is concerned, to do everything that can be done to care for a child that you have taken into your own hands; and I am sure that I should be the last person in the world to hold back my little bit on such an occasion. Since I don't have children of my own, who should I turn to in every little matter I ever have to give than my sisters' children? – and I'm sure Norris-san is too fair – but you know that I'm a woman with few words and professions. Let us not be deterred from a good deed by a small thing. Give a girl an education and properly introduce her to the world, and ten to one, but she has the means to settle in well, at no additional cost to anyone. A niece of ours, Sir Thomas, I can say, or at least without many advantages, yours would not grow up in this neighborhood. I'm not saying she would look as good as her cousins. I dare say she wouldn't; but it would be introduced into the society of this country under such very favorable circumstances that would in all probability give it a decent institution. You think of your sons – but don't you know that, of all things on earth – this will happen least when they are brought up like this, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I have never known a case of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way to go against the connection. Suppose she were a pretty girl and was seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time in seven years, and I dare say there would be mischief. The mere idea that she had to grow up in poverty and neglect far away from all of us would be enough to make one of the dear, good-natured boys fall in love with her. But raise her with them from that time, and imagine if she had even the beauty of an angel, and she won't be more than a sister to either of them."
"There is a great deal of truth in what you are saying," Sir Thomas replied, "and it is far from me to put any imaginative obstacle in the way of a plan that would be so compatible with the circumstances. I just wanted to note that it should not be frivolous, and that in order to make it truly serviceable to Mrs. Price and commendable to ourselves, we must entrust ourselves to the child or feel obliged to secure it later. as you expect so confidently.
"I fully understand you," exclaimed Mrs. Norris, "You are all that is generous and considerate, and I am sure we will never contradict each other on this point. Whatever I can do, as you know, I am always ready enough to do it for the good of those I love; and although I could never feel for this little girl the hundredth part of the respect I have for your own dear children, nor could I consider them so much my own in any way, I would hate myself if I were able to neglect them. Isn't she the child of a sister? and could I bear to see her, while I would have to give her a piece of bread? My dear Sir Thomas, for all my faults I have a warm heart; and poor as I am, I would rather give up the necessities of life than do an involuntary thing. So, if you are not against it, tomorrow I will write to my poor sister and make the suggestion; and,I will get involved to bring the child to Mansfield; You won't have any trouble with it. My own difficulties, you know, I never look at them. I'm going to send Nanny to London on purpose, and she can have a bed with her cousin, the saddler, and the child is destined to meet her there. You can easily take them to the city by carriage from Portsmouth, under the care of a credible person who happens to ride along. I dare to say that one or the other serious merchant woman always appears."
Except for the attack on Nanny's cousin, Sir Thomas raised no objections, and a more respectable, if less frugal, rendezvous was replaced accordingly, everything was considered done, and the joys of such a benevolent plan were already enjoyed. Strictly speaking, the distribution of satisfying sensations should not have been the same; for Sir Thomas was determined to be the real and consistent patron of the chosen child, and Mrs. Norris had no intention of taking care of her subsistence at all costs. As far as walking, talking, and tinkering were concerned, she was thoroughly benevolent, and no one knew better how to dictate generosity to others; but her love of money was on par with her love of directing, and she knew just as well how to save her own as spending that of her friends. Since she had married with a lower income than she was used to, she had considered a very strict austerity policy necessary from the beginning; and what was started out of prudence soon grew into a matter of choice, as an object of that necessary care that there were no children to deliver. Had a family been provided for, Mrs. Norris might never have saved her money; but since they did not care about this species, there was nothing that hindered their frugality or reduced the comfort of making an annual increase to an income they had never lived up to. Under this beguiling principle, which was not countered by any real affection for her sister, it was impossible for her to seek more than the merit of planning and organizing such an expensive charity; although she may know so little to go home to the rectory,
when the issue was raised again, her views were explained more fully; and in response to Lady Schmidt's quiet question "Where should the child come first, sister, to you or to us?" Sir Thomas heard with some surprise that it would be completely outside the power of Mrs. Norris to participate in her personal responsibility. He had seen her as a particularly welcome addition to the rectory, as a desirable partner of an aunt who had no children of her own; but he found himself completely in error. Mrs. Norris unfortunately had to say that staying with them for the little girl, at least as things were then, was quite unthinkable. Poor Mr. Norris' indifferent state of health made it impossible: he could not bear the noise of a child any more than he could fly; if he really ever recovered from his gout complaints, it would be another matter: she would like to take her turn and think nothing of it; but right now, poor Mr. Norris took up every moment of her time, and she was sure that the mere mention of such a thing would distract him.
"Then she had better come to us," said Lady Schmidt with the utmost serenity. After a short pause, Sir Thomas added gracefully: "Yes, let their home be in this house. We will strive to fulfill our duty through her, and she will at least have the advantage of a companion of the same age and a regular teacher."
"Very true," exclaimed Mrs. Norris, "these are both very important considerations; and it will be the same for Miss Lee whether she has three girls to teach or only two – there can be no difference. I just wish I could be more useful; but you see, I do everything in my power. I am not one of those who spare their own difficulties; and Nanny is supposed to pick her up, however it can be uncomfortable for me to have my chief advisor away for three days. I suppose sister, you take the child to the little white attic near the old kindergartens. It will be the best place for them, so close to Miss Lee and not far from the girls and close to the housemaids who could both help attract them, you know, and take care of their clothes, for me you suppose you wouldn't think it would be fair to expect from Ellis, that he serves them as well as the others. In fact,
Lady Schmidt did not object.
"I hope she will prove to be a kind-minded girl," Mrs. Norris continued, "and be aware of her unusual happiness of having such friends."
"If she is really unwell," said Sir Thomas, "we do not have to keep her in the family for the sake of our own children; but there is no reason to expect such a great evil. We will probably see a change in it that leaves much to be desired and must be prepared for gross ignorance, a certain meanness of opinions and a very disturbing vulgarity of behavior; but these are not incurable mistakes; I trust that they cannot be dangerous for their companions either. If my daughters had been younger than themselves, I would have considered the introduction of such a companion to be a matter of very serious importance; but as it is, I hope that they have nothing to fear from unification and everything they can hope for for them."
"That's exactly what I think," exclaimed Mrs. Norris, "and what I said to my husband this morning. It will be an education for the child, I said, to be only with her cousins; If Miss Lee didn't teach her anything, she would learn from them to be good and smart."
"I hope she won't annoy my poor pug," said Lady Schmidt; "I just got Julia to leave it alone."
"There will be some difficulties ahead of us, Mrs Norris," Sir Thomas remarked, "regarding the distinction to be made between the adolescent girls: how to keep in the minds of my daughters the awareness of who they are without them thinking too little of their cousin; and how she remembers, without depressing her mood too much, that she is not Miss Schmidt. I want to see her very good friends and I don't want to give my girls the slightest arrogance against their relatives; but still, they cannot be the same. Their rank, wealth, rights and expectations will always be different. It's a very delicate point, and you need to support us in our efforts to choose exactly the right behavior."
Mrs. Norris was entirely at his service; and although she completely agreed with him that it was an extremely difficult thing, she encouraged him to hope that it would be easily handled between them.
It's easy to believe that Mrs. Norris didn't write to her sister for nothing. Mrs. Price seemed quite surprised that a girl was fixated on her when she had so many good boys, but gratefully accepted the offer, assuring them that their daughter was a very kind-hearted, good-humored girl, trusting that they would never have reason to drop her. She spoke of her father as a bit tender and puny, but was confident in the hope that she would be better off materially to change the air. Poor woman! She probably thought that a change of air would do many of her children good.
Chapter 4
Emma Lodge, handsome, smart and rich, with a comfortable home and a happy vibe, seemed to combine some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived in the world for almost twenty-one years, with very little to torment or annoy them.
She was the youngest of the two daughters of a loving, forgiving father; and had been the mistress of his house at a very early age as a result of her sister's marriage. Her mother had died too long ago for her to have more than a vague memory of her caresses; and her place had been taken as governess by an excellent woman who had barely complied with a loving mother.
For sixteen years, Miss Taylor had been in Mr. Lodge's family, less as a governess than as a friend, the two daughters, but especially Emma, ?? very much loved. Between them, it was more the intimacy of sisters. Even before Miss Taylor had stopped holding the nominal office of governess, the gentleness of her temperament had hardly allowed her to impose any restraint; and the shadow of authority was long gone, they lived together as a friend and friend who was very attached to each other, and Emma did exactly what she liked; Highly appreciative of Miss Taylor's judgment, but mainly guided by her own.
The real evils of Emma's situation were actually the ability to have quite too much of her own will, and a tendency to think a little too well of herself; these were the disadvantages that threatened to affect their many pleasures. But the danger was immediately so unnoticed that it was by no means considered a misfortune for her.
Grief came – a gentle sorrow – but not at all in the form of an unpleasant consciousness. – Miss Taylor married. It was Miss Taylor's loss that first brought grief. It was on this beloved friend's wedding day that Emma sat for the first time in sad thoughts of some kind of survival. The wedding was over, the bride and groom were gone, her father and she had to dine together, with no prospect of a third to celebrate a long evening. Her father went to sleep after dinner as usual, and all she had to do was sit down and think about what she had lost.
The event promised all luck for her friend. Mr. Winstone was a man of impeccable character, easy fortune, reasonable age and pleasant manners; and it was a certain satisfaction to consider the self-denying, generous friendship with which she had always desired and promoted the match; but it was the work of a black morning for her. The lack of Miss Taylor would be felt every day at any hour. She remembered her former kindness – the kindness, the affection of sixteen years – how she had taught her and how she had played with her since the age of five – how she had used all her powers to keep her healthy and amused – and how she had cared for her through the various illnesses of childhood. Great gratitude was due here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equality and complete impartiality that soon followed Bella's marriage, that they were left to each other, was an even better, more tender memory. She had been a friend and companion that few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, meek, familiar with all the ways of the family, interested in all her concerns, and especially interested in herself, in every pleasure, in every one of her plans – one with whom she could speak every thought as soon as it appeared, and who had such affection for her, that she never had anything to complain about.
How should she endure the change? - It was true that her friend was only half a mile away from them; but Emma was aware that the difference between a Mrs. Winstone, who was only half a mile away from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house must be great; and with all her natural and domestic benefits, she was now in great danger of suffering from mental loneliness. She loved her father very much, but he was not a companion to her. He could not meet her in conversation, rationally or playfully.
The evil of the actual age difference (and Mr. Lodge had not married early) was exacerbated by his constitution and habits; for since he had been a valet all his life, without mental or physical activity, he was in a way a much older man than in years; and although he was loved everywhere for his kind heart and gracious temperament, his talents could never have recommended him.
Her sister, although relatively little away by marriage, settled in London, only sixteen miles away, was much out of her daily reach; and many long October and November evenings had to be fought through in Hartfield before Christmas brought the next visit of Bella and her husband and young children to fill the house and give her pleasant company again.
Highbury, the large and populous village that almost resembled a town to which Hartfield really belonged despite its separate lawn, bushes and name, offered it no equals. The lodges were the first in a row to be there. Everyone looked up to them. She had many acquaintances in the village, because her father was generally polite, but none of them who could be accepted even for half a day instead of Miss Taylor. It was a melancholic change; and Emma couldn't help but sigh about it and wish for impossible things until her father woke up and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits needed support. He was a nervous man, slightly depressed; loved every body to which he was accustomed and hated to part with it; Hatred of any kind of change. Marriage as the origin of change has always been unpleasant; and he was by no means reconciled with the marriage of his own daughter, nor could he ever speak of her, but with pity, although it had been completely a game of affection when he now had to separate from Miss Taylor as well; and because of his gentle selfishness and the fact that he could never assume that other people could feel differently than himself, he was very inclined to believe that Miss Taylor had done as much sadness to herself as she did to them and would have been much happier if she had spent the rest of her life in Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as happily as she could to keep him from such thoughts; but when the tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly what he had said at dinner: when he now had to part with Miss Taylor as well; and because of his gentle selfishness and the fact that he could never assume that other people could feel differently than himself, he was very inclined to believe that Miss Taylor had done as much sadness to herself as she did to them and would have been much happier if she had spent the rest of her life in Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as happily as she could to keep him from such thoughts; but when the tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly what he had said at dinner: when he now had to part with Miss Taylor as well; and because of his gentle selfishness and the fact that he could never assume that other people could feel differently than himself, he was very inclined to believe that Miss Taylor had done as much sadness to herself as she did to them and would have been much happier if she had spent the rest of her life in Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as happily as she could to keep him from such thoughts; but when the tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly what he had said at dinner: and would have been much happier if she had spent the rest of her life in Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as happily as she could to keep him from such thoughts; but when the tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly what he had said at dinner: and would have been much happier if she had spent the rest of her life in Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as happily as she could to keep him from such thoughts; but when the tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly what he had said at dinner:
"Poor Miss Taylor! – I wish she was here again. What a shame Winstone-san ever thought of her!"
"I can't agree with you, Dad; You know, I can't. Mr. Winstone is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man that he deserves a good wife; – and you wouldn't have let Miss Taylor live with us forever and endured all my strange whims if she had one of her own house?"
"A house of its own! – But where is the advantage of having your own house? That's three times as big. – And you never have weird juices, my dear."
"How many times will we visit them, and they come to see us! – We will always meet! We must begin; we have to leave very soon and pay a wedding visit."
"My dear, how am I supposed to get this far? Randalls is so far away. I couldn't go half as far."
"No, Dad, no one thought about your walk. We have to go in the carriage to be safe."
"The car! But James won't like to put the horses out for so long – and where should the poor horses be while we pay our visit?"
"They are to be taken to Mr. Winstone's stable, Dad. You know that we have already settled all this. We discussed everything with Winstone-san last night. And as for James, you can be sure that he will always be happy to go to Randalls because his daughter is a maid there. I just doubt if he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your work, Dad. You brought Hannah to this good place. No one thought of Hannah until you mentioned her – James is so attached to you!"
"I'm very glad I thought of her. It was a great luck, because I would not have made poor James believe that he had been diminished because of anything; and I am sure that she will make a very good servant: she is a polite, pretty girl; I have a great opinion of her. When I see her, she always makes a kink and asks me in a very pretty way how I'm doing; and if you had her here to sew, I observe that she always turns the door lock around the right way and never slams shut. I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have around her someone she is used to seeing. Whenever James goes to his daughter, you know she will hear from us. He will be able to tell her how we are all doing."
Emma spared no effort to maintain this happier flow of thoughts, hoping to bring her father through the evening bearably with the help of backgammon and to be invaded by no regret other than her own. The backgammon table was set up; but a visitor came in right after and made it superfluous.
Mr. Hill, a reasonable man in his seven or thirty-eight, was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but as the older brother of Bella's husband, he was also particularly attached to her. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor and always welcome and at this time more welcome than usual as he came directly from their shared connections in London. He had returned for a late dinner after a few days of absence and now went to Hartfield to say that everything was fine in Brunswick Square. It was a fortunate circumstance and revived Mr. Lodge for some time. Mr. Hill had a cheerful manner that was always good for him; and his many inquiries about "poor Bella" and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Lodge gratefully remarked, "It is very nice of you, Mr. Hill, to come out at this late hour to visit us. I'm afraid you must have had a shocking walk."
"Not at all, sir. It's a beautiful lunar night; and so mild that I must withdraw from your great fire."
"But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you couldn't catch a cold."
"Dirty, Lord! Look at my shoes. Not a stain on them."
"Fountain! this is quite surprising, because we had a lot of rain here. It rained terribly heavily for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to postpone the wedding."
"By the way – I didn't wish you any joy. Since I am quite well aware of what kind of joy you both must feel, I am not in a hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all turned out reasonably well. How did you all behave? Who cried the most?"
"Ah! poor Miss Taylor! It's a sad thing."
"Poor Mr. and Miss Lodge, please; but I can't possibly say "poor Miss Taylor". I appreciate you and Emma very much; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence! - In any case, it must be better to have only one than two."
"Especially when one of the two is such an imaginative, annoying creature!" emma said playfully. "That's what you have in mind, I know – and what you would certainly say if my father wasn't there."
"I think it's really very true, my dear," Mr. Lodge said with a sigh. "I'm afraid I'm sometimes very imaginative and annoying."
"My dearest dad! You don't think I could mean you, or assume that Mr. Hill means you. What a terrible idea! Oh no! I meant only me. Mr. Hill loves to criticize me, you know – jokingly – it's all a joke. We always tell ourselves what we like."
In fact, Mr. Hill was one of the few people who could see flaws in Emma Lodge, and the only one who ever told her about it: and although this wasn't particularly pleasant for Emma herself, she knew that it would be so much less to her father that she wouldn't really let him suspect such a circumstance, because it is not considered perfect by everyone.
"Emma knows I never flatter her," Mr. Hill said, "but I didn't want to think about any body. Miss Taylor was used to pleasing two people; she will now have only one. Chances are she has to be a winner."
"Well," emma said, ?? ready to let it pass – "you want to hear about the wedding; and I'm happy to tell you that, because we all behaved nicely. Every body was punctual, every body in its best appearance: no tear and hardly a long face to see. Oh no; We all felt like we would only be half a mile apart and were sure we would meet every day."
"Dear Emma endures everything so well," said her father. "But, Mr. Hill, she's really sorry to lose poor Miss Taylor, and I'm sure she'll miss her more than she thinks."
Emma turned her head away, divided between tears and smiles. "It's impossible that Emma doesn't miss such a companion," Mr. Hill said. "We wouldn't like them as much as we do, sir, if we could accept it; but she knows how much marriage is to Miss Taylor's advantage; she knows how much it must be acceptable in Miss Taylor's years of life to be housed in her own house and how important comfortable care is to her, and therefore cannot afford to feel as much pain as pleasure. Every friend of Miss Taylor must be happy to have married her so happily."
"And you forgot a joy for me," Emma said, "?" and a very considerable one – that I made the match myself. I did the match, you know, four years ago; and that it takes place and will be right when so many people said Mr. Winstone would never marry again may comfort me for everything."
Mr. Hill shook his head. Her father lovingly replied, "Ah! My dear, I wish you wouldn't make matches and predict things, because whatever you say always comes true. Please don't make any more matches."
"I promise you not to do anything for myself, Dad; but I really have to for other people. It is the greatest pleasure in the world! And after such a success, you know! Everyone said that Mr. Winstone would never marry again. Oh dear, no! Mr. Winstone, who had been a widower for so long and felt so comfortable without a wife, so constantly busy with his business in the city or with his friends here, always acceptable wherever he went, always cheerful – Mr. Winstone did not need to spend a single evening of the year alone if he did not like it. Oh no! Mr. Winstone would certainly never marry again. Some people even spoke of a promise to his wife on her deathbed, and others of the son and uncle not letting him. All sorts of solemn nonsense was talked about, but I didn't believe any of it.
"Since the day about four years ago, when Miss Taylor and I met him on Broadway Lane, when, because it started to drizzle, he rushed away with so much bravery and lent us two umbrellas from Farmer Mitchell, I've decided on the subject. I scheduled the game from that hour on; and if in this case such a success has blessed me, dear Dad, you can not believe that I will give up getting married.
"I don't understand what you mean by 'success,'" Mr. Hill said. "Success requires effort. Your time has been used correctly and carefully if you have made an effort over the past four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy occupation for the spirit of a young lady! But if, as I rather imagine, you're going to do the match, as you call it, just mean your planning, that on a idle day you're saying to yourself, 'I think it would be a very good thing for Miss Taylor if Mr. Winstone were to marry her, and say it to yourself every now and then afterwards, why do you speak of success? Where is your merit? What are you proud of? They advised well; and that's all that can be said."
"And have you never known the pleasure and triumph of a stroke of luck? – I pity you. – I thought you were smarter – because, rely on it, a stroke of luck is never just happiness. There is always a certain talent in it. And as for my poor word "success" with which you argue, I don't know if I'm completely without any claim to it. You have drawn two pretty pictures; but I think there could be a third – something between doing nothing and the all-rounder. If I hadn't encouraged Mr. Winstone's visits here, given many small encouragements, and smoothed out many small matters, perhaps nothing would have happened after all. I think you need to know Hartfield enough to understand that."
"A sincere, open-hearted man like Winstone and a rational, unartificial woman like Miss Taylor can confidently go about their own business. You are more likely to have harmed yourself by interfering than to benefit them."
"Emma never thinks about herself when she can do good to others," Mr. Lodge replied, understanding only partially. "But, my dear, please don't make any more matches; these are foolish things and painfully destroy the family circle."
"Only one more thing, Dad; only for Mr Alton. Poor Mr Alton! You like Alton-san, dad, I have to look for a woman for him. There is no one in Highbury who deserves it – ?? and he's been here for a whole year and has furnished his house so comfortably that it would be a shame to leave him alone for even longer – and I thought when he shook hands day he looked so much like he would like to have an equally friendly office done for himself! I think very much of Mr. Alton, and that's the only way I can do him a service."
"Sir. Alton is a very pretty young man, certainly, and a very good young man, and I appreciate him very much. But if you want to pay attention to him, my dear, ask him to come to us one day and dine with us. That will be a much better thing. I dare say that Mr. Hill will be kind enough to meet him."
"Very gladly, sir, anytime," Mr. Hill said with a laugh, "and I completely agree with you that it will be a much better thing. Invite him to dinner, Emma, ?? and help him make the most of fish and chicken, but leave it to him to choose his own wife. Rely on it, a man of six or twenty-seven years can take care of himself."
Chapter 5
No one who had ever seen Catherine Fenmore in her childhood would have thought of her as a heroine. Her life situation, the character of her father and mother, her own person and disposition were equally against her. Her father was a clergyman without being neglected, or poor, and a very respectable man, even though his name was Richard – and he had never been handsome. Apart from two good incomes, he had considerable independence – and he was not in the least addicted to imprisoning his daughters. Her mother was a woman of useful intellect, good humor and, more remarkably, of good constitution. She had three sons before Catherine was born; and instead of dying by giving birth to the latter, as anyone might expect, she lived on – living to have six more children – to see how they grew up around her and enjoy herself in good health. A family with ten children will always be called a fine family, where heads and arms and legs have enough for the number; but the Fenmores had little other right to the word, for they were generally very simple and Catherine as simple as everyone else for many years of their lives. She had a thin, awkward figure, pale skin without color, dark straight hair and strong features - so much for her person; and no less unsuitable for heroic deeds seemed their opinion. She loved all boy games and preferred cricket not only dolls, but the more heroic pleasures of childhood, breastfeeding a dormice, feeding a canary or watering a rose bush. In fact, she had no taste for a garden; and if she picked flowers at all, it was mainly for the pleasure of mischief - at least it was so suspected that she always preferred those that were forbidden to her. These were their inclinations – their abilities were just as extraordinary. She could never learn or understand anything before she was taught; and sometimes not even then, because she was often inattentive and occasionally stupid. Her mother only taught her for three months to repeat the "beggar's request"; and finally, her next sister, Sally, could say it better than she did. Not that Catherine has always been stupid – no way; she learns the fable "The Rabbit and Many Friends" as quickly as any girl in England. Her mother wanted her to learn music; and Catherine was sure that she would like it, because she loved to clink with the keys of the old abandoned spinnette; So she started at the age of eight. She studied for a year and couldn't stand it; and Mrs. Fenmore, who, despite inability or dislike, did not insist that her daughters be completed, allowed her to quit. The day the music master was dismissed was one of the happiest in Katharina's life. Her taste in drawing was not superior; However, whenever she could get hold of the outside of a letter from her mother or another strange piece of paper, she did what she could by drawing houses and trees, chickens and chickens, all of which were very similar. She was taught writing and accounting by her father; French from her mother: Her knowledge of both was not remarkable, and she shied away from classes in both whenever she could. What a strange, inexplicable character! – for with all these symptoms of waste at the age of ten, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad mood, was rarely stubborn, hardly ever quarrelsome and very friendly to the little ones, with few interruptions of tyranny; besides, she was loud and wild, hated tightness and cleanliness, and loved nothing in the world so much as rolling down the green slope behind the house.
So Catherine Fenmore was at ten. At the age of fifteen, the apparitions improved; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; Her complexion improved, her facial features became softer due to fullness and color, her eyes gained liveliness and her figure became more consistent. Her love of dirt gave way to a penchant for plaster, and she became cleaner as she became smart; she now had the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father and mother talk about her personal improvement. "Catherine is developing into a pretty handsome girl – she's almost pretty today," were words she heard from time to time; and how welcome the sounds were! Looking almost pretty is a greater joy for a girl who looked inconspicuous for the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.
Mrs. Fenmore was a very good woman and wanted to see her children as they should be; but their time was so busy sleeping and teaching the little ones that their older daughters were inevitably left to their own devices; and it was not very surprising that Catherine, who by nature had nothing heroic about her, cricket, baseball, horseback riding and walked around at the age of fourteen, preferred books – or at least information books – provided they could not be gained from them as useful knowledge, provided they were exclusively stories and not reflections, she had no objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen she was in training to be a heroine;
From Pope, she learns to rebuke those who do
this "endure the ridicule of pain."
From Gray, the
"Many flowers are born to blush unseen,
"And waste its scent on the desert air."
From Thompson, the –
"This is an attractive task
"To teach the young idea to shoot."
And from Shakespeare she received a great treasure trove of information – among other things –
"Little things light as air,
"Are for the zealots confirmation strong,
"As evidence of the Holy Scriptures."
That
"The poor bug we step on, "In physical toleration,
a pain feels so great
," As if a giant dies."
And that a young woman in love always looks –
"like patience on a monument
"Smiling at the grief."
So far, its improvement has been sufficient — and on many other points it has made extremely good progress; for although she could not write sonnets, she brought herself to read them; and although it seemed impossible to enrapture an entire society with a self-composed prelude on the pianoforte, it could listen to other people's performance with very little fatigue. Her biggest flaw was the pencil – she had no idea about drawing – not even enough to try a sketch of her lover's profile so that she could be recognized in the design. There she remained miserably behind the true hero's height. At present, she did not know her own poverty, because she had no lover to portray. She had reached the age of seventeen without having seen a amiable boy who could evoke her sensitivity, without having sparked a real passion, and without even arousing admiration, but which was very moderate and very ephemeral. That was indeed strange! But strange things can generally be explained if their cause is closely investigated. There was not a single lord in the neighborhood; no – not even a baronet. Among her acquaintances, there was not a single family that had raised and supported a boy found by chance at her door – not a young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward and the squire of the church had no children. Among her acquaintances, there was not a single family that had raised and supported a boy found by chance at her door – not a young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward and the squire of the church had no children. Among her acquaintances, there was not a single family that had raised and supported a boy found by chance at her door – not a young man whose origin was unknown. Her father had no ward and the squire of the church had no children.
But if a young lady is to become a heroine, the perversity of forty surrounding families cannot prevent her from doing so. Something must and will happen to put a hero in her way.
Mr. Allen, who owned the chief of the possession of Fullerton, the village in Wiltshire where the Fenmores lived, was ordered to Bath because of a gout-sick condition – and his lady, a good-humoured woman who loved Miss Fenmore, and probably aware that if adventures did not happen to a young lady in her own village, she would have to seek them abroad, invited them to go with them. Mr. and Mrs. Fenmore were all docile and Catherine quite happy.
Chapter 6
Sir Walter Hightower of Kellynch Hall in Somersetshire was a man who, for his own pleasure, never picked up a book other than the Baronetage; there he found employment for an idle hour and comfort in a sorrowful one; there his abilities were awakened in admiration and respect by looking at the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there, of course, all the unwanted sensations that arose from domestic affairs turned into pity and contempt as he turned the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if every other paper were powerless, he could read his own story with an interest that never dried up. That was the side where the favorite band always hit:
FROM KELLYNCH HALL.
"Walter Hightower, born March 1, 1760, married July 15, 1784, Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of Gloucester, of which lady (who died in 1800) he gave birth to Elizabeth June 1, 1785; Anne, born on August 9, 1787; a stillborn son, November 5, 1789; Mary, born november 20, 1791."
This is exactly how the sales had originally come from the hands of the printer; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding these words to Mary's date of birth for information to himself and his family: "Married on December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Cumberland, Esq. of Uppercross , in the county of Somerset", and by inserting as accurately as possible the day of the month on which he lost his wife.
Then followed the history and rise of the old and respectable family in the usual terms; as it had first been settled in Cheshire; as mentioned in Dugdale, holds the office of High Sheriff, represents a district in three successive legislatures, in the first year of Charles II represented loyalty and dignity of a baronet with all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming a total of two pretty duodecimal pages and concluding with the coat of arms and motto: "Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset," and Sir Walter's handwriting in this finale once again: –
"Presumed heir, William Walter Hightower, Esq., great-grandson of the second Sir Walter."
Vanity was the beginning and end of Sir Walter Hightower's character; Vanity of the person and the situation. He had been remarkably handsome in his youth; and at fifty-four was still a very fine man. Few women could pay more attention to their personal appearance than he could, and the valet of a newly minted lord could no longer rejoice in his place in society. He regarded the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronet; and Sir Walter Hightower, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest esteem and devotion.
His good looks and rank had a fair claim to his attachment; for to them he must owe a woman of very superior character, which is due to him. Lady Hightower had been an excellent woman, reasonable and gracious; whose judgment and behavior, when forgiven for the youthful infatuation that made them Lady Hightower, never required leniency afterwards. It had mitigated, mitigated or concealed his weaknesses and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and although she herself was not the happiest being in the world, she had found enough in her duties, her friends and her children to bind them to life and make her indifferent when she was asked to give them up. Three girls, the two elders sixteen and fourteen, was a terrible legacy for a mother, rather a terrible burden to entrust herself to the authority and guidance of an imaginary, stupid father. However, she had a very intimate girlfriend, a reasonable, meritorious woman who had been made to settle near her in the village of Kellynch through a strong attachment to herself; and on her kindness and advice, Lady Hightower relied mainly to get the best help and maintenance of the good principles and instructions she had fearfully given to her daughters.
This friend and Sir Walter did not marry, whatever their acquaintance could have expected in this regard. Thirteen years had passed since Lady Hightower's death, and they were still close neighbors and close friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow.
That Lady Russell, of good age and character and extremely well cared for, should not think of a second marriage needs no excuse from the public, who tend to be unreasonably dissatisfied when a woman remarries than if she does not; but the continued existence of Sir Walter as a single needs an explanation. So be aware that Sir Walter, like a good father (after experiencing one or two private disappointments with very unreasonable applications), was proud to remain single for the sake of his dear daughters. For a daughter, his eldest, he really would have given up everything he hadn't been very irritable to do. Elizabeth, at sixteen, had taken over everything that was possible from her mother's rights and consequences; and since she was very handsome and very similar to him, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on happiest together. His other two children were of very little value. Mary had gained a little artificial meaning by becoming Mrs. Charles Cumberland; but Anne, with an elegant spirit and a sweet character that must have placed her high among truly understanding people, was not a nobody with either father or sister; her word had no weight, her comfort should always give way – she was just Anne.
For Lady Russell, she was indeed a very dear and highly esteemed goddaughter, darling and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; but only in Anne could she imagine that her mother would revive.
A few years ago, Anne Hightower had been a very pretty girl, but her blossom had disappeared early; and since her father, even in her size, had found little admirable in her (so completely different were her delicate facial features and mild dark eyes from his own), nothing could be wrong with her, now that she was pale and thin, arouse his appreciation. He had never had much hope, he now had no more to ever read her name on any other page of his favorite work. All equality of the covenant must remain with Elizabeth, for Mary had only connected with an old rural family of prestige and great fortune and had therefore given all honor and received none: Elizabeth would one day marry appropriately.
It sometimes happens that a woman looks more beautiful at twenty-nine than ten years ago; and in general, when there is neither illness nor fear, it is a time of life when hardly anything is lost in its appeal. So it was with Elizabeth, still the same pretty Miss Hightower she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter could therefore be excused if he forgot her age, or at least be considered half stupid when he thought of him and Elizabeth as flourishing as ever, in the midst of the wreck of everyone else's good looks; for he could clearly see how old the rest of his family and acquaintance became. Anne hager, Mary coarse, all faces in the neighborhood poor, and the rapid increase in crow's feet around Lady Russell's temples had long embarrassed him.
Elizabeth was not quite the same as her father in terms of personal satisfaction. For thirteen years, her mistress of Kellynch Hall had presided over and led with a self-control and determination that could never give the impression that she was younger than she was. For thirteen years she had done the honor and relinquished the domiciliary right at home and led the way to Chaise and Four, following Lady Russell directly from all the salons and dining rooms in the country. In thirteen winters, with changing frosts, she had opened every credit ball that a meagre neighborhood allowed, and thirteen springs showed their blossoms as she traveled to London with her father to enjoy the big world annually for a few weeks. She had the memory of all this, she had the consciousness of being twenty-nine to give her some remorse and some fears; She was completely content to still be as handsome as ever, but she felt her approaching the years of danger and would have been happy to be sure to be adequately courted by Baronet blood within the next month or two. Then she would resume the Book of Books with as much joy as she did in her early youth, but now she didn't like it. Always being confronted with the date of her own birth and not seeing a wedding follow, except that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table next to her, she had closed it with her eyes turned away and pushed it away. but she felt her approaching the years of danger and would have been happy to be sure to be adequately courted by Baronet blood within the next month or two. Then she would resume the Book of Books with as much joy as she did in her early youth, but now she didn't like it. Always being confronted with the date of her own birth and not seeing a wedding follow, except that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table next to her, she had closed it with her eyes turned away and pushed it away. but she felt her approaching the years of danger and would have been happy to be sure to be adequately courted by Baronet blood within the next month or two. Then she would resume the Book of Books with as much joy as she did in her early youth, but now she didn't like it. Always being confronted with the date of her own birth and not seeing a wedding follow, except that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table next to her, she had closed it with her eyes turned away and pushed it away. Always being confronted with the date of her own birth and not seeing a wedding follow, except that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table next to her, she had closed it with her eyes turned away and pushed it away. Always being confronted with the date of her own birth and not seeing a wedding follow, except that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table next to her, she had closed it with her eyes turned away and pushed it away.
In addition, she had experienced a disappointment that this book and especially the story of her own family must always remember. The alleged heir, this very William Walter Hightower, Esq., whose rights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed her.
As a very young girl, as soon as she met him as a future baronet, she had planned to marry him, and her father had always intended that she should do it. He had not been known to them as a boy; but soon after the death of Lady Hightower, Sir Walter had sought acquaintanceship, and although his advances had not met with warmth, he had persistently sought it, accepting the modest retreat of his youth; and on one of her spring trips to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr. Hightower had been forced to perform.
He was a very young man at the time, busy studying the law; and Elizabeth found him extremely pleasant, and every plan in his favor was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was spoken of and awaited for the rest of the year; but he never came. The following spring he was seen again in the city, found to be just as pleasant, again encouraged, invited and expected, and again he did not come; and the next news was that he was married. Instead of putting his fortune in the line laid out for the heir to the House of Hightower, he had bought his independence by uniting with a rich woman of inferior origin.
Sir Walter had resented it. As the landlord, he felt he should have been consulted, especially after taking the young man by the hand so publicly; "Because they must have been seen together," he noted, "once at Tattersall and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons." His disapproval was expressed, but apparently very little noticed. Mr. Hightower had not tried to apologize and had shown himself so unsolicited that he would no longer be noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it: any acquaintance between them had ceased.
This very unpleasant story of Mr. Hightower was still, after a break of several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man because of himself, and even more because he was her father's heir and whose strong family pride could only see in him a fitting role for the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Hightower. There was no baronet from A to Z that their feelings had so readily acknowledged as equals. And yet he had behaved so miserably that even though she was wearing black ribbons for his wife at the time (in the summer of 1814), she could not admit that he was worth thinking about him again. The shame of his first marriage, since there was no reason to believe that it would continue through descendants, might have been overcome if he had not fared worse; but he had been informed, as by the usual intervention of friendly friends, spoke most disrespectfully of all, most contemptuous and contemptuous of the blood to which he belonged and the honors that would later be his own. That was unforgivable.
These were Elizabeth Hightower's feelings and sensations; so to combine the care, the excitement to vary, the equality and elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness of their life scene; such feelings to give interest to a long, uneventful stay in a county, to fill the vacancies that there were no habits of usefulness abroad, no talents or achievements for home.
But now another occupation and concern began to come along. Her father became more and more desperate for money. She knew that when he entered the baronial post, he was to drive the heavy bills of his merchants and the unwelcome hints of Mr. Shepherd, his agent, out of his mind. The Kellynch property was good, but not Sir Walter's view of the state demanded of its owner. While Lady Hightower lived, there had been method, moderation and thrift that had kept him just within his income; but with her all this righteousness had died, and since that time he had constantly exceeded it. He could not have spent less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Hightower had been commandingly asked to do; but blameless as he was, he not only got into terrible debt, but he heard so often about it that it became vain to hide it from his daughter for longer, even partially. He had given her some clues about this in the city last spring; He had even gone so far as to say, "Can we cut? and Elizabeth, in order to do justice to it, had seriously considered what could be done in the first embers of female anxiety, and finally proposed to eliminate these two industries, cut off some unnecessary charities and forego new furniture in the salon; To these makeshift remedies, she later added the happy thought of not taking a gift to Anne, as had been the usual annual custom. But these measures, as good as they may be in themselves, were not enough for the true extent of the evil, the whole thing that Sir Walter soon felt compelled to confess to it. Elizabeth had nothing to suggest of greater effectiveness. She felt abused and unhappy, as did her father; and none of them were able to find ways and means to reduce their spending without compromising their dignity, or to give up their comforts in an unbearable way.
There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose of; but if every morning had been alienable, it would have made no difference. As far as he was able to do so, he had lowered himself to a mortgage, but he would never condescend to a sale. No; he would never let his name fall out of favor. The Kellynch estate was to be transmitted in full and in full as he had received it.
Her two trusted friends, Mr. Shepherd, who lived in the neighboring market town, and Lady Russell were called in to advise them; and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be deleted from one or the other in order to eliminate their embarrassment and reduce their expenses without losing taste or pride.
Chapter 7
Mrs. John Hargrove now established herself as Mistress of Norland; and her mother and sister-in-law were demoted to visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet courtesy; and of her husband with as much kindness as he could feel to himself, his wife and their child. He really urged them with some seriousness to consider Norland as their home; and since Mrs. Hargrove did not think a plan seemed so suitable to stay there until she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighborhood, his invitation was accepted.
Continuing to exist in a place where everything reminded her of past joys was exactly what came to her mind. In times of happiness, no temperament could be more cheerful than theirs or, to a greater extent, possess that sanguine expectation of happiness that is happiness itself. But in sorrow she had to be swept away by her imagination as well, and as far beyond comfort as in pleasure, she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Hargrove did not agree at all with what her husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of her dear little boy would impoverish him terribly. She asked him to think again about the subject. How could he be responsible for robbing his child and his only child of such a large sum? And what a claim could the Miss Hargroves, who were only half-bloodedly related to him, which they saw as no kinship at all, have on his great generosity. It was well known that there should never be affection between the children of a man from different marriages; and why would he ruin himself and her poor little Harry by giving away all his money to his half-sisters?
"It was my father's last request to me," her husband replied, "that I should help his widow and daughters."
"He didn't know what he was talking about, dare I say; ten to one, but he was dazed at the time. Had he been in his right mind, he wouldn't have been able to think of asking you for something away from your own child, half of your fortune."
"He did not ask for a certain sum, my dear Esther; he just asked me in general to help them and make their situation more comfortable than was in his power. Maybe it would have been good if he had left it entirely to me. He could hardly assume that I would neglect her. But since he demanded the promise, I could not give less than it; at least that's what I thought at the time. So the promise has been made and must be carried out. Whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home, something has to be done for them.
"Well, then let something be done for them; but THAT doesn't have to be three thousand pounds. Remember," she added, "that once the money is gone, it can never return. Your sisters will get married, and so it will be gone forever. If it could actually be restored to our poor little boy...""
Of course," her husband said very seriously, "that would make a big difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that such a large sum has been handed over. For example, if he had a large family, it would be a very practical addition."
"To be sure it would."
"Perhaps it would then be better for all parties if the sum were reduced by half. - Five hundred pounds would be a tremendous increase in their wealth!"
"Oh! beyond anything big! What brother on earth would do only half as much for his sisters, and if it were REALLY his sisters! And as it is – only half blood!
"I don't want to do anything bad," he replied. "On such occasions, it is better to do too much than too little. At least no one can think that I haven't done enough for them: even they themselves can hardly wait any longer."
"You don't know what YOU can expect," said the lady, "but we must not think about her expectations: the question is what you can afford."
"Certainly – and I think I can afford to give them five hundred pounds each. As it stands, without my supplement, each of them will have about three thousand pounds at the death of their mother – a very pleasant fortune for any young woman."
"Of course it is; and in fact, it seems to me that they can't ask for anything more at all. They will have divided ten thousand pounds among themselves. When they get married, they will be sure that they will be fine, and if they don't, they can all live together very comfortably with the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"This is very true, and so I don't know if it wouldn't be more advisable to do something for the mother during her lifetime than for her – something like an annuity, I mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of this as much as they would. A hundred years a year, they would satisfy everyone completely."
However, his wife was a little hesitant to agree to this plan.
"Of course," she said, "it's better than immediately parting with fifteen hundred pounds.
"Fifteen years! my dear Esther; their lives can't be worth half of that purchase."
and with my father it was all the more unfriendly, because otherwise the money would have been available to my mother completely without restriction. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities that I am sure that I would not commit myself to paying one for the whole world.
"It's certainly an unpleasant thing," Mr. Hargrove replied, "to have such annual deductions from one's income. Your own assets, as your mother rightly says, do NOT belong to you. To be tied to the regular payment of such a sum on each rental day is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence."
"Undoubtedly; and finally, you have no thanks for it. You consider yourself safe, you are not doing more than what is expected, and it does not arouse gratitude at all. If I were you, everything I have done should be done at my own discretion I would not commit to granting them anything every year. It can be very impractical in some years to save a hundred or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.
"I think you're right, my dear; it would be better if there were no pension in that case; what I may give them occasionally will be of far greater help than an annual allowance, because they would only expand their lifestyle if they felt secure of a greater income and were not six pence richer at the end of the year, so it will certainly be the best kind. A gift of fifty pounds every now and then will keep them from ever getting into trouble for money, and I think I will keep my promise to my father abundantly.
they will pay their mother for their food. Together they will have five hundred a year under them, and what on earth can four women want more than that? - You will live so cheaply! Your household will be nothing at all. You will have no carriage, no horses and hardly any servants; they will not keep company and must not have any expenses! Just imagine how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I'm sure I can't imagine how they're going to spend half of it; and that you give them more, it's pretty absurd to think about it. They will be much more able to give something to YOU." no horses and hardly any servants; they will not keep company and must not have any expenses! Just imagine how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I'm sure I can't imagine how they're going to spend half of it; and that you give them more, it's pretty absurd to think about it. They will be much more able to give something to YOU." no horses and hardly any servants; they will not keep company and must not have any expenses! Just imagine how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I'm sure I can't imagine how they're going to spend half of it; and that you give them more, it's pretty absurd to think about it. You will be much more able to give something to YOU."
"At my word," said Mr. Hargrove, "I think you are absolutely right. My father certainly could not mean anything to me with his request other than what you say Such assistance and kindness to them as you have described them. If my mother moves to another house, my services should be willingly granted to accommodate her as much as possible. Even a small gift of furniture may then be acceptable."
"Sure," Ms. John Hargrove returned. "But ONE thing has to be taken into account. When your father and mother moved to Norland, Stanhill's furniture was sold, but all the porcelain, plates and laundry were saved and are now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost fully equipped as soon as she takes it."
"This is undoubtedly a material consideration. A valuable legacy indeed!
"Yes, and the breakfast sporzellan is twice as pretty as what belongs to this house. In my opinion, way too pretty for any place YOU can ever afford to live. But that's the way it is. Her father thought only of YOU. And I must say that you do not owe him any special gratitude or consideration for his wishes; for we know very well that if he could, he would have left them almost everything in the world."
This argument was irresistible. It gave his intentions what was previously lacking in decision; and he finally decided that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecent, to do more for his father's widow and children than such kind of neighborly acts, as his own wife pointed out.
Chapter 8
Mr. Mitchell was among the first to serve Mr. Woodland. He had always intended to visit him, although he had always assured his wife until the end that he should not leave; and until the evening after the visit, she had no knowledge of it. It was then revealed in the following way. When he watched his second daughter cutting a hat, he suddenly spoke to her,
"I hope Mr. Woodland will like it, Lizzy."
"We don't know in a way WHAT Mr. Woodland likes," her mother said angrily, "since we're not visiting."
"But you forget, Mom," Elizabeth said, "that we're going to meet him at the meetings and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him."
"I don't think Mrs. Long will do anything like that. She has two nieces herself. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her.'
"I don't anymore," said Mr. Mitchell; " and I am glad that you are not dependent on her to serve you.'
Mrs. Mitchell was reluctant to give an answer, but could not hold back and began to scold one of her daughters.
"Don't cough like that, Kitty, for heaven's sake! Feel a little sorry for my nerves. You tear them to pieces."
'Kitty has no discretion in her cough,' her father said; 'she'll make her sick.'
"I don't cough for my own pleasure," Kitty replied restlessly. When is your next ball, Lizzy?"
"Tomorrow fourteen days."
"Yes, that's the way it is," her mother exclaimed, "and Mrs. Long doesn't come back until the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself.'
"Then, my dear, you can have your friend in the advantage and introduce YOUR Mr. Woodland."
"Impossible, Mr. Mitchell, impossible if I don't know him myself; how can you tease like that?'
"I honor your prudence. A fortnightly acquaintance is certainly very little. What a person really is, you can not know after two weeks. But if WE don't dare, someone else will; and finally, Mrs. Long and her daughters must have their chance; and therefore, since she will consider it an act of kindness, I will take it over myself if you reject the office."
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Mitchell just said, "Nonsense, nonsense!"
"What can this emphatic exclamation mean?" he shouted. "Do you think the forms of imagination and the emphasis that is placed on them are nonsense? I can't quite agree with you. What do you say, Mary? Because you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know that, and you read great books and make excerpts.'
Mary wanted to say something reasonable, but didn't know how.
"As Mary corrects her ideas," he continued, "we return to Mr. Woodland."
"I'm tired of Mr. Woodland," his wife shouted.
'I'm sorry to hear that; but why didn't you tell me that before? If I had known so much this morning, I certainly wouldn't have visited him. It is very unfortunate; but since I actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.'
The amazement of the ladies was exactly what he wanted; Mrs. Mitchell's may surpass the rest; When the first frenzy of joy was over, however, she began to explain that she had been expecting it all along.
"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Mitchell! But I knew I should finally convince you. I was sure that you love your girls too much to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how happy I am! and it's also such a good joke that you should have left this morning and never said a word about it until now."
"Well, Kitty, you can cough as much as you want," mr. Mitchell said; and as he spoke, he left the room, exhausted by his wife's enthusiasm.
'What an excellent father you have, girl!' she said when the door was closed. "I don't know how you will ever compensate him for his kindness; or neither do I. In our lifetime, it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to make new acquaintances every day; but for you we would do anything. Linda, my dear, even though you are the youngest, dare I say that Mr. Woodland will dance with you at the next ball.'
'Oh!' Linda said firmly, "I'm not afraid; for even though I am the youngest, I am the greatest.'
The rest of the evening they spent guessing how soon he would return Mr. Mitchell's visit and determining when to invite him to dinner.
Chapter 9
The little girl made her long journey to safety; and in Northampton she was received by Mrs. Norris, who so enjoyed the merit of welcoming her first and foremost, and in the importance of bringing her in to others and commending her to her kindness.
Esther Price was just ten years old at the time, and while her first appearance didn't have much to captivate, there was at least nothing to disgust her relatives. She was small for her age, without bright face color or other striking beauty; extremely shy and shy and shy of attention; but her face, though clumsy, was not vulgar, her voice was sweet, and when she spoke, her facial expression was pretty. Sir Thomas and Lady Schmidt received them very kindly; and Sir Thomas, who saw how much she needed encouragement, tried to be anything that was conciliatory: but he had to work against a most unfavorable seriousness of behavior; and Lady Schmidt, without making half as much effort or speaking a word where he spoke ten, immediately became the less terrible character of the two by the mere help of a good-natured smile.
The young people were all at home and endured their part in the introduction very well, with a lot of good humor and without embarrassment, at least on the part of the sons, who at seventeen and sixteen and tall for their age were all the greatness of the men in the eyes of their little cousin. The two girls were rather perplexed to be younger and had greater reverence for their father, who addressed them on this occasion with a rather unreasonable peculiarity. But they were too accustomed to company and praise to have anything like natural shyness; and their self-confidence grew due to their cousin's complete lack of it, and they were soon able to fully overlook her face and dress in slight indifference.
They were a remarkably fine family, the sons very handsome, the daughters decidedly pretty and all well grown up and according to their age, which is an equally remarkable difference between the cousins ???? in person, as education had given them the address; and no one would have thought the girls were as old as they really were. In fact, there were only two years between the youngest and Esther. Julia Schmidt was only twelve, Maria only one year older. Meanwhile, the little visitor was as unhappy as possible. She was afraid of everyone, ashamed and longed for the home she had left. She didn't know how to look up and could barely speak to be heard or without crying. Mrs. Norris had been telling her all the way from Northampton about her wonderful happiness, and the extraordinary level of gratitude and good behavior it was meant to evoke, and her awareness of misery was therefore reinforced by the idea that not being happy would be an evil thing for her. Even the fatigue of such a long journey soon no longer became an insignificant evil. In vain were the well-intentioned condescension of Sir Thomas and all the intrusive prophecies of Mrs. Norris that she would become a good girl; Lady Schmidt smiled in vain and forced her to sit on the sofa with herself and Pug, and in vain even the sight of a gooseberry tart was comforting; She could barely swallow two bites before tears interrupted her, and sleep seemed to be her most likely friend, she was made to end her worries in bed. and their sense of misery was therefore reinforced by the idea that it was an evil thing for them not to be happy. Even the fatigue of such a long journey soon no longer became an insignificant evil. In vain were the well-intentioned condescension of Sir Thomas and all the intrusive prophecies of Mrs. Norris that she would become a good girl; Lady Schmidt smiled in vain and forced her to sit on the sofa with herself and Pug, and in vain even the sight of a gooseberry tart was comforting; She could barely swallow two bites before tears interrupted her, and sleep seemed to be her most likely friend, she was made to end her worries in bed. and their sense of misery was therefore reinforced by the idea that it was an evil thing for them not to be happy. Even the fatigue of such a long journey soon no longer became an insignificant evil. In vain were the well-intentioned condescension of Sir Thomas and all the intrusive prophecies of Mrs. Norris that she would become a good girl; Lady Schmidt smiled in vain and forced her to sit on the sofa with herself and Pug, and in vain even the sight of a gooseberry tart was comforting; She could barely swallow two bites before tears interrupted her, and sleep seemed to be her most likely friend, she was made to end her worries in bed. Norris that she would be a good girl; Lady Schmidt smiled in vain and forced her to sit on the sofa with herself and Pug, and in vain even the sight of a gooseberry tart was comforting; She could barely swallow two bites before tears interrupted her, and sleep seemed to be her most likely friend, she was made to end her worries in bed. Norris that she would be a good girl; Lady Schmidt smiled in vain and forced her to sit on the sofa with herself and Pug, and in vain even the sight of a gooseberry tart was comforting; She could barely swallow two bites before tears interrupted her, and sleep seemed to be her most likely friend, she was made to end her worries in bed.
"This is not a very promising start," Mrs. Norris said when Esther left the room. "After everything I said to her when we walked by, I thought she had behaved better; I told her how much would depend on whether she did well at first. I wish it wasn't a little grumpy – her poor mother had a lot to do; but we must take such a child into account – and I do not know whether she is really disgusted that she is sorry to leave her home, because it was her home with all its faults, and she cannot yet comprehend how much she has changed for the better; but then there is moderation in all things."
However, it took longer than Mrs. Norris wanted to admit to reconcile Esther with the novelty of Mansfield Park and the separation from everyone she was used to. Their feelings were very acute and were not understood enough to take care of them adequately. No one wanted to be rude, but no one went out of their way to secure her comfort.
The holiday granted to the Miss Schmidts the next day to get free time to get to know and entertain their young cousin produced little unity. They could only hold her cheaply when they found out that she had only two sashes and had never learned French; and when they realized that she was not very impressed by the duet they could play so well, all they could do for her than give her a generous gift of some of her least appreciated toys and leave her to her own devices while dealing with everything could be the most popular holiday sport right now, making artificial flowers or wasting gold paper.
Esther, whether nearby or from her cousins, whether in the classroom, in the salon or in the bushes, was equally abandoned and found something to fear in every person and in every place. She was discouraged by Lady Schmidt's silence, intimidated by Sir Thomas' serious looks, and quite overwhelmed by Mrs. Norris' admonitions. Her older cousins ???? shamed them by thinking about their greatness, and shamed them by noticing their shyness: Miss Lee wondered about her ignorance, and the maids mocked her clothes; and when these worries were compounded by the idea of the brothers and sisters, among whom she had always played an important role as a playmate, educator and nurse, the dejection that lowered her little heart was severe.
The splendor of the house amazed, but could not comfort her. The rooms were too big for her to move comfortably in: whatever touched her, she expected to be hurt, and she crept around in constant fear of something; often retreats to their own chamber to cry; and the little girl who was talked about in the salon when she left it at night, as if it seemed so desirable to be aware of her special happiness, ended the worries every day by sobbing herself to sleep. A week had passed in this way, and her calm, passive nature betrayed none of this when one morning she was found sitting on the attic stairs crying by her cousin Edmund, the youngest of the sons.
"My dear little cousin," he said with all the gentleness of an excellent nature, "what can be wrong?" And when he sat down next to her, he went to great lengths to overcome her shame at being so surprised and persuade her to speak openly. Was she sick? or was someone angry with her? or had she quarreled with Maria and Juliet? or was she confused in her class about anything he could explain? In short, did she want anything he could possibly get her or do for her? For a long time, there was no answer to get but a "no, no – not at all – no, thank you"; but he still persisted; and no sooner had he begun to return to her own house than her increased sobbing explained to him where the complaint was. He tried to comfort her.
"You're sorry to leave Mom, my dear little Esther," he said, "which shows that you are a very good girl; but you have to keep in mind that you are with relatives and friends who love you all and want to make you happy. Let's go to the park, and you should tell me all about your brothers and sisters."
As he explored the subject, he found that as dear as all these brothers and sisters were in general, there was one among them who was more in their thoughts than the others. It was William she spoke of the most and wanted to see the most. William, the eldest, a year older than her, her constant companion and friend; her intercessor with her mother (whose darling he was) in every need. "William didn't like it when she left; he had told her that he really should miss her very much." "But William will write to you, dare I say." "Yes, he had promised it, but he had told her to write first." "And when do you do that?" She hung her head and replied hesitantly, "She didn't know; she had no paper."
"If all this is your difficulty, I will provide you with paper and all other material, and you can write your letter whenever you want. Would it make you happy to write William?"
"Yes, very much."
"Then let it happen now. Come with us to the breakfast room, we will find everything there and be sure to have the room to ourselves."
"But cousin, is it going to the post office?"
" Yes, depends on me, it should go with the other letters; and as your uncle puts it, it won't cost William anything."
"My uncle!" repeated Esther with a frightened look.
"Yes, if you have written the letter, I will take it to my father for franking."
Esther considered it a bold measure, but offered no further resistance; and they went together to the breakfast room, where Edmund prepared her newspaper and arranged her lines with all the goodwill her brother might have felt himself, and probably with a little more accuracy. He stayed with her the whole time while she wrote to help her with his pocket knife or orthography, depending on what was desired; and added to these attentions, which she felt very much, a kindness to her brother that delighted her above all else. He personally wrote his love to his cousin William and sent him half a guinea under the seal. Esther's feelings on this occasion were as she thought she could not express them; but her facial expression and a few simple words expressed all her gratitude and joy, and her cousin began to find an object of interest to her. He talked to her more and, after all she said, was convinced that she had a loving heart and a strong desire to do the right thing; and he could perceive that she was still entitled to attention through great sensitivity to her situation and great shyness. He had never knowingly inflicted pain on her, but now he felt she needed more positive kindness; and in this regard first tried to reduce her fear of everyone, and gave her a lot of good advice on how to play with Maria and Juliet and be as funny as possible. and he could perceive that she was still entitled to attention through great sensitivity to her situation and great shyness. He had never knowingly inflicted pain on her, but now he felt she needed more positive kindness; and in this regard first tried to reduce her fear of everyone, and gave her a lot of good advice on how to play with Maria and Juliet and be as funny as possible. and he could perceive that she was still entitled to attention through great sensitivity to her situation and great shyness. He had never knowingly inflicted pain on her, but now he felt she needed more positive kindness; and in this regard first tried to reduce her fear of everyone, and gave her a lot of good advice on how to play with Maria and Juliet and be as funny as possible.
From that day on, Esther felt more comfortable. She felt like she had a boyfriend, and the kindness of her cousin?? Edmund gave her a better mood with everyone else. The place became less strange and people less scary; and if there were some of them that she could not stop fearing, at least she began to know her ways and understand the best way to adapt to them. The little rusticity and awkwardness, which at first had painfully affected the peace of everyone and not least herself, inevitably subsided, and she was no longer materially afraid of appearing in front of her uncle, nor did the voice of her aunt Norris frighten her much. For her cousins ?? she occasionally became an acceptable companion. Although he is unworthy of being their constant partner due to his age and strength, their pleasures and plans were sometimes such that they made a third party very useful, especially if that third was of a pleasing, indulgent temperament; and when her aunt asked her about her mistakes or her brother Edmund pointed out her kindness, they had to admit that "Esther was good-natured enough."
Edmund himself was consistently friendly; and she had nothing worse to endure on Tom's part than the kind of cheerfulness that a young man of seventeen with a ten-year-old child will always find fair. He just came to life, full of joie de vivre and with all the liberal dispositions of an eldest son who feels born only for cost and pleasure. His kindness towards his little cousin corresponded to his situation and his rights: he gave her some very nice gifts and laughed at her.
As their appearance and mood improved, Sir Thomas and Mrs. Norris thought of their benevolent plan with greater satisfaction; and it was soon decided between them that, although far from wise, she showed a docile disposition and would probably cause them little trouble. A mean opinion about their abilities was not limited to them. Esther could read, work and write, but she had not been taught more; and since her cousins found her ignorant of many things they had been familiar with for a long time, they thought she was amazingly stupid and constantly brought new reports about it to the salon for the first two or three weeks. "Dear Mom, just think, my cousin can't put together the map of Europe – or my cousin can't say the main rivers in Russia – or she's never heard of Asia Minor – or she doesn't know the difference between watercolors and crayons! – How strange! – Have you ever heard such a stupid thing?"
"My dear," her caring aunt would reply, "it's very bad, but you can't expect everyone to learn as quickly and quickly as you do."
"But, aunt, she's really that ignorant! – You know, we asked her last night what route she would take to Ireland; and she told her to translate to the Isle of Wight. She thinks of nothing but the Isle of Wight, and she calls it the island as if there were no other island in the world. I must have been ashamed if I hadn't known better long before I was as old as she was. I can't remember the time when I didn't know a lot of things that she doesn't have the slightest idea about. How long ago, Aunt, have we repeated the chronological order of the kings of England with the dates of their accession to the throne and most of the important events of their reign!"
"Yes," the other added; "and by the Roman emperors as low as Severus; also a lot of pagan mythology and all metals, semi-metals, planets and respected philosophers."
"Very true, dear ones, but you are blessed with wonderful memories, and your poor cousin probably has none at all. There are a lot of differences in the memories as well as in everything else, and therefore you have to be considerate of your cousin and regret her lack. And remember that no matter how progressive and smart you are, you should always be humble; because as far as you already know, there is much more for you to learn."
"Yes, I know that until I'm seventeen. But I have to tell you something else about Esther, so strange and so stupid. You know, she says she doesn't want to learn music or drawing."
"Of course, my dear, this is very stupid and shows a great lack of genius and imitation. But all in all, I don't know if it's not good that it is, because even though you know (thanks to me) that your dad and mom are so good at raising them with you, it's not even necessary for her to be as accomplished as you are; – on the contrary, it is much more desirable that there is a difference."
These were the advice through which Mrs. Norris helped shape the opinions of her nieces; and it is not very surprising that for all their promising talents and early information, they are completely inadequate in the less widespread appropriation of self-knowledge, generosity and humility. In everything but disposition, they were admirably taught. Sir Thomas did not know what he was missing, because although he was a really worried father, he was not outwardly loving, and the restraint of his kind suppressed the whole flow of their mood before him.
Lady Schmidt did not pay the slightest attention to the education of her daughters. She had no time for such worries. She was a woman who spent her days sitting nicely dressed on a sofa, doing a long piece of manual work, of little use and without beauty, thinking more of her pug than of her children, but very lenient towards the latter not exposing herself to any inconvenience, in all important things by Sir Thomas and in minor matters guided by her sister. If she had had more leisure for the service of her girls, she would probably have thought it unnecessary, because they were under the care of a governess, with proper gentlemen, and could not wish for anything more. As for Esther's stupidity in learning, "she can only say that it was very unfortunate, but some people had it stupid, and Esther had to put in more effort: she didn't know what else to do; and apart from being so boring, she must add that she saw nothing evil in the poor little thing and always found it very skillful and quick in delivering messages and getting what she wanted."
Esther, with all her faults of ignorance and shyness, was imprisoned in Mansfield Park, and learned to transfer much of her attachment to her former home in his favor, and did not grow unhappily there among her cousins ???? on. There was no positive discomfort with Mary or Juliet; and although Esther was often ashamed of how they treated her, she kept her own claims too low to feel hurt.
About the time of her entry into the family, lady Schmidt, as a result of a small illness and a great inertia, gave up the house in the city that she was used to inhabiting every spring, and remained completely in it the country, leaving it to Sir Thomas to fulfill his duty in Parliament, with whatever convenience that might result from her absence. In the countryside, the Miss Schmidts continued to practice their memory, practiced their duets and became tall and feminine: and their father saw how they became everything in person, manner and performance that could satisfy his fear. His eldest son was carefree and wasteful and had already caused him much discomfort; but his other children promised him nothing but good. His daughters, he said, kept the name Schmidt, must give him new grace, and he trusted that by leaving it, he would expand his respectable covenants; and the character of Edmund, his strong common sense and sincere disposition, compete most fairly for benefit, honor and happiness for himself and all his connections. He was to become a clergyman.
In the midst of the sorrows and complacency that his own children implied, Sir Thomas did not forget to do what he could for Mrs. Price's children: he generously supported them in raising and disposing of their sons when they were old enough to pursue a certain life; and Esther, though almost completely separated from her family, felt the greatest satisfaction when she heard of any kindness to them or anything promising in her situation or behavior. Once and only once over the years, she was fortunate enough to be with William. She saw nothing of the rest: no one seemed to think that she would ever go among her again, not even to visit, no one at home seemed to want her; but William, who soon after her removal realized he was becoming a sailor, was invited to spend a week with his sister in Northamptonshire before going to sea. One can imagine their zealous affection for encounters, their extraordinary joy in being together, their hours of happy cheerfulness and moments of serious discussions; as well as the confident views and moods of the boy to the end and the misery of the girl when he left her. Luckily, the visit took place during the Christmas holidays, where she was able to seek solace directly from her cousin Edmund; and he told her so ?? charming things about what William should do as a result of his profession and be in the future, which gradually led her to admit that the separation could have a benefit. Edmund's friendship never let her down: his departure from Eton to Oxford did not change his friendly inclinations and only offered more frequent opportunities to prove them. Without showing to do more than the others, or fear of doing too much, he was always faithful to their interests and considerate of their feelings, strove to make their good qualities understandable and overcome the restraint that prevented them from coming out more clearly; give them advice, comfort and encouragement.
Held back, as it was by everyone else, his only support could not move it forward; but otherwise, his attention was of paramount importance to support the improvement of their minds and expand their joys. He knew her as smart, with a quick comprehension as well as a common sense and a preference for reading, which, properly directed, had to be an education in itself. Miss Lee taught her French and heard her read the daily part of the story; but he recommended the books that delighted her leisure hours, he encouraged her taste and corrected her judgment: he made reading useful by telling her about what she read, and increased his attraction through reasonable praise. In return for such services, she loved him more than anyone else in the world except William: her heart was divided between the two.
Chapter 10
Mr. Winstone came from Highbury and came from a distinguished family that had risen to nobility and estates in the last two or three generations. He had received a good education, but by the time he had achieved a little self-employment early in life, he had not become dissatisfied with any of the simpler occupations his brothers were engaged in, and had satisfied an active, cheerful spirit and social temperament by engaging in the militia of his county, then embodying it.
Captain Winstone was a general favourite; and when the odds of his military life had introduced him to Miss Curcelle from a large Yorkshire family and Miss Curcelle fell in love with him, no one was surprised except her brother and wife, who had never seen him and who were full of pride and importance that would hurt the connection.
However, Miss Curcelle, who was of legal age and had her fortune – although her assets were disproportionate to the family property – was not dissuaded from the marriage, and she took place, to the infinite humiliation of Mr... and Mrs. Curcelle, whom she threw off with due decency. It was an inappropriate compound and did not bring much joy. Mrs. Winstone should have found more in it, for she had a husband whose warm heart and sweet temperament led him to attribute everything to her in return for the great kindness of being in love with him; but although she had some kind of spirit, she didn't have the best. She had enough determination to pursue her own will despite her brother, but not enough to abstain from unreasonable regret at this brother's unreasonable anger or to miss the luxury of her former home.
Captain Winstone, who had been regarded as such an amazing opponent, especially by the Curcelles, demonstrably had the worst of the matter; because when his wife died after three years of marriage, he was a slightly poorer man than first and had a child to feed. However, he was soon exempt from the cost of the child. The boy, with the additional mitigating claim of a persistent illness of his mother, had been the means of a kind of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs. Curcelle, who had neither their own children nor any other young creature of the same kinship to care for, offered to take over the entire care of little Frank soon after their death. The widower's father is said to have felt some scruples and some reluctance; but since they were overwhelmed by other considerations,
a complete change of life became desirable. He left the militia and engaged in trade, as he already had well-established brothers in London, which gave him a favorable opportunity. It was a concern that brought just enough employment. He still had a small house in Highbury, where he spent most of his free time; and between useful occupation and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his life passed happily. By this time, he had recognized a simple skill – enough to secure the purchase of a small estate next to Highbury that he had always longed for – enough to marry a woman who was no more than Miss Taylor, and to live according to the desires of his own kind and social disposition.
It had now been some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his plans; but since it was not the tyrannical influence of youth on youth, it had not shaken his determination never to settle until he could buy Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long awaited; but he had continued with these goals in mind until they were completed. He had made his fortune, bought his house and got his wife; and began a new period of existence with all probability greater happiness than in any previous one. He had never been an unhappy man; his own temperament had already saved him from this in his first marriage; but his second must show him how delightful a judgmental and truly amiable woman can be, and must provide him with the most pleasant proof that it is much better to choose than to be chosen,
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune belonged to him; for for Frank it had been raised more than tacitly as the heir of his uncle, it had become such a declared adoption that he took the name Curcelle when he came of age. It was therefore highly unlikely that he would ever need his father's help. His father had no idea about it. The aunt was a capricious woman and ruled her husband completely; but it was not in Mr. Winstone's nature to imagine that any whim could be strong enough to influence you so dear and, as he believed, so deservedly dear people. He saw his son every year in London and was proud of him; and his loving account of him as a very fine young man had also made Highbury feel a kind of pride in him.
Mr. Frank Curcelle was one of Highbury's show-offs, and a lively curiosity to see him prevailed, even though the compliment was so little reciprocated that he had never been there in his life. His visit to his father had been mentioned many times, but never achieved.
Now, after his father's marriage, it was generally suggested that the visit should take place as the most appropriate attention. There was no dissenting voice on the subject, neither when Mrs. Perry drank tea with Mrs. and Miss Bates, nor when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now it was time for Mr. Frank Curcelle to come to them; and hope was strengthened when it became known that he had written to his new mother on this occasion. For a few days, every morning visit to Highbury included a mention of the beautiful letter Mrs. Winstone had received. "I suppose you heard about the beautiful letter that Mr. Frank Curcelle wrote to Mrs. Winstone? I understand that it was really a very nice letter. Mr. Lodge told me about it. Mr. Lodge has seen the letter, and he says he has never seen such a beautiful letter in his life."
It was indeed a highly esteemed letter. Mrs. Winstone, of course, had a very favorable idea of the young man; and such pleasant attention was irresistible proof of his great reason and a most welcome addition to every source and expression of congratulations that had already secured her marriage. She felt like a most happy woman; and she had lived long enough to know how happy one could think of her, where the only regret was the partial separation from friends whose friendship with her had never cooled down and who could hardly bear to break up with her.
She knew that sometimes you had to miss her; and could not think without pain that Emma loses a single pleasure or suffers an hour of boredom because she lacks her companion: but dear Emma was not a weak character; she was better able to cope with her situation than most girls would have been, and had wits and energy and spirits that one could hope would carry her well and happily through her little difficulties and privations. And then there was so much comfort in the very comfortable distance from Randalls from Hartfield, which was so convenient even for lonely women, and in Mr. Winstone's disposition and circumstances that would not prevent the approaching season from spending half of the evenings together during the week.
Her situation as a whole was the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs. Winstone and moments of only regret; and her satisfaction – her more than satisfaction – her cheerful pleasure, was so just and so obvious that Emma, ?? although she knew her father well, was sometimes surprised that he was still able to pity "poor Miss Taylor" when they were together she left in Randalls in the center of every domestic comfort or saw her walk away in the evening, accompanied by her pleasant husband, to her own carriage. But she never left without Mr. Lodge giving a gentle sigh and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would love to stay."
There was no recovering Miss Taylor – and no great chance that she would stop feeling sorry for her; but a few weeks brought Mr. Lodge a relief. The compliments of his neighbors were over; he was no longer teased with wishing joy over such a sad event; and the wedding cake, which had tormented him very much, was eaten. His own stomach could not tolerate anything rich, and he could never believe that other people were different from him. What was unhealthy to him, he considered unsuitable for any body; and he had therefore seriously tried to dissuade her from eating a wedding cake at all, and when that turned out to be in vain, he had also seriously tried to prevent anyone from eating it. He had made an effort to consult Mr. Perry, the pharmacist, on this subject. Mr. Perry was an intelligent, gentle man whose frequent visits were one of the comforts of Mr. Lodge's life; and when asked about it, he couldn't help but admit (though it seemed more against the bias of inclination) that wedding cake could certainly disagree with many — perhaps most people, unless it was taken moderately. With such an opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Lodge hoped to influence every visitor of the newly married couple; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves until everything was gone. Lodge hoped to influence every visitor of the newlywed couple; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves until everything was gone. Lodge hoped to influence every visitor of the newlywed couple; but still the cake was eaten; and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves until everything was gone.
There was a strange rumor in Highbury that all the little Perrys were seen with a piece of Mrs. Winstone's wedding cake in hand, but Mr. Lodge would never believe it.
Chapter 11
Mrs. Hargrove remained in Norland for several months; not out of reluctance to move, when the sight of every well-known place ceased to arouse the violent excitement it evoked for a while; for when her spirits began to recover, and her spirit became capable of a different effort than that of increasing his distress through melancholic memories, she was impatient to leave, and tireless in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling near Norland; for it was impossible to stray far from this beloved place. But she could not hear of a situation that immediately met her ideas of comfort and convenience and matched the wisdom of her eldest daughter, whose more consistent judgment rejected several houses as too great for her income, which her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Hargrove had been informed by her husband of his son's solemn promise in her favor, which comforted his last earthly reflections. She no longer doubted the sincerity of this assurance when he himself had doubted it, and she thought of it with satisfaction for the sake of her daughters, although she was convinced for herself that a much lower supply than 7000L would support her in prosperity. Also for her brother's sake, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she blamed herself for having been unjust to his merit before, believing that he was incapable of generosity. His attentive behavior toward himself and his sisters convinced her that their well-being was close to his heart, and she trusted in the generosity of his intentions for a long time.
The contempt she had felt very early in her acquaintance with her daughter-in-law was greatly enhanced by the further knowledge of her character, which was granted by a six-month stay in her family; and perhaps the two ladies, despite all due regard for courtesy or maternal affection on the part of the former, would have found it impossible to have lived together for so long, had not occurred, which, according to the expert opinions, would have given Mrs. Hargrove even greater suitability for the survival of her daughters in Norland.
This circumstance led to a growing bond between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Hargrove, a gentleman-like and pleasant young man who was introduced to her acquaintance soon after his sister's branch in Norland and who had since spent most of his time there.
Some mothers may have promoted intimacy for reasons of interest, for Edward Gastonois was the eldest son of a man who had died very richly; and some may have suppressed it for precautionary reasons, for except for an insignificant sum, his entire fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Hargrove was equally unaffected by both considerations. It was enough for him to appear gracious, to love her daughter and to reciprocate Eleanore's preference. It contradicted any of their teachings that the difference in wealth should separate each couple attracted by similarity of predisposition; and that Eleanore's merit should not be recognized by anyone who knew her was impossible for her understanding.
Edward Gastonois was not recommended to her good opinion by any special graces of the person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them comfortable. He was too shy to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behavior betrayed all the signs of an open, loving heart. His understanding was good, and his education had brought him a solid improvement. But he was neither able nor predisposed to respond to the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him excellent – because they hardly knew what. They wanted him to cut a good figure in the world in one way or another. His mother wanted to interest him in political affairs, bring him to parliament, or associate him with some of the great men of the time. Mrs. John Hargrove wished it as well; but in the meantime, until one of these sublime blessings could be obtained, it would have satisfied their ambition to see him ride a carriage. But Edward had no chance for great men or barouches. All his desires focused on domestic comfort and the tranquility of private life. Fortunately, he had a younger brother who was more promising.
Edward had stayed in the house for several weeks before taking much of Mrs. Hargrove's attention; for at that time she was in such suffering that she was careless towards the surrounding objects. She only saw that he was calm and inconspicuous, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the pitifulness of her mind by inappropriate conversation. She was first called to continue watching and approving him, through a reflection that Eleanor happened to make one day about the difference between him and his sister. It was a contradiction that most strongly recommended it to her mother.
"It's enough," she said; "To say that he is different from Esther is enough. It implies everything amiable. I already love him."
"I think you'll like him," Eleanore said, "if you know more about him."
"Like him!" her mother replied with a smile. "I don't feel a sense of approval inferior to love."
"You can appreciate him."
"I've never known what it means to separate appreciation and love."
Mrs. Hargrove now tried to get to know him. Their manners were appropriate and soon banished his restraint. She quickly understood all his merits; the conviction of his consideration for Eleanore perhaps supported their penetration; but she really felt convinced of its value: and even this calmness of behavior, which spoke against all her established ideas of what a young man's address should be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart warm and his temperament loving.
As soon as she noticed any sign of love in his behavior towards Eleanore, when she considered her serious attachment to be certain and looked forward to her imminent wedding.
"In a few months, my dear Marianne," she said, "Eleanore will in all likelihood have settled down for life. We will miss them; but SHE will be happy."
"Oh! Mom, how are we going to do without her?"
"My dear, it will hardly be a separation. We will live just a few miles apart and meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, loving brother. I have the highest opinion of the world of Edward's heart. But you look serious, Marianne; do you disapprove of your sister's choice?"
I could not be happy with a man whose taste does not match mine in all respects. He must enter into all my feelings; The same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! Mom, how mindless, how tame was Edward's way of reading to us last night! My sister felt the worst. And yet she wore it with so much serenity that she hardly seemed to notice it. I could hardly hold my seat. To hear those beautiful lines that have often driven me almost mad, pronounced with such impenetrable calm, such terrible indifference!" And yet she wore it with so much serenity that she hardly seemed to notice it. I could hardly hold my seat. To hear those beautiful lines that have often driven me almost mad, pronounced with such impenetrable calm, such terrible indifference!" And yet she wore it with so much serenity that she hardly seemed to notice it. I could hardly hold my seat. To hear those beautiful lines that have often driven me almost mad, pronounced with such impenetrable calm, such terrible indifference!"
"He would certainly have done justice to simple and elegant prose. That's what I thought at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper."
"No, mom, if you don't want him to be animated by Cowper! – but we have to allow differences in taste. Eleanore doesn't have my feelings, and that's why she can overlook them and be happy with him. But it would have broken MY heart if I had loved hearing him read with so little sensitivity. Mom, the more I know about the world, the more I am convinced that I will never see a man I can truly love. I demand so much! He must have all the virtues of Edward, and his person and manners must adorn his goodness with every possible charm.
"Remember, my dear, that you are not yet seventeen. It is still too early in life to despair of such happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? Only in one case, my Marianne, may your fate be different from hers!"
Chapter 12
But not everything Mrs. Mitchell, with the support of her five daughters, could ask about this subject was enough to elicit a satisfactory description of Mr. Woodland from her husband. They attacked him in various ways – with shameless questions, ingenious conjectures and distant conjectures; but he eluded the skill of everyone, and they were eventually forced to accept the second-hand information of their neighbor, Lady Lucas. Your report was very favorable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was very young, wonderfully pretty, extremely gracious, and in order to crown the whole thing, he planned to be present at the next meeting with a large company. Nothing could be more beautiful! Loving dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very vivid hopes of the heart of Mr. Woodland were entertained.
"If I can see only one of my daughters who has happily settled in Netherfield," Mrs. Mitchell said to her husband, "and everyone else is just as well married, I have nothing to wish for."
In a few days, Mr. Woodland returned Mr. Mitchell's visit and sat with him in his library for about ten minutes. He had hoped to be admitted to a sight of the young ladies whose beauty he had heard much about; but he saw only the Father. The ladies had a little more luck, because they had the advantage of being able to see through an upper window that he was wearing a blue skirt and riding on a black horse.
Soon after, an invitation to dinner was sent; and Mrs. Mitchell had already planned the courses that would honor her housekeeping when an answer arrived that postponed everything. Mr. Woodland had to be in town the next day and therefore could not accept the honor of her invitation, etc. Mrs. Mitchell was quite upset. She could not imagine what he had to do in the city so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he would constantly fly from one place to another and never settle in Netherfield as it should be. Lady Lucas calmed her fears a little by coming up with the idea that he had gone to London just to organize a big party for the ball; and soon a report followed that Mr. Woodland was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen to the meeting. The girls mourned so many ladies, but the day before the ball they were comforted by the news that he was bringing only six from London instead of twelve – his five sisters and a cousin. And when the group entered the meeting room, it consisted of only five in total —Mr. Woodland, his two sisters, the elders' husband, and another young man.
Mr. Woodland was handsome and gentle; he had a friendly face and simple, unadulterated manners. His sisters were fine women with a touch of determined fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, only looked like the Lord; but his friend Mr. Drury soon attracted the attention of the room for his beautiful, tall figure, his pretty facial features, his noble face, and the account that was widely circulated within five minutes of his entry that he had ten thousand a year. The gentlemen referred to him as a beautiful figure of man, the ladies declared that he was much better-looking than Mr. Woodland, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, until his manners radiated a revulsion that turned the tide of his popularity; for it was discovered that he was proud; to stand above his company and to be pleased about it;
Mr. Woodland had soon made himself acquainted with all the captains in the room; he was lively and wholehearted, dancing every dance, angry that the ball was closed so early, and talking about giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Drury-san danced with Mrs. Hurst only once and Miss Woodland once, refused to be introduced to another lady, and spent the rest of the evening walking around the room, occasionally talking to one of his own friends. His character was decisive. He was the proudest, most unpleasant man in the world, and everyone hoped he would never get there again. Among the most violent against him was Mrs. Mitchell,
Elizabeth Mitchell had been forced to sit down to two dances because of the lack of gentlemen; and for part of that time, Mr. Drury had been close enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Woodland, who came out of the dance for a few minutes to urge his friend to join him.
"Come, Drury," he said, "I have to make you dance. I hate to see you standing around so stupidly. You could have danced much better."
"I certainly won't. You know how I loathe it, unless I know my partner particularly well. At such a meeting, that would be intolerable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is no other woman in the room with whom I would not punish myself."
"I wouldn't be as demanding as you would," cried Mr. Woodland, "for a kingdom! On my honor, I have never met so many nice girls in my life as on this evening; and there are several of them that you see unusually pretty.'
"They're dancing with the only pretty girl in the room," said Drury-san, looking at the oldest Miss Mitchell.
She is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen! But right behind you sits one of her sisters, who is very pretty, and dare I say very pleasant. Let me ask my partner to introduce you."
'Which one do you mean?' and when he turned around, he looked at Elizabeth for a moment until he caught her gaze, withdrew his own, and coldly said, "She is bearable, but not beautiful enough to tempt ME; I am currently not in the mood to give consequences to young women who are insulted by other men. You'd better go back to your partner and enjoy her smile, because you're wasting your time with me."
Mr. Woodland followed his advice. Mr. Drury walked away; and Elizabeth remained without very warm feelings for him. However, she told the story with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful nature who rejoiced in everything ridiculous.
Overall, the evening was pleasant for the whole family. Mrs. Mitchell had seen her eldest daughter greatly admired by the Netherfield Party. Mr. Woodland had danced with her twice, and she had been honored by his sisters. Jane was as happy about this as her mother could be, albeit in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's joy. Mary had heard that she was mentioned to Miss Woodland as the most capable girl in the neighborhood; and Catherine and Linda had been lucky enough to never be without a partner, which was all they had to take care of at a ball. They therefore returned in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived and of which they were the main inhabitants. They found Mr. Mitchell still awake. With a book he was time-independent; and on this occasion, he was very curious about the events of an evening that had raised such brilliant expectations. Rather, he had hoped that his wife's views of the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had another story to hear.
'Oh! My dear Mr. Mitchell," as she entered the room, "we had a most delightful evening, a highly excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like that. Everyone said how good she looked; and Mr. Woodland found her very beautiful and danced with her twice! Just remember, my dear; he actually danced with her twice! and she was the only creature in the room he asked a second time. First, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so upset to see him get up with her! But he did not admire them at all; in fact, no one can, you know; and he seemed quite impressed with Jane as she walked down the dance. So he inquired who she was, was introduced and asked her about the next two. Then he danced the two thirds with Miss King, the two fourth with Maria Lucas and the two fifth again with Jane.
"If he had felt sorry for me," her husband exclaimed impatiently, "he wouldn't have danced half as much! For God's sake, say nothing more about His partners. Oh, that he would have sprained his ankle at all!'
'Oh! my darling, I am delighted with him. He's so overly pretty! And his sisters are adorable women. I have never seen anything more elegant in my life than her clothes. I dare say the tip on Mrs. Hurst's dress ...«
Here it was interrupted again. Mr. Mitchell protested against any description of plaster. She was therefore forced to look for another branch of the subject and told with much bitterness and some exaggeration the shocking rudeness of Mr. Drury.
"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy doesn't lose much if she doesn't match HIS imagination; for he is a most unpleasant, horrible person, not at all worthy of pleasing. So high and so conceited that it was unbearable! He went here and he went there and thought he was so great! Not nice enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to give him one of your haircuts. I detest the man very much."
Chapter 13
The first event of significance in the family was the death of Mr. Norris, which occurred when Esther was about fifteen years old, and inevitably brought changes and novelties. After Mrs. Norris left the rectory, she moved first to the park and later to a small house of Sir Thomas in the village and consoled herself over the loss of her husband, considering that she could do very well without him; and for their reduction in income through the obvious need for stricter austerity.
Life was after that for Edmund; and if his uncle had died a few years earlier, it would have been duly given to a friend to keep him until he was old enough for orders. But Tom's extravagance had been so great before this event that he necessitated a different disposal of the next presentation, and the younger brother had to help pay for the older one's pleasures. There was another family who was actually mistaken for Edmund; but although this circumstance had made the arrangement a little easier for sir Thomas' conscience, he could not help but perceive it as an act of injustice, and he seriously tried to impress his eldest son with the same conviction, hoping that it would produce a better effect than anything he had been able to say or do so far.
"I blush for you, Tom," he said in his most dignified manner; "I blush at the way out I am being driven to, and I hope that I can regret your feelings as a brother on this occasion. For ten, twenty, thirty years, perhaps for life, they robbed Edmund of more than half of the income he was entitled to. It may later be in my or your (hopefully) power to give him a better promotion; but it must not be forgotten that no benefit of this kind would have gone beyond his natural claims on us and that nothing can actually be an equivalent to the particular advantage he now has to give up because of the urgency of your debts."
Tom listened with some shame and some sorrow; but getting away as quickly as possible, he was soon able to think about it with cheerful selfishness, first, that he did not have half as much debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most annoying piece of work out of it; and third, that the future incumbent, whoever he may be, would in all likelihood die very soon.
After the death of Mr. Norris, the presentation became the right of a Dr. Grant, who consequently came to live in Mansfield; and when he proved to be a strong man of forty-five years, it seemed likely that Mr. Schmidt's calculations would be disappointed. But "no, he was a short-necked, apoplectic guy and if he handles good things well, he would soon run away."
He had a wife about fifteen years his junior, but no children; and they entered the neighborhood with the usual fair report of being very respectable, pleasant people.
Now the time had come when Sir Thomas expected his sister-in-law to claim her share of her niece, the change in Mrs. Norris' situation and the improvement of Esther's age not only seemed to eliminate all previous objections to her livelihood, but even to give him the most decisive justification; and since his own circumstances were made less fair than before by some recent losses on his Estate in the West Indies, in addition to the extravagance of his eldest son, he did not feel unwelcome to be relieved of the cost of their maintenance and the obligation to provide for them in the future. In the fullness of his faith that such a thing must be, he mentioned his probability to his wife; and the first time the topic came back to her mind was when Esther was present, she calmly remarked to her, "So, Esther, you're going to leave us and live with my sister. How do you like it?"
Esther was too surprised to do more than repeat her aunt's words, "Do you want to leave?"
"Yes, honey; why should you wonder? You've been with us for five years, and my sister always wanted to take you with her when Norris-san died. But you still have to come up and pin my patterns."
The news was as unpleasant as it was unexpected for Esther. She had never experienced kindness from her aunt Norris and could not love her.
"I will be very sorry to leave," she said in a faltering voice.
"Yes, I dare say you will; that's enough, of course. I suppose you have tortured yourself as little as any other being in the world since you came into this house."
"I hope I'm not ungrateful, Aunt," Esther said modestly.
"No my darling; I hope not. I've always thought of you as a very good girl."
"And should I never live here again?"
"Never, my dear; but you are sure to have a cozy home. It can hardly make a difference to you whether you are in one house or the other."
Esther left the room with a very sad heart; she could not feel the difference as so small, she could not imagine living with some satisfaction with her aunt. As soon as she met with Edmund, she told him about her plight.
"Cousin," she said, "something will happen that I don't like at all; and although you've often persuaded me to come to terms with things I didn't like at first, you won't be able to do it now. I will live entirely with my Aunt Norris."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; my Aunt Schmidt just told me. It's pretty regulated. I'm going to leave Mansfield Park and go to the White House, I suppose as soon as she's gone there."
"Well, Esther, and if you weren't uncomfortable with the plan, I'd call it an excellent one."
"Oh, cousin!"
"It has everything else in its favor. My aunt behaves like a reasonable woman when she wishes for you. She chooses a friend and companion exactly where she should, and I'm glad her love of money doesn't bother her. You will be what you should be to them. I hope it doesn't worry you very much, Esther?"
"In fact, I can't like it. I love this house and everything in it: I won't love anything there. You know how uncomfortable I feel with her."
"I can't tell you anything about their behavior as a child; but it was the same for all of us, or almost like that. She never knew how to be nice to children. But you are now at an age to be treated better; I think she is already behaving better; and if you are her only companion, you must be important to her."
"I can't be important to anyone."
"What's to stop you?"
"Everything. My situation, my stupidity and awkwardness."
"As for your stupidity and clumsiness, my dear Esther, believe me, you never have a shadow of both, except when you use the words so inappropriately. There's no reason in the world why you shouldn't care where you're known. You have a good mind and a kind temperament, and I'm sure you have a grateful heart that could never accept kindness without wanting to reciprocate it. I don't know of any better qualifications for a friend and companion."
"You're too friendly," said Esther, who at such ?? Praise turned red; "How can I ever thank you as I should that you think of me so well? Oh! Cousin, if I am to leave, I will remember your goodness until the last moment of my life."
"But in fact, Esther, I should hope to be remembered from such a distance as the White House. You speak as if you were driving two hundred miles away instead of just through the park; but you will belong to us almost as much as before. The two families will meet every day throughout the year. The only difference is that if you live with your aunt, you will inevitably be promoted the way you should be. There are too many to hide behind; but with her you will be forced to speak for yourself."
"Oh! I'm not saying that."
"I have to say it, and I like to say it. Mrs. Norris is much better suited than my mother to take care of you now. She has the temperament to do a lot for anyone she's really interested in, and she'll force you to live up to your natural powers."
Esther sighed and said, "I can't see things the way you do; but I should believe you rather than myself, and I am very attached to you that you have tried to reconcile me with what must be. If I could assume that my aunt really cares about me, it would be delightful to feel significant to anyone. Here, I know, I don't belong to anyone, and yet I love this place so much."
"The place, Esther, is what you will not leave even though you are leaving the house. You have free disposal of the park and gardens as always. Even your constant little heart need not be afraid of such a nominal change. They will have to take the same walks, have the same library to choose from, look at the same people, the same horse to ride."
"Very right. Yes, dear old grey pony! Ah! Cousin, when I remember how much I used to be afraid of riding, the horrors it gave me to hear that it would probably do me good (oh! how I trembled when my uncle opened his lips when talking about horses) and then think of the gracious efforts you made to your senses, and persuade me out of my fears, and convince me that after a while I would like it, and feel how right you have proved, I am inclined to hope that you can always prophesy so well."
"And I firmly believe that being with Mrs. Norris will be just as good for your mind as riding will be for your health and also for your ultimate happiness."
Thus ended their conversation, which could just as well have been spared for any very adequate service she could render to Esther, for Mrs. Norris had no intention of taking her with her. It had never occurred to her on this occasion, but as a thing to be carefully avoided. To prevent it from being expected, she had opted for the smallest apartment, which could be considered posh among the buildings of the Mansfield community, as the White House was just big enough to accommodate her and her servants and to provide a guest room for a friend, which she particularly emphasized. The guest rooms in the rectory had never been desired, but the absolute need for a guest room for a friend has now never been forgotten. However, not all of their precautions could save them from being suspected of anything better; or perhaps, their mere display of the importance of a guest room could have led Sir Thomas to believe that it was actually intended for Esther. Lady Schmidt soon brought the matter to certainty by carelessly remarking to Mrs. Norris,
"I think sister, we don't need to keep Miss Lee any longer when Esther moves in with you."
Mrs. Norris almost pulled together. "Live with me, dear Lady Schmidt! What do you think?"
"Shouldn't she live with you? I thought you had settled it with Sir Thomas."
"Me! Never. I haven't spoken to Sir Thomas, nor a syllable about it, nor has he talked to me. Esther lives with me! the last thing in the world that I think about or that someone who really knows both of us could wish for. Good heavens! What should I do with Esther? Me! a poor, helpless, lost widow, incapable of anything, my mood collapsed completely; What could I do with a girl in her lifetime? A girl of fifteen! the age of everyone else to need the most attention and care, and to put the happiest spirits to the test! Sure, Sir Thomas couldn't seriously expect something like this! Sir Thomas is too much my friend. No one who wishes me all the best, I'm sure, would suggest it. How did Sir Thomas come to talk to you about it?"
"In fact, I don't know. I suppose he thought it was the best."
"But what did he say? He couldn't say he wanted me to take Esther with him. I'm sure in his heart that he couldn't wish it on me."
"No; he just said he thought it was very likely; and that's what I thought. We both thought it would be a comfort for you. But if you don't like it, there's nothing more to say. It is not a burden here."
"Dear sister, considering my unfortunate condition, how can she be a comfort to me? Here I am, a poor, desolate widow, deprived of the best man, weakened my health because I cared for and cared for him, my mood even worse, all my peace in this world destroyed, with barely enough to feed myself in the rank of a noblewoman, and allow me to live in such a way that the memory of the dear deceased has not fallen out of favor – what consolation could I have, if I take on such a responsibility as Esther? If I could wish for it for my own sake, I would not do anything wrong to the poor girl. She is in good hands and sure that she is doing well. I have to fight my way through my worries and difficulties as best I can."
"Then you don't mind living all alone?"
"Lady Schmidt, I'm not complaining. I know I can't live the way I did, but I need to retire where I can and learn to be a better manager. I was a liberal housekeeper enough, but I won't be ashamed to practice thrift now. My situation has changed as much as my income. From poor Mr. Norris as pastor of the congregation, many things were due that one could not expect from me. It is not known how much was consumed in our kitchen by odd arrivals and visitors. In the White House, things need to be better looked after. I will have to live with my income, or I will be unhappy; and I confess that it would give me great satisfaction to be able to do a little more, to put aside a little at the end of the year."
"I dare say you will. You always do, don't you?"
"My goal, Lady Schmidt, is to benefit those who come after me. For the sake of your children, I want to get richer. I don't have anyone else to take care of, but I would be very happy to think that I could leave them a little little thing worth having."
"You're very good, but don't care. You are sure to be well taken care of. Sir Thomas will take care of it."
"Well, you know, Sir Thomas' funds are going to be pretty tight if the Antigua estate is to produce such poor yields."
"Oh! this will soon be clarified. Sir Thomas wrote about it, I know."
"Well, Lady Schmidt," said Mrs. Norris and wanted to leave, "I can only say that my only wish is to be of benefit to your family, and if Sir Thomas ever talks again about taking Esther with me, she will be able to say that my health and my mind exclude it altogether; besides, I really shouldn't be able to give her a bed, because I have to keep a room free for a friend."
Lady Schmidt repeated enough of this conversation with her husband to convince him of how wrong he had been in his sister-in-law's views; and from that moment on she was completely safe from all expectation or the slightest allusion to it from him. He couldn't help but wonder that she refused to do anything for a niece she had been so happy to adopt; but since she cared early on to make him and Lady Schmidt understand that everything she owned was destined for her family, he soon reconciled with an award that was both beneficial and flattering to her, would allow him to better care for Esther himself.
Esther soon learns how unnecessary her fear of moving had been; and her spontaneous, unlearned bliss about the discovery gave Edmund some comfort for his disappointment with what he had expected to be so essentially useful to her. Mrs. Norris took possession of the White House, the Grants arrived at the rectory, and after these events, everything went on as usual in Mansfield for some time.
The Grants, who showed a penchant for kindness and conviviality, mainly gave their new acquaintance great satisfaction. They had their faults, and Mrs. Norris soon found them out. The doctor loved to eat and had a good dinner every day; and Mrs. Grant, instead of satisfying her cook with little effort, gave her cook as much pay as in Mansfield Park and was hardly ever seen in her offices. Mrs. Norris could not speak with all anger about such complaints or about the amount of butter and eggs that were regularly consumed in the house. "No one loved abundance and hospitality more than she did; no one hated miserable deeds anymore; the rectory, she believed, had never lacked amenities in her time, there had never been a bad character, but this was an approach she did not understand. A fine lady in a rectory in the countryside was completely out of place. Her pantry, she thought, might have been good enough for Mrs. Grant to go inside. Where she would inquire, she could not find out that Mrs. Grant had ever owned more than five thousand pounds."
Lady Schmidt listened to such insults without much interest. She couldn't get involved with the wrongs of an economist, but she felt all the hurts of beauty in the fact that Mrs. Grant lived so well in life without being handsome, and expressed her amazement at this point almost as often, though not as diffusely, as Mrs. Norris discussed the other.
These opinions had hardly been considered for a year when another event of such importance occurred in the family that could well claim a place in the thoughts and conversations of the ladies. Sir Thomas felt it expedient to go to Antigua himself for a better settlement of his affairs, and he took his eldest son with him, hoping to free him from any bad connections at home. They left England with the probability of being absent for almost twelve months.
The necessity of the measure in financial terms and the hope of benefit to his son reconciled Sir Thomas with the effort to leave the rest of his family and leave his daughters to lead others in their most interesting time at the moment. He could not consider Lady Schmidt to be up to occupy his place, or rather, to perform what should have been her own; but in the watchful attention of Mrs. Norris, and in the judgment of Edmund, he had enough confidence to let him go without fear for her behavior.
Lady Schmidt did not want her husband to leave her; but she has not been disturbed by any concern for his safety or concern for his comfort, since she is one of those people who think that nothing can be dangerous or difficult or tiring for anyone but herself.
Miss Schmidts were very sorry on this occasion: not because of their grief, but because of their lack of it. Her father was not an object of love for her; he had never been the friend of their pleasures, and his absence was unfortunately most welcome. They were thus freed from all restraint; and without aiming for any satisfaction that Sir Thomas would probably have forbidden, they immediately felt at their own disposal and at any satisfaction within their reach. Esther's relief and awareness of it were those of her cousins?? quite equal; but a more tender nature suggested that her feelings were ungrateful, and she really grieved because she couldn't grieve. "Sir Thomas, who had done so much for her and her brothers and who may never have returned! that she should see him walk without a tear! it was a shameful insensitivity." In addition, he had told her the very last morning that he hoped she would see William again in the course of the following winter, and had instructed her to write to him and invite him to Mansfield as soon as he belonged to the squadron was known to be in England. "That was so thoughtful and kind!" and had he just smiled at her and called her "my dear Esther" while he said it, any previous frowns or cold salutations would have been forgotten. But he had finished his speech in such a way that he sunk it into sad humiliation, adding: "When William comes to Mansfield, I hope you can convince him that the many years that have passed since your separation have not passed on your side without any improvement; although I'm afraid he has to find his sister at sixteen in some ways too much like his sister at ten." She wept bitterly at this reflection when her uncle was gone; and her cousins, when they saw her with red eyes, sat her down as a hypocrite.
Chapter 14
Mr. Lodge loved company in his own way. He liked it very much when his friends visited him; and for various united reasons, from his long residence in Hartfield and his good-naturedness, from his fortune, his house and his daughter, he could command the visits of his own small circle to a large extent as he wished. He didn't have much contact with any families outside of this circle; his horror of the late hours and big dinner parties made him unsuitable for any acquaintance, except for those who would visit him on his own terms. Fortunately for him, there were many in Highbury, including Randalls in the same parish, and Donwell Abbey in the adjacent community, the seat of Mr. Hill. Not infrequently, through Emma's persuasion, he had some of the chosen and best with him to eat: but evening parties were what he preferred; and,
real, long-standing appreciation brought the Winstones and Mr. Hill; and of Mr. Alton, a young man who lived alone without disliking it, the privilege of exchanging every free evening of his own empty solitude for the elegance and company of Mr. Lodges Salon and the smile of his lovely daughter was in no danger of throwing away.
Then came a second movement; Among the most accessible were Mrs. and Miss Bates and Mrs. Goddard, three ladies who almost always served an invitation from Hartfield and who were picked up and carried home so often that Mr. Lodge thought it was not a difficulty for either James or the horses. If it had only taken place once a year, it would have been a complaint.
Mrs Bates, the widow of a former vicar of Highbury, was a very old lady who had almost everything but tea and quadrille behind her. She lived with her single daughter to a very small extent and was treated with all the respect and esteem that a harmless old lady can arouse in such unfavorable circumstances. Her daughter enjoyed a highly unusual popularity for a woman who was neither young, handsome, rich, nor married. Miss Bates found herself in the worst predicament in the world because she enjoyed much of the public favor; and she had no intellectual superiority to atone for herself or to scare those who might hate her to outward respect. She had not been able to boast of beauty or wisdom. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her center of life was dedicated to caring for a failing mother, and the effort to earn a small income goes as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one called without good will. It was their own general goodwill and contented temperament that performed such miracles. She loved every body, was interested in the happiness of each body, had a quick eye for the merits of each body; considered himself an extremely happy creature and was surrounded by blessings from such an outstanding mother and so many good neighbors and friends and a home that lacked nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her being, her contented and grateful spirit were a recommendation for everyone and a source of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip. and a woman whom no one called without good will. It was their own general goodwill and contented temperament that performed such miracles. She loved every body, was interested in the happiness of each body, had a quick eye for the merits of each body; considered himself an extremely happy creature and was surrounded by blessings from such an outstanding mother and so many good neighbors and friends and a home that lacked nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her being, her contented and grateful spirit were a recommendation for everyone and a source of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip. and a woman whom no one called without good will. It was their own general goodwill and contented temperament that performed such miracles. She loved every body, was interested in the happiness of each body, had a quick eye for the merits of each body; considered himself an extremely happy creature and was surrounded by blessings from such an outstanding mother and so many good neighbors and friends and a home that lacked nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her being, her contented and grateful spirit were a recommendation for everyone and a source of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip. was interested in the happiness of all, quickly saw the merits of all; considered himself an extremely happy creature and was surrounded by blessings from such an outstanding mother and so many good neighbors and friends and a home that lacked nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her being, her contented and grateful spirit were a recommendation for everyone and a source of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip. was interested in the happiness of all, quickly saw the merits of all; considered himself an extremely happy creature and was surrounded by blessings from such an outstanding mother and so many good neighbors and friends and a home that lacked nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her being, her contented and grateful spirit were a recommendation for everyone and a source of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip. her contented and grateful spirit was a recommendation for everyone and a treasure trove of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip. her contented and grateful spirit was a recommendation for everyone and a treasure trove of bliss for herself. She was a great speaker on small matters, which suited Mr. Lodge exactly, full of trivial messages and harmless gossip.
Mrs. Goddard was the mistress of a school —not a seminary or institution, or anything that, in long sentences of sophisticated nonsense, explained combining liberal appropriation with elegant morality, on new principles and new systems—and where young ladies for enormous salary could be screwed out of health and vanity—but a genuine, honest, old-fashioned boarding school where a reasonable amount of accomplishments could be turned into a reasonable Price was sold and where girls could be sent out the way and plunge into a little education without running the risk of coming back as a child prodigy. Mrs. Goddard's school enjoyed a high reputation – and rightly so; because Highbury was considered a particularly healthy place on earth: she had a spacious house and garden, gave the children plenty of healthy food, let them walk around a lot in the summer, and in the winter she dressed her frostbite with her own hands. It was no wonder that she was now followed by a train of twenty young couples to the church. She was a simple, motherly kind of woman who had worked hard in her youth and now believed she was entitled to the occasional vacation of a tea visit; and having previously owed much to the kindness of Mr. Lodge, he felt his special claim on her to leave her tidy salon, hang around with fancy work whenever she could, and win or lose a few sixpences by his fireplace.
These were the ladies that Emma was able to collect very often; and she was happy in power for her father's sake; although for herself it was not a cure for the absence of Mrs. Winstone. She was delighted to see that her father looked comfortable, and very happy with herself for having thought things up so well; but the quiet pro-chants of three such women made her feel that every evening spent in this way was actually one of the long evenings she had anxiously awaited.
As she sat one morning and was looking forward to such a conclusion of the day, a message was brought from Mrs. Goddard in which she asked in highly respectful words to be allowed to bring Miss Smith; a most welcome request: Miss Smith was a seventeen-year-old girl who Emma knew very well from seeing and for whom she had long been interested because of her beauty. A very gracious invitation was reciprocated, and the evening was no longer feared by the beautiful lady of the house.
Harriet Smith was someone's biological daughter. Someone had taken her to Mrs. Goddard's school a few years ago, and someone had recently elevated her from the position of a student to that of a boarding school student. That was all that was generally known about their history. She had no visible friends other than what she had acquired at Highbury and had just returned from a long visit to the countryside to some young ladies who had gone to school with her there.
She was a very pretty girl, and her beauty happened to be of a kind that Emma particularly admired. She was small, roundish and bright, with a beautiful flower, blue eyes, light hair, regular facial features and an appearance of great sweetness, and before the end of the evening Emma was as satisfied with her manners as with her person, and determined to continue the acquaintance.
She didn't notice anything particularly clever about Miss Smith's conversation, but she found it very engaging overall – not unpleasantly shy, not unwilling to speak – and yet far from pushing, showing herself so decently and becoming a reverence, so pleasantly grateful that she was accepted into Hartfield and so simply impressed by the look of everything in such a superior style, as she was used to having common sense and earning encouragement. Encouragement should be given. Those soft blue eyes and all that natural grace should not be wasted on highbury's inferior society and its connections. The acquaintance she had already made was not worthy of her. The friends she had just broken up with, even though they were very good people, had to harm her. They were a family named Martin, who knew Emma well in character, as she leased a large farm from Mr. Hill and lived in the parish of Donwell – very commendable, she believed – she knew that Mr. Hill thought very much of them – but they had to be rough and unpolished, and very unsuitable to be the intimacy of a girl, who just wanted a little more knowledge and elegance to be perfect. She would notice them; it would improve them; it would detach them from their bad acquaintances and introduce them to good company; she would form her opinion and manners. It would be an interesting and certainly a very friendly undertaking; become highly their own life situation, their free time and their strengths. and very unsuitable to be the confidants of a girl who just wanted a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice them; it would improve them; it would detach them from their bad acquaintances and introduce them to good company; she would form her opinion and manners. It would be an interesting and certainly a very friendly undertaking; become highly their own life situation, their free time and their strengths. and very unsuitable to be the confidants of a girl who just wanted a little more knowledge and elegance to be quite perfect. She would notice them; it would improve them; it would detach them from their bad acquaintances and introduce them to good company; she would form her opinion and manners. It would be an interesting and certainly a very friendly undertaking; become highly their own life situation, their free time and their strengths.
She was so busy admiring, talking and listening to those soft blue eyes and making all these plans in between that the evening flew away at a very unusual speed; and the dinner table, which always ended such parties and for which she was used to sitting and paying attention to the time due, was completely covered and ready and advanced to the fire before she realized it. With a zeal that went beyond the ordinary impulse of a spirit that was never indifferent to doing everything well and attentively, with the true benevolence of a mind enthusiastic about its own ideas, she then did all the honors of the world meal and helped and recommended the minced meat and baked oysters with an urgency of which she knew, that it would be acceptable for the early hours of the morning and the bourgeois scruples of its guests.
On such occasions, poor Mr. Lodge's feelings were in a sad struggle. He loved to have the cloth laid because it had been the fashion of his youth, but his belief that dinners were very unhealthy made him quite tired of seeing anything put on it; and while his hospitality would have welcomed his visitors in every way, his concern for their health made him saddened that they would eat.
Such another small basin of thin porridge like his own was all he could recommend with thorough self-affirmation; although he might force himself, while the ladies were comfortably clearing away the nicer things, to say:
"Woman. Bates, let me suggest you to venture into one of these eggs. A very soft-boiled egg is not unhealthy. Serle knows how to cook an egg better than anyone else. I wouldn't recommend an egg cooked by someone else; but you do not need to be afraid, they are very small, you see - one of our little eggs will not hurt you. Miss Bates, let Emma help you with a little cake – a tiny bit. Ours are all apple tarts. You don't need to be afraid of unhealthy preserves here. I don't guess the pudding. Mrs. Goddard, what do you say to half a glass of wine? A small half glass, placed in a cup of water? I don't think it could contradict you."
Emma let her father talk – but provided her visitors much more satisfactorily and had a special pleasure that evening to send her away happily. Miss Smith's luck was entirely in keeping with her intentions. Miss Lodge was such a great personality in Highbury that the prospect of the introduction had sparked as much panic as pleasure; but the humble, grateful little girl left with delighted feelings, delighted at the kindness with which Miss Lodge had treated her all evening, and finally shook her hand!
Chapter 15
In addition to what has already been said about Catherine Fenmore's personal and mental talents, it can be said that when she is about to plunge into all the difficulties and dangers of a six-week stay in Bath, she should not give an idea of what her character is supposed to be, that her heart was loving; her cheerful and open nature, without vanity or affectation of any kind – her manners were just moving away from the awkwardness and shyness of a girl; her person pleasing and, if she looks good, pretty – and her mind something like this ?? ignorant and uninformed, as the female mind is ordinary at seventeen.
Of course, as the hour of departure approaches, Mrs. Fenmore's maternal anxiety will be considered the heaviest. A thousand frightening evil premonitions for her beloved Catherine of this terrible separation must weigh on her heart with sadness and drown her in tears for the last day or two of their togetherness; and advice of the most important and applicable nature must, of course, flow from their wise lips at their farewell conference in their closet. Warnings about the violence of such nobles and baronets, such as the joy of forcing young ladies into a remote farmhouse, must ease the fullness of their hearts at such a moment. Who wouldn't think so? But Mrs. Fenmore knew so little about lords and baronets that she had no idea of her general malice, and was completely unsuspicious of the danger to her daughter posed by her machinations. Their warnings were limited to the following points. "I beg, Catherine, you will always wrap yourself very warm around your neck when you come out of the rooms at night; and I wish you would try to keep a record of the money you spend; I'm giving you this little book on purpose."
Sally, or rather Sarah (because what young lady of ordinary nobility will reach the age of sixteen without changing her name as much as possible?), must be her sister's intimate friend and confidant at this point. It is noteworthy, however, that she did not insist that Catherine write at every post, nor demanded her promise to convey the character of each new acquaintance, nor a detail of any interesting conversation bath could produce. Everything that concerned this important journey was undertaken by the Fenmores with a degree of moderation and serenity that was more in line with the shared feelings of living together than with the subtle sensitivity, the delicate emotions that the first separation evoked for a heroine from her family should always inspire. Her father,
under these hopeless omens, the farewell took place and the journey began. It was carried out with reasonable calm and uneventful security. Neither robbers nor storms befriended them, nor a happy overthrow to introduce them to the hero. Nothing more worrying came than a fear on the part of Mrs. Everyone to have left their wooden shoes in an inn, and fortunately that turned out to be unfounded.
They arrived in Bath. Catherine was delighted – her eyes were here, there, everywhere as they approached the beautiful and impressive surroundings and then drove through the streets that led them to the hotel. She had come to be happy, and she already felt happy.
They were soon accommodated in comfortable accommodation on Pulteney Street.
It is now expedient, Mrs. To describe something to everyone so that the reader can judge how their actions will later tend to promote the general need of work, and how it is likely to help alleviate poor Catherine to all the desperate misery that one last volume is capable of – be it through her unwiseness, vulgarity or jealousy – whether by intercepting her letters, the destruction of their character or the expulsion of their doors.
Mrs. Allen belonged to this numerous class of women whose society can evoke no emotion other than surprise that there are men in the world who might like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty nor genius, performance or manners. The aura of a noble woman, a lot of calm, idle good mood and an insignificant attitude were all that could explain that she was the choice of a reasonable, intelligent man like Mr. Allen. In one respect, she was admirably suited to introduce a young lady to the public, as she loved to go everywhere and see everything for herself, as it could be a young lady. Dressing was her passion. She had a harmless pleasure in doing well; and the entry of our heroine into life could only take place after three or four days had been spent learning what was worn the most, and her companions were provided with a dress of the latest fashion. Katharina also made some purchases herself, and when all these matters were settled, the important evening came, which was to lead her to the Obergemächer. Her hair was cut and styled by the best hand, her clothes were carefully dressed, and both Mrs. Allen and her maid said she looked the way she should. With this encouragement, Catherine at least hoped to walk through the crowd uncensored. As for admiration, she was always very welcome, but she did not rely on it. Allen and her maid said she looked the way she should. With this encouragement, Catherine at least hoped to walk through the crowd uncensored. As for admiration, she was always very welcome, but she did not rely on it. Allen and her maid said she looked the way she should. With this encouragement, Catherine at least hoped to walk through the crowd uncensored. As for admiration, she was always very welcome, but she did not rely on it.
Mrs. Allen was busy getting dressed for so long that they entered the ballroom late. The season was full, the room crowded, and the two ladies squeezed in as best they could. What Mr. With all of them, he went straight to the card room and left them alone to enjoy a mob. With more concern for the safety of her new dress than for the comfort of her prot̩g̩, Mrs. All their way through the crowd of men at the door, as fast as the necessary caution allowed; However, Catherine remained close to her side, tying her arm too tightly to that of her friend to be torn apart by a joint effort of a fighting gathering. But to her greatest astonishment, she realized that it was by no means the way to walk through the room to detach herself from the crowd; it seemed to increase more as they moved on, whereas she had imagined that once they were quite inside the door, they would easily find seats and be able to watch the dances with complete comfort. But this was far from the case, and although they even reached the top of the room through tireless zeal, their situation was exactly the same; they saw nothing of the dancers but the high feathers of some ladies. Nevertheless, they moved on Рsomething better was still in sight; and through a continued effort of strength and ingenuity, they finally found themselves in the aisle behind the highest bench. There was a little less crowding here than below; and therefore Miss Fenmore had a comprehensive overview of the whole society under her and of all the dangers of her late passage through her. It was a magnificent sight, and she began to feel like she was at a ball for the first time that evening: she longed to dance, but she had no acquaintance in the room. Mrs. Allen did everything she could do in such a case, saying very calmly every now and then, "I wish you could dance, my dear РI wish you could find a partner." Her young friend felt obliged to her for some time for these wishes; but they were repeated so many times and proved so completely ineffective that Catherine eventually got tired and would no longer thank her.
However, they could not enjoy the calm of the hard-won meaning for long. Everyone made their way briefly for tea, and they had to squeeze out like the others. Catherine began to feel some disappointment – she was tired of being constantly harassed by people whose general faces had nothing interesting and with whom she was so completely unknown that she could not alleviate the annoyance of imprisonment and exchange a syllable with one of her fellow prisoners; and when she finally arrived at the tea room, she felt even more the clumsiness of not having a party to join, no acquaintance to claim, no gentleman to help them. They saw nothing of Mr. Allen; and after looking in vain for a more suitable location, they had to sit down at the end of a table,
as soon as they had taken a seat, Mrs. To all to have saved their dress from injury. "It would have been very shocking if it had been torn apart," she said, "wouldn't it? It's such a delicate muslin. For my part, I haven't seen anything in the whole hall that I like so much, I assure you."
"How uncomfortable it is," Whispered Katharina, "not having a single acquaintance here!"
"Yes, my dear," replied Mrs. To all with complete serenity, "it's really very uncomfortable."
"What should we do? The gentlemen and ladies at this table look like they're wondering why we came here – we seem to be forcing ourselves to their party."
"Yes, we do. This is very unpleasant. I wish we had a great acquaintance here."
"I wish we had some – it was someone we could go to."
"Very true, my dear; and if we knew someone, we would join them directly. The Skinners were here last year – I wish they were here now."
"Shouldn't we better leave as it is? There's no tea stuff here for us, you see."
"There really aren't any more. How provocative! But I think we'd better sit still, because in such a crowd you get so overthrown! How is my head, my love? Someone gave me a push that hurt him, I'm afraid."
"No, it looks really nice. But, dear Mrs. Allen, are you sure that you don't know anyone among all these people? I think you need to know someone."
"I don't do that, at my word – I wish I had done it. I wish I had a great acquaintance here with all my heart, and then I should get you a partner. I would be so glad to let you dance. There goes a strange-looking woman! What a strange dress she wears! How old-fashioned! Look at the back."
After some time, they received a tea offer from one of their neighbors; it was gratefully accepted, and this led to a light conversation with the Lord who offered it, which was the only time anyone spoke to them during the evening until Mr. She discovered all of them and joined them when the dance was over.
"Well, Miss Fenmore," he said directly, "I hope you had a pleasant ball."
"Very pleasant indeed," she replied, trying in vain to hide a big yawn.
"I wish she could have danced," his wife said; "I wish we could have found a partner for them. I said how happy I would be if the Skinners were here this winter instead of the last one; or if the Parrys had come, as they once spoke, they might have danced with George Parry. I'm so sorry she didn't have a partner!"
"I hope we'll do better another night," was Mr. Allen's consolation.
Society began to disperse when the dance was over – enough to leave room for the rest to walk around in some comfort; and now it was time to notice and admire a heroine who had not yet played a very prominent role in the events of the evening. Every five minutes, by removing part of the crowd, their stimuli offered larger openings. She was now seen by many young men who had not been around her before. No one, however, was frightened by her sight in delightful amazement, no whisper of zealous questioning went through the room, nor was she once called a deity by anyone. Nevertheless, Catherine looked very good, and if society had seen her only three years ago, they would have considered her to be extremely handsome by now.
However, it was viewed with some admiration; because after their own hearing, two gentlemen declared her a pretty girl. Such words had their due effect; she immediately found the evening more pleasant than she had found it before – her humble vanity was satisfied – she felt more committed to the two young men for this simple praise than it would have been a real heroine for fifteen sonnets celebrating her charms, and went to her chair in a good mood with everyone and was completely satisfied with her share of public attention.
Chapter 16
"What a pity, Eleanore," Marianne said, "that Edward has no taste for drawing."
"No taste in drawing!" replied Eleanore, "why would you think that? He may not draw himself, but he takes great pleasure in seeing other people's performances, and I assure you that he is by no means lacking in natural taste, although he had no way to improve it. If he had ever been through learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on a picture; but he has an innate decency and a simple taste that generally direct him perfectly right.
Marianne was afraid of offending and said nothing more on the subject; but the kind of approval that Eleanore described as aroused in him by other people's drawings was far from that rapturous joy that, in her opinion, could be called taste alone. But although she smiled inwardly at the mistake, she honored her sister for that blind fondness for Edward that had produced him.
"I hope Marianne," Eleanore continued, "you don't think he's tasteless. I even think you can't, because you're completely warm to him, and if that was your opinion, I'd say I'm sure you could never be polite to him."
Marianne hardly knew what to say. She wouldn't hurt her sister's feelings in any way, and yet saying what she didn't believe was impossible. Finally she replied,
"Don't be offended, Eleanore, if my praise for him doesn't match your sense of merit in everything. I have not had as many opportunities to assess the smallest inclinations of his mind, his inclinations and his taste as you have done; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and intellect. I consider him to be everything that is worthy and amiable.
"I'm sure," Eleanore replied with a smile, "that his dearest friends couldn't be dissatisfied with such praise.
Marianne was happy to find her sister so easily delighted.
his imagination is vivid, his observation fair and correct, his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every way improve with acquaintance as well as his manners and his person. At first glance, his address is certainly not noticeable; and his person can hardly be called beautiful until the expression of his eyes, which are unusually good, and the general sweetness of his face are perceived. Now I know him so well that I find him really beautiful; or at least almost like that. What do you say, Marianne?" which are unusually good, and the general sweetness of his facial expression is perceived. Now I know him so well that I find him really beautiful; or at least almost like that. What do you say, Marianne?" which are unusually good, and the general sweetness of his facial expression is perceived. Now I know him so well that I find him really beautiful; or at least almost like that. What do you say, Marianne?"
"I'll think he's good-looking very soon, Eleanore, if I don't do it now.
Eleanore winced at this statement and regretted the warmth in which she had been betrayed when she spoke of him. She felt that Edward was very high in her opinion. She believed that respect was based on reciprocity; but she needed greater certainty to make Marianne's conviction of her attachment pleasant to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother suspected one moment they believed the next – that for them, wishing equals hoping and hoping equals expecting. She tried to explain the truth of the case to her sister.
"I try not to deny," she said, "that I think a lot of him — that I appreciate him very much, that I like him."
Marianne here erupted with indignation –
"Appreciate him! Like him! Cold-hearted Eleanore! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Shame on being different.
Eleanore couldn't help but laugh. "Excuse me," she said; "And rest assured that I didn't want to offend you by speaking so quietly of my own feelings. Believe that they are stronger than I have explained; Believe, in short, that they are so merit, and the suspicion – the hope of his affection for me may justify, without unwiseness or folly. But you can't believe any further than that. I am by no means sure of his appreciation for me. There are moments when the extent seems doubtful; and until his feelings are fully known, you can't be surprised that I want to avoid any encouragement of my own bias by believing it more or calling it more than it is. In my heart, I feel little – little doubt about his preference, but there are other points to consider besides his inclination: he is far from being independent. We cannot know what his mother really is; but, from Esther's occasional mention of her behavior and opinions, we have never been inclined to think of her kindly; and I am very mistaken if Edward himself does not know that many difficulties would lie on his way if he wanted to marry a woman who had neither a great fortune nor a high rank.
Marianne was amazed to discover how much the imagination of her mother and herself had surpassed the truth.
"And you're really not engaged to him!" she said. "Nevertheless, it will certainly happen soon. But two benefits will come from this delay. I'm not going to lose you anytime soon, and Edward will have a greater opportunity to enhance that natural taste for your favorite pastime, which must be so vital to your future happiness. Oh, if he were to be stimulated by your genius to learn to draw himself, how delightful that would be!"
Eleanore had told her sister her true opinion. She couldn't look at her fondness for Edward in such a prosperous state as Marianne had believed. At times there was a lack of spirit around him who, if he did not express indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt about their appreciation, provided he felt them, needed to cause him nothing more than unrest. It probably wouldn't evoke the dejection that often accompanied him. A more reasonable reason could lie in the dependency situation, which forbids him to satisfy his affection. She knew that his mother did not behave towards him in such a way that he was now making him comfortable, nor did he give him any assurance that he could create a home without strictly caring about her views on his enlargement. With such knowledge, it was impossible for Eleanore to feel light on this subject. She was far from relying on the result of his preference for her, which her mother and sister still thought was safe. Yes, the longer they were together, the more dubious the nature of his consideration seemed; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it was nothing more than friendship.
But whatever his limitations, it was enough if it was perceived by his sister to make her restless and at the same time (which was even more common) make her rude. She took the first opportunity to insult her mother-in-law on this occasion by telling her so ?? spoke expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Gastonois' decision that her two sons should marry well, and of the danger that every young woman brings with her to try to draw him in; that Ms. Hargrove could not pretend to be unconscious, nor could she make an effort to be calm. She gave her an answer expressing her contempt and immediately left the room with the decision that her beloved Eleanore, whatever the inconvenience or cost of such a sudden move, should not be subjected to such allusions for another week.
In this mood, a letter was sent to her by the post office, which contained a particularly suitable proposal. It was the offer of a small house on very favourable terms, owned by his own relative, a respected gentleman owned in Devonshire. The letter was written by this gentleman himself and in the true spirit of kind courtesy. He understood that she needed an apartment; and even though the house he now offered her was just a cottage, he assured her that everything she thought was necessary should be done if she liked the situation. After giving her the details of the house and garden, he seriously urged her to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from where she could judge for herself whether Barton Cottage, because the houses were in the same community, could be made comfortable by any change. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them, and his whole letter was written in such a friendly style that he could bring joy to his cousin; especially at a moment when she was suffering from the cold and callous behavior of her close relatives. She didn't need time for reflection or research. Her decision was made while she was reading. Barton's location in a county as far away from Sussex as Devonshire, which just a few hours earlier would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh any possible advantage of the place, was now her first recommendation. Leaving the neighborhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing compared to the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to move away from this beloved place forever would be less painful than inhabiting or visiting it while such a woman was his mistress. She immediately wrote sir John Mideltown her appreciation of his kindness and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hurried to show both letters to her daughters so that she could be sure of her approval before her reply was sent.
Eleanore had always thought it would be wiser for her to settle some distance from Norland than immediately below her current acquaintance. Therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention to move to Devonshire. Also, as described by Sir John, the house was of such a simple size and the rent so unusually moderate that she was not given the right to object on both points; and therefore, although it was not a plan that enchanted her imagination, even though it was a distance from the norland area that exceeded her desires, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of consent.
Chapter 17
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had previously only cautiously praised Mr. Woodland, expressed to her sister how much she admired him.
"He is exactly what a young man should be," she said, "reasonable, cheerful, lively; and I have never seen such happy manners! – so much ease, with such a perfect good upbringing!"
"He's also handsome," Elizabeth replied, "which a young man should be too if he can. Thus his character is completed.'
"I felt very flattered when he asked me to dance a second time. I didn't expect such a compliment.'
'Didn't you? I did it for you. But that's a big difference between us. Compliments always surprise you and never surprise me. What could be more natural than for him to ask you again? He couldn't help but see that you were about five times as pretty as any other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for it. Well, he is definitely very pleasant, and I allow you to like him. You've liked some dumber people.'
"Dear Lizzy!"
'Oh! You are far too inclined, you know, to like people in general. You don't see a mistake in anyone. All the world is good and pleasant in your eyes. I've never heard you talk badly about a person in your life."
"I don't want to blame anyone prematurely; but I always speak what I think.'
'I know you do; and THAT makes the miracle. With YOUR common sense to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of openness is omnipresent – you can meet it everywhere. But being open without bragging or design – taking the good out of everyone's character and making it even better, and not saying anything about the bad – is yours alone. So you also like this man's sisters, don't you? Their manners are not equal to his.'
"Certainly not – at first. But they are very pleasant women when you talk to them. Miss Woodland is supposed to live with her brother and keep his house; and I'm very wrong if we don't find a very charming neighbor in her.'
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their conduct at the meeting was not designed to please in general; and with a faster observation and a less compliant temperament than her sister, and with a judgment that was too unassailable for herself by any attention, she was very little inclined to approve of them. They were indeed very fine ladies; not deficient in good humor when they were satisfied, nor in the ability to make themselves comfortable when they wanted to, but proud and conceited. They looked pretty good, had been educated in one of the city's first private seminaries, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, had a habit of spending more than they should, and interacted with people of rank, and were therefore entitled in every respect to think well of themselves and mean of others. They came from a distinguished family in the north of England; one circumstance was more deeply imprinted in her memories than that her brother's fortune and her own had been acquired through trade.
Mr Woodland inherited nearly a hundred thousand pounds of property from his father, who had intended to buy a property but no longer lived to do so. Mr. Woodland intended it the same way and sometimes chose his county; but now that he was provided with a good house and the freedom of a mansion, it was doubtful to many of those who knew best his lightheartedness that he would not spend the rest of his days in Netherfield and go next generation to buy.
His sisters were anxious that he had his own possessions; but although he was now established only as a tenant, Miss Woodland was by no means averse to chairing his table – nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man who had more fashion than wealth, less inclined to consider his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Woodland was less than two years old when a random recommendation led him to visit Netherfield House. He looked at it and put it in for half an hour – was happy with the location and the main rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in his praise, and took it immediately.
There was a very solid friendship between him and Drury, despite great contrasts in character. Woodland was sympathetic to Drury by the lightness, openness and ductility of his temperament, although no predisposition could provide a greater contrast to his own, and although he never seemed dissatisfied with his own. Woodland had the firmest confidence in Drury's strength and the highest opinion of his judgment. Understandably, Drury was the superior. Woodland was by no means flawed, but Drury was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved and demanding, and his manners were well-behaved but not inviting. In this regard, his friend was far at an advantage. Woodland was sure to be liked wherever he appeared, Drury insulted him constantly.
The way in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. Woodland had never met more pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everyone had been very friendly and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt familiar with the whole room; and as for Miss Mitchell, he couldn't imagine a more beautiful angel. On the contrary, Drury had seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for which he had not felt the slightest interest, and from none he received neither attention nor pleasure. He admitted to Miss Mitchell that she was pretty, but she smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it – but they still admired her and liked her and declared her a sweet girl, and one they wouldn't mind learning more about. Miss Mitchell was therefore established as a sweet girl, and her brother felt empowered by such a recommendation to think of her as he wanted.
Chapter 18
Tom Schmidt had recently spent so little time at home that he could only be missed nominally; and Lady Schmidt was soon amazed when she realized how well they were doing without his father, how well Edmund could take his place in the carving, talk to the administrator, write to the lawyer, settle accounts with the servants, and save them equally from fatigue or effort in every way except to direct their letters.
The earliest news about the safe arrival of travelers in Antigua after a cheap trip was received; but not before Mrs. Norris had surrendered to very terrible fears and tried to share them with Edmund whenever she could get him alone; and since she depended on being the first person to learn of every deadly catastrophe, she had already arranged the way she would communicate it to everyone else when Sir Thomas' assurance that they were both alive and well made it necessary to suppress their excitement and make loving preparatory speeches for a while.
Winter came and went by without them being called; the accounts continued perfectly well; and Mrs. Norris had so much to do, encouraging happiness for her nieces, helping her toilets, flaunting her accomplishments, and looking for her future husbands, doing so much that she interfered in her own sister in addition to all her own household worries, and overlooking Ms. Grant's lavish deeds, left their very little opportunity to be filled with fears for the absent.
The Miss Schmidt's were now fully established among the beauties of the neighborhood; and since they naturally combined with beauty and brilliant acquisition, and were carefully trained in general courtesy and courtesy, they possessed both their favor and admiration. Their vanity was in such good condition that they seemed to be completely free of it and did not give themselves any airs; while the praise that accompanied such behavior was secured and brought around by her aunt served to strengthen her in the belief that they had no flaws.
Lady Schmidt did not go public with her daughters. She was too sluggish to accept the satisfaction of a mother when she witnessed her success and joy at the expense of personal problems, and the responsibility was given to her sister, who wanted nothing better than a post of such honorable representation and was very pleased with the means it offered her to interfere in society, without having to rent horses.
Esther had no part in the festivities of the season; but she enjoyed being avowedly useful as a companion of her aunt when she picked up the rest of the family; and since Miss Lee had left Mansfield, she naturally became everything for Lady Schmidt during the night of a ball or a party. She talked to her, listened to her, read to her; and the tranquility of such evenings, their complete safety in such a tete-a-tete from any sound of unkindness, was unspeakably welcome for a spirit that had rarely known a pause in its alarms or embarrassments. As for the cheerfulness of her cousins, she liked to hear a report about her, especially about the balls and who Edmund had danced with; but thought too low of her own situation to imagine that she should ever be admitted to it, and therefore listened without any idea of any closer concern in them. On the whole, it was a pleasant winter for her; for although it did not bring William to England, the never-ending hope of his arrival was worth much.
The following spring deprived her of her cherished friend, the old gray pony; and for some time she was in danger of feeling the loss of her health as well as her affection; for despite the recognized importance of her riding, no measures were taken to re-climb her, "because," as her aunts noted, "she could ride on one of her cousin's horses at any time if she did not want to," and since Miss Schmidt regularly wanted to have her horses every beautiful day and did not think of sacrificing her courteous manners to a real pleasure, Of course, this time never came. They took their joyful rides on the beautiful mornings of April and May; and Esther either sat at home with one aunt all day or went beyond her powers at the instigation of the other: Lady Schmidt considers exercise as unnecessary as it is unpleasant for herself; and Mrs. Norris, who was walking all day and thought everyone should walk just as much. Edmund was absent at the time, otherwise the evil would have been remedied sooner. When he came back to understand how Esther was doing and to perceive his negative effects, it seemed as if there was only one thing to do with him; and that "Esther must have a horse" was the resolute explanation with which he opposed everything that could be pushed by his mother's suppleness or the frugality of his aunt to make it seem unimportant. Mrs. Norris couldn't help but think that among the numbers belonging to the park there was a constant old thing that would do very well; or that one could be borrowed from the administrator; or maybe Dr. Grant could lend them the pony he had sent to the post office every now and then. She couldn't help but think it was absolutely unnecessary and even inappropriate for Esther to have her own, normal ladies' horse in the style of her cousins?? should have. She was sure that Sir Thomas had never intended this, and she must say that it looked as if he would make such a purchase in his absence and increase the large cost of his stable, while a large part of his income was unclear to her very unjustified. "Esther must have a horse," was Edmund's only answer. Mrs. Norris could not see it in the same light. Lady Schmidt did it: she fully agreed with her son that it was necessary and was considered necessary by his father; she pleaded only against haste; she just wanted him to wait until Sir Thomas returned, and then Sir Thomas could take care of everything himself. He would be home in September, and where would it hurt to just wait until September?
Although Edmund was much more dissatisfied with his aunt than with his mother, who respected her niece the least, he couldn't help but pay more attention to what she said; and finally decided on a course of action that would prevent the danger that his father thought he had done too much, while at the same time giving Esther the immediate means of practice that he could not do without. He had three horses of his own, but none that a woman could carry. Two of them were hunters; the third, a useful street horse: this third he decided to exchange for one on which his cousin could ride; he knew where to find one; and once he had decided, the whole deal was soon completed. The new mare proved to be a treasure; with very little effort, it was calculated exactly for the purpose, and Esther was then almost completely taken into her possession. She hadn't believed before that anything could ever suit her like the old grey pony; but her delight in the mare of Edmund went far beyond any previous pleasure of this variety; and the addition it ever received in the face of this kindness from which its pleasure arose went beyond all its words to express it. She saw her cousin as an example of all that is good and great, as someone who possessed a value that no one but herself ever appreciated, and as entitled to be so ?? to be grateful, as no feelings could be strong enough to pay them. Their feelings towards him consisted of everything that was respectful, grateful, trusting and tender. but her delight in the mare of Edmund went far beyond any previous pleasure of this variety; and the addition it ever received in the face of this kindness from which its pleasure arose went beyond all its words to express it. She saw her cousin as an example of all that is good and great, as someone who possessed a value that no one but herself ever appreciated, and as entitled to be so ?? to be grateful, as no feelings could be strong enough to pay them. Their feelings towards him consisted of everything that was respectful, grateful, trusting and tender. but her delight in the mare of Edmund went far beyond any previous pleasure of this variety; and the addition it ever received in the face of this kindness from which its pleasure arose went beyond all its words to express it. She saw her cousin as an example of all that is good and great, as someone who possessed a value that no one but herself ever appreciated, and as entitled to be so ?? to be grateful, as no feelings could be strong enough to pay them. Their feelings towards him consisted of everything that was respectful, grateful, trusting and tender. possessing as a value that no one but herself could ever appreciate, and as so entitled to receive from her so ?? to be grateful, as no feelings could be strong enough to pay them. Their feelings towards him consisted of everything that was respectful, grateful, trusting and tender. possessing as a value that no one but herself could ever appreciate, and as so entitled to receive from her so ?? to be grateful, as no feelings could be strong enough to pay them. Their feelings towards him consisted of everything that was respectful, grateful, trusting and tender.
Since the horse remained the property of Edmund, both in name and in fact, Mrs. Norris could tolerate it being available to Esther; and had Lady Schmidt ever thought about her own objection again, he might have been excused in her eyes for not having waited until Sir Thomas' return in September, because when September came, Sir Thomas was still abroad and without the slightest prospect of ending his business. Unfavorable circumstances had suddenly occurred when he began to direct all his thoughts to England; and the very great uncertainty in which everything was then involved led him to send his son home and wait for the final order himself. Tom arrived safely and brought an excellent report on his father's health; but too little purpose as far as Mrs. Norris was concerned. Mr. Thomas' Sending away his son came to her so ?? like parental care, under the influence of a premonition of evil for herself, that she could not resist terrible premonitions; and when the long evenings of autumn came, she was so terribly haunted by these thoughts in the sad solitude of her hut that she was forced to seek refuge daily in the park's dining room. However, the return of the winter commitments was not without effect; and in the course of her progression, her mind became so pleasantly occupied with monitoring the fate of her oldest niece to calm her nerves tolerably. "If poor Sir Thomas were destined to never return, it would be especially comforting to see her dear Mary well married," she thought very often; Whenever they were in the company of knights of fortune,
Mr. Rushmore was impressed by the beauty of Miss Schmidt from the beginning, and since he was inclined to marry, he soon fell in love. He was a strong young man with nothing more than common sense; but since there was nothing unpleasant about his figure and salutation, the young lady rejoiced at her conquest. At the age of twenty-one, Maria Schmidt began to consider marriage a duty; and since a marriage to Mr. Rushmore would give her a higher income than her father's and would secure her the house in the city that was now a major object, it became an obvious duty for her by the same rule of moral obligation to marry Mr. Rushmore if she could. Mrs. Norris was very eager to promote the match, through every proposal and invention suitable to increase his desirability for both parties; and, among other things, by seeking intimacy with the Mother of the Lord, who was currently living with him and who even forced Lady Schmidt to walk ten miles on indifferent roads to pay a morning visit. It didn't take long for this lady and her to have a good understanding. Mrs. Rushmore admitted that she very much wanted her son to get married, explaining that of all the young ladies she had ever seen, Miss Schmidt seemed best suited to make him happy because of her amiable qualities and accomplishments. Mrs. Norris accepted the compliment and admired the nice judgment of the character, who could distinguish merit so well. Mary, in fact, was the pride and joy of all – completely flawless – an angel; and of course so surrounded by admirers, their choice must be difficult: but nevertheless, what Mrs.
After dancing together on a reasonable number of balls, the young people justified these views, and an engagement was entered into with due reference to the absent Sir Thomas, much to the satisfaction of their respective families and the general onlookers from the neighborhood, who had felt the expediency of Mr. Rushmore's marriage to Miss Schmidt for many weeks.
It took a few months before the approval of Sir Thomas could be obtained; but in the meantime, since no one felt any doubt about his most heartfelt joy in the connection, the two families continued without restraint and no other attempt at secrecy was made than that Mrs. Norris spoke of it everywhere as a topic that cannot be spoken of at this time.
Edmund was the only one in the family who could see a mistake in the business; but no depiction of his aunt could lead him to find Mr. Rushmore as a desirable companion. He could allow his sister to judge her own happiness best, but he did not like that her happiness should rest in a large income; nor could he resist saying to himself often in Mr. Rushmore's company, "If this man didn't have twelve thousand a year, he would be a very stupid guy."
Sir Thomas, however, was really happy about the prospect of such an undoubtedly advantageous alliance, of which he heard only the perfectly good and pleasant. It was a combination of just the right kind – in the same county and in the same interest – and his warmest approval was conveyed as soon as possible. He only made the condition that the wedding should not take place before his return, which he longed for again. He wrote in April and had great hope to settle everything to his full satisfaction and leave Antigua before the end of the summer.
Such was the state of affairs in the month of July; and Esther had just reached her eighteenth year when the society of the village received an increase in the brother and sister of Mrs. Grant, a Mr. and Miss Dorset, her mother's children from her second marriage. They were young people with fortunes. The son had a good estate in Norfolk, the daughter twenty thousand pounds. As children, her sister had always liked her very much; but since her own marriage was soon followed by the death of her co-parent, who left her in the care of a brother of her father, of whom Mrs. Grant knew nothing, she had hardly seen her since. They had found a loving home in their uncle's house. Admiral and Mrs. Dorset, although they did not agree on anything else, were united in their affection for these children, or at least their feelings were no more opposed than that each had their darling, to whom they had the greatest affection of both. The admiral was happy about the boy, Mrs. Dorset raved about the girl; and it was the death of the lady that forced her prot̩g̩, after a few months of further examination in her uncle's house, to find another home. Admiral Dorset was a man of vicious behavior who preferred to put his mistress under his own roof rather than keep his niece; and mrs. Grant was obliged to do so for her sister's proposal to come to her, a measure that is as welcome on one side as it might be useful on the other; for Mrs. Grant, who at that time had gone through the usual resources of ladies in the countryside without a family with children and had filled her favorite living room more than with pretty furniture, and created an exquisite collection of plants and poultry Рhad a great lack of variety at home. The arrival of a sister whom she had always loved and now hoped to stay with her as long as she remained single was therefore most pleasant; and her main concern was that Mansfield might not live up to the habits of a young woman who was largely accustomed to London.
Miss Dorset was not entirely free of similar fears, although they arose mainly from doubts about her sister's way of life and tone of society; and only after trying in vain to persuade her brother to settle with her in his own country house could she decide to venture among her other relatives. Unfortunately, Henry Dorset had a great aversion to something like a permanent residence or a restriction of society: he could not accommodate his sister in an article of such significance; but he escorted her to Northamptonshire with the utmost kindness and was ready to pick her up again within half an hour whenever she was tired of the place.
The meeting went very satisfactorily on both sides. Miss Dorset found a sister without accuracy or rusticity, a sister's husband who looked like a gentleman, and a spacious and well-equipped house; and Mrs. Grant received in those she hoped to love better than ever, a young man and a young woman of very engaging appearance. Mary Dorset was remarkably pretty; Henry, although not pretty, had air and facial expression; the manners of both were lively and pleasant, and Mrs. Grant immediately paid tribute to them for everything else. She was happy about everyone, but Mary was her favorite object; and since she was never able to boast of her own beauty, she enjoyed the power to be proud of her sister's. She hadn't waited for her arrival to look for a suitable counterpart for her: she had settled on Tom Schmidt; the eldest son of a baronet was not too good for a girl of twenty thousand pounds, with all the elegance and skills that Mrs. Grant foresaw in her; and since she was a warm, unconditional woman, Mary had not been in the house for three hours before telling her what she was up to.
Miss Dorset was happy to find a family of such importance so close to her and was not dissatisfied with her sister's early care or the decision she had made. Marriage was her goal, provided she could marry well, and since she had seen Mr. Schmidt in the city, she knew that no objection could be made against his person any more than against his life situation. Therefore, while she considered it a joke, she did not forget to think seriously about it. The scheme was soon repeated to Henry.
"And now," Mrs. Grant added, "I've come up with something to complete it. I would love to settle you both in this country; and therefore, Henry, you shall marry the youngest Miss Schmidt, a nice, pretty, cheerful, consummate girl who will make you very happy."
Henry bowed and thanked her.
"My dear sister," Mary said, "if you can persuade him to do something like this, it will be a new joy for me to find myself allied with someone so clever, and I will only regret that you don't have half of a dozen daughters to dispose of. If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must have the address of a French woman. Everything that english skills can do has already been tried. I have three very special friends, all of whom died for him; and the efforts that she, her mothers (very clever women), as well as my dear aunt and I, have brought to their senses, persuaded him to marry or tricked him, is unimaginable! He's the most horrible flirt you can imagine. If your Miss Schmidts don't like it, if your heart is broken, you should avoid Henry."
"My dear brother, I will not believe you."
"No, I'm sure you're too good. You will be friendlier than Mary. They will allow the doubts of youth and inexperience. I am of a cautious temperament and not ready to risk my luck in a hurry. No one can rate marital status higher than I can. I consider a woman's blessing to be most aptly described in these discreet lines of the poet – 'the last best gift of heaven'."
"There, Mrs. Grant, you see him lingering at a word and just looking at his smile. I assure you, he is very abhorrent; the admiral's lessons spoiled him quite a bit."
"I pay very little attention to what any young person says about marriage," Mrs. Grant said. If they speak out against it, I only write that they have not yet seen the right one."
Dr. Grant laughingly congratulated Miss Dorset for not feeling any aversion to the state herself.
"Oh yes! I am not ashamed of it at all. I would get everyone married if they can do it right: I don't like it when people throw themselves away; but everyone should get married as soon as they can use it to their advantage."
Chapter 19
Harriet Smith's intimacy in Hartfield soon became a firm fixture. Fast and determined in her own way, Emma wasted no time inviting, encouraging and telling her to come very often; and as their acquaintance grew, so did their mutual satisfaction. As a hiking companion, Emma had foreseen very early on how useful she could be for her. In this regard, Mrs. Winstone's loss had been important. Her father never went beyond the bushes, where two parts of the ground were enough for him for his long or short walk, depending on how the year changed; and since Mrs. Winstone's marriage, her practice had been too limited. She had once ventured to Randall's alone, but it was not pleasant; and a Harriet Smith who could call her for a walk at any time would be a valuable addition to her privileges. But in every way
Harriet was certainly not smart, but she had a sweet, docile, grateful nature, was completely devoid of imagination and only wished to be guided by someone she looked up to. Her early attachment to herself was very gracious; and their propensity for good company and their ability to appreciate the elegant and clever showed that there was no lack of taste, although strength of understanding could not be expected. Overall, she was quite convinced that Harriet Smith was exactly the young friend she wanted – exactly what her home needed. Such a friend as Mrs. Winstone was out of the question. Two of these could never be granted. She didn't want two of them. It was something completely different, a distinct and independent feeling. Mrs. Winstone was the object of an appreciation based on gratitude and appreciation. Harriet would be loved as someone to whom she could be useful. For Mrs. Winstone, there was nothing to do; everything for Harriet.
Their first attempts at utility were aimed at finding out who the parents were, but Harriet couldn't tell. She was willing to tell everything in her power, but questions on this subject were in vain. Emma had to imagine what she liked – but she could never believe that she should not have discovered the truth in the same situation. Harriet had no penetration. She had been content to hear and believe exactly what Mrs. Goddard wanted to tell her; and looked no further.
Mrs. Goddard and the teachers and the girls and the affairs of the school in general were of course a big part of the conversation – and without their acquaintance with the Martins of Abbey-Mill Farm, it must have been the whole thing. But the Martins were quite busy with their thoughts; she had spent two very happy months with them and now liked to talk about the joys of their visit and describe the many amenities and wonders of the place. Emma encouraged her talkativeness – amused by such an image of another group of beings and delighted with the youthful simplicity that could speak with so much jubilation that Mrs. Martin "two parlous, two very good parlous, in fact; one of them is quite as big as Mrs. Goddard's salon; and that she had a maid who had lived with her for twenty-five years; and that they have eight cows, two of them Alderneys, and one a little Welsh cow, really a very pretty little Welsh cow; and of Mrs. Martin's saying, because she loved it so much, it should be called her cow; and that they have a very nice summer house in their garden where one day the next year they would all drink tea: – a very nice summer house, big enough to accommodate a dozen people."
For a time she was amused without thinking beyond the immediate cause; but as she understood the family better, other feelings arose. She had come up with a false idea and had imagined that it was a mother and a daughter, a son and the wife of the son, all living together; but when it turned out that the Mr. Martin, who played a role in the narrative and was always mentioned with applause for his great good-naturedness, was something to do, was a single man; that there was no young woman Martin, no woman in the case; she sensed that all this hospitality and kindness would endanger her poor little friend, and that if she was not taken care of, she would have to perish forever.
With this inspiring performance, their questions increased in number and significance; and she especially made Harriet talk more about Mr. Martin, and there was obviously no aversion to it. Harriet was willing to talk about the part he had had in their moonlight walks and cheerful evening games; and spent a lot of time with the fact that he is in such a good mood and courteous. One day he had driven three miles in a circle to bring her some walnuts because she had said how much she liked them, and in everything else he was so accommodating. One evening he had invited his shepherd's son to the parlour to sing something to her. She loved to sing. He could sing a little himself. She thought he was very smart and understood everything. He had a very beautiful flock, and while she was with them, he had been offered more for his wool than anyone else in the country. She believed everyone spoke well of him. His mother and sisters liked him very much. Mrs. Martin had told her one day (and she blushed when she said this) that it was impossible to be a better son, and so she was sure that whenever he married, he would become a good husband. Not that she wanted him to get married. She wasn't in a hurry at all.
"Well done, Mrs. Martin!" thought Emma. "You know what it's all about."
"And when she was gone, Mrs. Martin was kind enough to send Mrs. Goddard a beautiful goose – the most beautiful goose Mrs. Goddard had ever seen. Mrs. Goddard had dressed it on a Sunday and asked all three teachers, Miss Nash, Miss Prince and Miss Richardson, to have dinner with her."
"Sir. Martin, I suppose, is not a man of information who goes beyond his own business? He doesn't read?"
"Oh yes! – that is, no – I don't know – but I think he read a lot – but not what you would think of. He reads the farm reports and some other books that were on one of the window seats – but he reads them all for himself. But sometimes in the evening, before we went to the card game, he read something from the Elegant Excerpts, very entertaining. And I know he read the parish priest of Wakefield. He has not read Romance of the Forest or The Children of the Abbey. He had never heard of such books before I mentioned them, but he is determined to get them as soon as possible."
The next question was—
"What kind of man is Mr. Martin?"
"Oh! not pretty – not pretty at all. At first I found it very simple, but now I don't find it that way anymore ?? simple. You don't, you know, after a while. But have you never seen him? He is in Highbury every now and then and will surely pass through every week on his way to Kingston. He passed you by very often."
"That may be, and I've seen him maybe fifty times, but without having a clue about his name. A young farmer, whether on horseback or on foot, is the very last person who arouses my curiosity. The Yeomanry are exactly the order of people with whom I feel that I have nothing to do. One or two degrees lower, and a decent appearance might interest me; I hope perhaps to be useful to their families in one way or another. But a farmer cannot need my help and therefore stands above my attention in a way, as in any other way."
"To be sure. Oh yes! It is unlikely that you should have ever observed him; but he really knows you very well – I mean by seeing."
"I have no doubt that he is a very respectable young man. I do indeed know that he is, and as such I wish him all the best. How do you assess his age?"
"He was twenty-four on June 8 last year, and my birthday is the 23rd, only fourteen days and one day difference – which is very strange."
"Only twenty-four. This is too young to settle down. His mother is absolutely right that she is not in a hurry. They seem to feel very comfortable, and if she made an effort to marry him, she would probably regret it. If he could meet a good young woman of the same rank as him in six years with a little money, that might be very desirable."
"In six years! Dear Miss Lodge, he would be thirty years old!"
"Well, and this is as early as most men who are not born into independence can afford to get married. Mr. Martin, I suppose, has his whole fortune to earn – can't be with the world before. Whatever money he may get when his father died, whatever his share of the family property may be, it is, dare I say, everything fast, everything used in his stock and so on; and although he may be rich in time with diligence and good luck, it is almost impossible that he should have realized anything yet."
"Of course it is. But they live very comfortably. They have no househusband, otherwise they lack nothing; and Mrs. Martin talks about taking a boy for another year."
"I wish you didn't get into an argument, Harriet, when he gets married – I mean, as far as the acquaintance with his wife is concerned – because although there is nothing wrong with his sisters with their higher education, it does not mean that he could marry any body that is suitable for you to notice it. The misfortune of your birth should make you extra careful about your companions. There can be no doubt that you are the daughter of a gentleman, and you must support your claim to that rank with everything in your power, or there will be many people who would enjoy humiliating you."
"Yes, to be sure, I suppose there are any. But while I'm visiting Hartfield and you're so kind to me, Miss Lodge, I'm not afraid of what anyone can do."
"You understand the power of influence pretty well, Harriet; but I want you to be so firmly anchored in good company that you are even independent of Hartfield and Miss Lodge. I would like to see you permanently well connected, and for this purpose it will be advisable to have as few strange acquaintances as possible; and that's why I say if you're still in this country when Mr. Martin gets married, I don't want you to be drawn in by your intimacy with the sisters to meet the woman who will probably be a simple farmer's daughter, with no education."
"To be sure. Yes. Not that I think Mr. Martin would ever marry anyone, but what had some education – and was very well behaved. However, I don't want to put my opinion against yours – and I'm sure I won't want to get to know his wife. I will always hold Miss Martins, especially Elizabeth, in high esteem and regret giving up on them, because they are just as educated as I am. But if he marries a very ignorant, vulgar woman, I certainly better not visit her if I can avoid it."
Emma watched her through the fluctuations of this speech and saw no alarming signs of love. The young man had been the first admirer, but she trusted that there was no other support and that there would be no serious difficulties on Harriet's side to resist his own friendly agreement.
They met Mr. Martin the very next day as they walked down Donwell Road. He was on foot, and after looking at her very respectfully, he looked at her companion with unfeigned satisfaction. Emma did not regret having such an opportunity to visit; and walking a few yards forward as they spoke together, their quick eye soon enough made known to Mr. Robert Martin. His appearance was very well-groomed, and he looked like a reasonable young man, but his person had no other advantage; and when he was contrasted with gentlemen, she thought he had to lose all the ground he had gained in Harriet's inclination. Harriet was not insensitive; she had voluntarily noticed her father's gentleness with admiration and amazement. Mr. Martin looked like he didn't know what kind was.
They only stayed together for a few minutes, as Miss Lodge must not be left waiting; and then Harriet came running to her with a smiling face and a high that Miss Lodge hoped to compose.
"Just remember that we met him by chance! – How strange! It was quite likely, he said, that he hadn't walked past Randalls. He didn't think we had ever gone down that path. He thought we were walking towards Randalls most days. He could not get the romance of the forest yet. The last time he was in Kingston, he was so busy that he forgot about it altogether, but tomorrow he's going back. So strange that we should meet by chance! Well, Miss Lodge, is he what you expected? What do you think about him? Do you find it so simple?"
"He is undoubtedly very inconspicuous – remarkably inconspicuous: – but that is nothing compared to his whole lack of nobility. I had no right to expect much, and I didn't expect much; but I had no idea that he could be so clownish, so completely without air. I had imagined him, I must confess, one or two degrees closer to nobility."
"Of course," Harriet said in an offended voice, "he's not as posh as real gentlemen."
"I think Harriet, since you met us, you have repeatedly been in the company of some gentlemen so very genuine that you must have noticed the difference with Mr. Martin yourself. In Hartfield there were very good specimens of well-educated, well-behaved men. I would be surprised if, after seeing them, you could be with Mr. Martin again without perceiving him as a very inferior being – and rather wondering about yourself that you have ever found him pleasant at all. Aren't you starting to feel that now? Weren't you beaten? I'm sure you must have been impressed by his awkward look and his rugged manner and the anointing of a voice I heard as I stood here, completely unmodulated."
"Certainly he's not like Mr. Hill. He doesn't have as fine air and gait as Mr. Hill. I see the difference clearly enough. But Mr. Hill is such a fine man!"
"Sir. Hill's air is so remarkably good that it's not fair to compare Mr. Martin to him. You may not see one in a hundred with gentleman written as clearly as in Mr. Hill. But he's not the only gentleman you've gotten used to lately. What do you say to Mr. Winstone and Mr. Alton? Compare Mr. Martin to either of them. Compare their way of carrying themselves; of walking; of speaking; to remain silent. You have to see the difference."
"Oh yes! – there is a big difference. But Mr. Winstone is almost an old man. Mr. Winstone must be between forty and fifty."
"All the more valuable are his good manners. The older a person gets, Harriet, the more important it is that his manners are not bad; the more glaring and disgusting any volume or rudeness or clumsiness becomes. What is passable in youth is despicable at a later age. Mr Martin is now clumsy and harsh; What will he be in Mr. Winstone's lifetime?"
"There is indeed no saying," Harriet replied rather solemnly.
"But it can guess pretty well. He will be a completely crude, vulgar farmer who doesn't care about appearances and who only thinks of profit and loss."
"Will he really? It's going to be very bad."
"How busy his business already occupies him is shown by the fact that he forgot to ask for the book you recommended. He was far too busy with the market to think of anything else – which should be the same for a successful man. What does it have to do with books? And I have no doubt that he will flourish and be a very rich man over time – and that he is illiterate and coarse need not bother us."
"I'm surprised he didn't remember the book" – was Harriet's only answer, and it was expressed with a degree of serious displeasure that Emma could leave for herself. So she didn't say anything for some time. Her next beginning was, "In one respect,
Mr. Alton's manners may be superior to those of Mr. Hill or Mr. Winstone. They have more gentleness. They could be kept safer as a pattern. There's an openness, a speed, almost a bluntness in Mr. Winstone that everyone likes about him because it brings so much good humor – but that wouldn't be enough to be copied. Mr. Hill's almost decisive, commanding demeanor does not either, although it suits him very well; his figure, his appearance and his life situation seem to allow it; but if a young man set out to imitate him, he would not be bearable. On the contrary, I think a young man can certainly be recommended to take Mr. Alton as a model. Mr. Alton is in a good mood, cheerful, accommodating and gentle. It seems to me to have become particularly gentle lately. I don't know if he has any intention of ingratiating himself with any of us, Harriet, with extra softness, but I notice that his manners are softer than they used to be. If he means anything, it must be to please you. Didn't I tell you what he said about you the other day?"
Then she repeated a warm personal praise she had received from Mr. Alton, which she now fully lived up to; and Harriet blushed and smiled and said she had always found Mr. Alton very pleasant.
Mr. Alton was exactly the person arrested by Emma for driving the young farmer out of Harriet's head. She thought it would be an excellent game; and all too obviously desirable, of course and likely that she has a lot of merit in planning. She feared that this was what everyone else had to think about and predict. However, it was unlikely that anyone would have matched her on the date of the plan, as it had occurred to her on the very first evening When Harriet came to Hartfield. The longer she thought about it, the greater her sense of practicality became. Mr Alton's situation was most appropriate, entirely the gentleman himself, and without low connections; at the same time, he did not belong to any family that could object to the dubious birth of Harriet. He had a comfortable home for her, and Emma imagined a very sufficient income; for although the rectory of Highbury was not large, it was known that he had independent property; and she appreciated him very much as a good-humoured, well-meaning, respectable young man who did not lack useful understanding or knowledge of the world.
She had already convinced herself that he thought Harriet was a beautiful girl, whom she trusted at such frequent meetings in Hartfield, was foundation enough for him; and with Harriet, there could be little doubt that the idea of being favored by him would have all the usual weight and effectiveness. And he was really a very pleasant young man, a young man that any non-demanding woman could like. He was considered very handsome; his person was generally greatly admired, though not by her, as she lacked a lack of elegance in the trains that she could not do without – but the girl who might be content with a Robert Martin riding across the country to fetch walnuts for her could very well be captured by Mr. Alton's admiration.
Chapter 20
Mr. Shepherd, a polite, cautious lawyer who, whatever his attitude or views about Sir Walter, would prefer the unpleasant to be caused by anyone else, apologized for not giving the slightest hint, and asked only to be allowed to recommend an implicit reference to lady Russell's excellent judgment, from whose well-known reason he firmly expected to be recommended exactly such decisive measures, which he wanted to see finally adopted.
Lady Russell dealt with the subject with the greatest zeal and looked at it very seriously. She was a woman of healthy rather than quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to a decision in this case were great due to the opposition of two guiding principles. She herself was of strict integrity with a tender sense of honor; but she was so eager to save Sir Walter's feelings, so worried about the family's credit, so aristocratic in her ideas of what they are entitled to, as someone with reason and honesty could be good. She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman and capable of strong bonds, extremely correct in her behavior, strict in her ideas of decency and with manners that were considered the standard of good education. She had a cultivated mind and was generally rational and consistent; but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; It had a value for rank and importance, which made it a little blind to the mistakes of those who possessed it. Even the widow of only one knight, she gave the dignity of a baronet all the honour she deserved; and Sir Walter, regardless of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbor, a courteous landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and her sisters, as Sir Walter in her fear was entitled to much compassion and consideration in the face of his present difficulties.
You must withdraw; that left no doubt. But she was very anxious to do it with the least possible pain for him and Elizabeth. She designed austerity plans, she made precise calculations, and she did what no one else thought of: she consulted Anne, who never seemed to be considered interested in the question by the others. She consulted and was influenced to some extent by her when she outlined the austerity plan that was eventually presented to Sir Walter. Any correction by Anne had been on the side of honesty against the importance. She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete Reformation, faster debt relief, a much higher tone of indifference to everything but justice and justice.
the person who has incurred debt must pay them; and although much depends on the feelings of the gentleman and the head of the family like your father, even more depends on the character of an honest man.
That was the principle according to which Anne wanted her father to act, his friends to urge him to do so. It regarded it as an act of an indispensable duty to abolish with all haste the claims of the creditors, who were able to secure the most comprehensive cuts, and saw no dignity in it. She wanted it to be prescribed and felt it was a duty. She highly valued lady Russell's influence; and as for the strict degree of self-denial that prompted her own conscience, she believed that it could hardly be more difficult to persuade her to a complete reformation than half a reformation. Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth led her to believe that the sacrifice of a pair of horses would be little less painful than that of the two, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's all-too-gentle reductions.
How Anne's stricter requirements could have been taken up is of little importance. Lady Russell had no success at all: was unbearable, unbearable. "What! all the conveniences of life knocked off! Travel, London, servants, horses, table – contractions and restrictions everywhere! No longer living with decency, not even like a private gentleman! No, he would rather leave Kellynch Hall immediately than stay in it in such shameful conditions."
"Leave Kellynch Hall." The clue was immediately picked up by Mr. Shepherd, whose interest in the reality of Sir Walter's dismissal was involved and who firmly believed that nothing would be done without a change of residence. "Since the idea had come from exactly the side that was supposed to dictate, he had no scruples," he said, "to admit that his judgment was entirely on that side. It did not seem to him that Sir Walter could substantially change his judgement of lifestyle in a house that supports such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity as Sir Walter could judge in any other place at his own discretion, and to which one would look if he regulated the way of life as he wanted to model his household."
Sir Walter would leave Kellynch Hall; and after very few more days of doubt and indecision, the big question of where to go was settled, and the first outlines of this important change were worked out.
There had been three alternatives, London, Bath or another house in the countryside. All of Anne's wishes had been for the latter. A small house in their own neighborhood, where they may still have Lady Russell's company, still be close to Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the goal of her ambition. But the usual fate of Anne accompanied her, noting something quite opposite of her inclination. She didn't like Bath and thought it didn't suit her; and Bath should be their home.
Sir Walter had first thought more of London; but Mr. Shepherd felt he could not be trusted in London and had been adept enough to dissuade him and give preference to Bath. It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: he could be important there for comparatively little money. Two of Bath's material advantages over London, of course, had come into their own: its more comfortable distance from Kellynch, just fifty miles, and Lady Russell spent part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the proposed change were Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were led to believe that they would not lose any meaning or joy if they settled there.
Lady Russell felt obliged to resist the well-known wishes of her dear Anne. It would be too much to ask of Sir Walter to go to a small house in his own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have felt the humiliation more than she had anticipated, and for Sir Walter's feelings they must have been terrible. And Anne's aversion to Bath was seen as a prejudice and a mistake, which arises firstly from the fact that she had gone to school there for three years after the death of her mother; and secondly, because the only winter she later spent there with herself was not in a good mood.
In short, Lady Russell loved Bath and thought they must all like it; and as for her young friend's health, any danger would be avoided by spending all those warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge; and it was indeed a change that had to be good for both health and mood. Anne had not been away from home enough, seen too little. Their mood was not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to become better known.
The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly reinforced by a part, and a very material part of the plan, which had been happily grafted in the beginning. He should not only leave his home, but see it in the hands of others; a test of bravery that stronger minds than Sir Walter have found too much. Kellynch Hall should be rented. However, this was a deep secret that should not be breathed beyond their own circle.
Sir Walter could not have endured the humiliation of being known for wanting to rent out his house. Mr. Shepherd had once mentioned the word "advertising", but never dared to address it again. Sir Walter spurned the idea of offering it in some way; forbade the slightest hint of such intent; and only under the assumption that he would be spontaneously asked by a highly impeccable applicant on his own terms and as a great favor, he would allow it at all.
How quickly come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, because she was extremely happy that Sir Walter and his family would leave the country. Elizabeth had recently built up an intimacy that she wanted to see interrupted. It was with Mr. Shepherd's daughter, who had returned to her father's house after an unsuccessful marriage with the added burden of having two children. She was a clever young woman who understood the art of liking – at least the art of liking at Kellynch Hall; and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Hightower that she had already stayed there more than once, despite all that Lady Russell, who considered it a completely inappropriate friendship, could show caution and restraint.
Lady Russell actually had little influence on Elizabeth and seemed to love her, more because she would love her than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing but attention to favor; she had never succeeded in making any point that she wanted to enforce against her inclination. She had repeatedly tried very seriously to include Anne in the visit to London, was reasonably open to all the injustice and all the discrediting of the selfish arrangements she ruled out, and had tried on many smaller occasions to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgment and experience; but always in vain: Elizabeth would go her own way; and she had never pursued it in more decisive opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs. Clay;
From the point of view of the situation, Mrs. Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimation, a very unequal one, and according to her character, she believed to be a very dangerous companion; and a move that would leave Mrs. Clay behind and bring a selection of suitable confidants within the reach of Miss Hightower was therefore a goal of paramount importance.
Chapter 21
No sooner had her answer been sent than Mrs. Hargrove took the pleasure of telling her son-in-law and his wife that a house had been made available to her and that she should not harass her any longer than until everything was ready for her to inhabit it. They heard them surprised. Mrs. John Hargrove said nothing; but her husband politely hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She replied with great satisfaction that she would go to Devonshire. Edward hastily turned to her when he heard this, repeating in a surprised and worried voice that required no explanation to her: "Devonshire!, go there? So far from here! And to which ?? Part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles north of Exeter.
"It's just a hut," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my friends in it. One or two rooms can be easily added, and if my friends don't have trouble traveling so far to see me, I'm sure I won't find any if I meet them."
She closed with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Hargrove to visit her in Barton; and Edward gave her one with even greater affection. Although her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had determined her not to stay in Norland longer than inevitable, it had not had the slightest effect on her at the point to which it mainly tended. Separating Edward and Eleanore was not their goal as far as ever; and she wanted to show Mrs. John Hargrove through this deliberate invitation to her brother how completely she disregarded her disapproval of the game.
Mr. John Hargrove kept telling his mother how sorry he was that she had rented a house so far from Norland that he could not help her transport her furniture. He felt really scrupulously upset on this occasion; for the very effort to which he had limited the fulfillment of his promise to his father became impracticable by this institution. — The furniture was all thrown around by water. It consisted mainly of household linen, plates, porcelain and books, with a beautiful pianoforte by Marianne. Mrs. John Hargrove saw the packages leave with a sigh: she couldn't help but feel heavy that since Mrs. Hargrove's income would be so insignificant compared to her own, she should have a pretty piece of furniture.
Mrs. Hargrove took the house for twelve months; it was fully furnished, and she was able to take possession of it immediately. There were no difficulties with the agreement on either side; and she waited only for the disposal of her belongings in Norland and to determine her future household before heading west; and this, since she carried out everything that interested her extraordinarily quickly, was soon done. - The horses that her husband had left her had been sold soon after his death, and now the opportunity arose to dispose of her wagon, she agreed to sell it on the serious advice of her eldest daughter as well. For the comfort of her children, she would have kept it if she had only consulted her own desires; but Eleanore's discretion prevailed. THEIR wisdom also limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man,
The man and one of the maids were immediately sent to Devonshire to prepare the house for the arrival of their mistress; because Lady Mideltown was completely unknown to Mrs. Hargrove, she preferred to go straight to the cottage rather than be a visitor to Barton Park; and she relied so unquestionably on Sir John's description of the house that she felt no curiosity to examine it herself until she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to leave Norland was saved from reduction by the obvious satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction that was only weakly tried to hide under a cold request to them to postpone their departure. Now the time had come when her son-in-law's promise to his father could be fulfilled with special decency. Since he had missed it on his first arrival at the estate, her leaving his house could be considered the most suitable time for her completion. But Mrs. Hargrove soon began to give up any hope of this kind and, based on the general tendency of his speech, to convince herself that his support went no further than her six-month alimony payment in Norland. He spoke so often of the increasing expenditure on the household and of the constant demands on his wallet, to which a man of every importance in the world was unpredictably exposed, that he himself seemed to need more money rather than to have any design, to give away money. that his help did not extend further than their maintenance for six months in Norland. He spoke so often of the increasing expenditure on the household and of the constant demands on his wallet, to which a man of every importance in the world was unpredictably exposed, that he himself seemed to need more money rather than to have any design, to give away money. that his help did not extend further than their maintenance for six months in Norland. He spoke so often of the increasing expenditure on the household and of the constant demands on his wallet, to which a man of every importance in the world was unpredictably exposed, that he himself seemed to need more money rather than to have any design, to give away money.
In very few weeks since the day Sir John Mideltown's first letter was brought to Norland, everything in her future residence was settled to the point where Mrs. Hargrove and her daughters could begin their journey.
She shed many tears at her last farewell to such a beloved place. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne as she wandered alone in front of the house on the last evening of her life; "when will I stop regretting you! – when I learn to feel at home somewhere else! – O happy house, could you know what I suffer if I see you now from this place, from where I may not be allowed to see you anymore! – And you, you well-known trees! – but you will remain the same. – No leaf will rot because we are removed, no branch will become motionless yet, although we can no longer observe you! – No; you will remain the same; unconsciously the pleasure or regret you cause, and insensitive to any change in those who walk under your shadow! – But who will stay to enjoy you?"
Chapter 22
Not far from Longbourn lived a family with whom the Mitchells were particularly familiar. Sir William Lucas had previously been in the trade of Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune and had been knighted during his tenure as mayor through an address to the king. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had disgusted him in front of his shop and his residence in a small market town; and by leaving them both, he had moved with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, which from that time was called Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own meaning and, not tied up by business, be exclusively occupied with being bourgeois for the whole world. For although he was enthusiastic about his rank, it did not make him haughty; on the contrary, he devoted all his attention to everyone. Inherently harmless, friendly,
Lady Lucas was a very good woman, not too smart to be a valuable neighbor to Mrs. Mitchell. They had several children. The oldest of them, a reasonable, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's intimate friend.
That Miss Lucases and Miss Mitchells should meet to chat at a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the meeting, the former brought to Longbourn to listen and communicate.
"You started the evening well, Charlotte," Mrs. Mitchell said to Miss Lucas with polite self-control. They were Mr. Woodland's first choice."
'Yes; but he seemed to like his second one better."
'Oh! They mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure it looked like he admired her – I even think he did – I heard something about it – but I don't know anything – something about Mr. Robinson."
"Maybe you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; didn't I tell you? Mr. Robinson asks him how he liked our meetings in Meryton, and if he doesn't think there are a lot of pretty women in the room, and WHICH ones he thought were the prettiest? and his answer to the last question: "Oh! undoubtedly the oldest Miss Mitchell; There can be no two opinions."
'To my word! Well, that's very decisive indeed – it looks like this – but it can all lead to nothing, you know.'
"My audience was more expedient than yours, Eliza," Charlotte said. Lord. Drury isn't as worth listening to as his friend, is he? – poor Eliza! – just BARELY BEARABLE."
"I ask you not to worry about annoying Lizzy about his abuse, because he is such an unpleasant man that it would be quite unfortunate to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat next to her for half an hour without opening his lips once."
"Are you sure, madam? - isn't that a small mistake?" said Jane. "I definitely saw Drury-san talking to her."
"Aye – because she finally asked him how he liked Netherfield, and he couldn't help but answer her; but she said he seemed quite angry that he was being approached.'
"Miss Woodland told me," Jane said, "that he never speaks much except among his trusted acquaintances. With YOU he is remarkably pleasant.'
"I don't believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so pleasant, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can imagine what it was like; everyone says that he is eaten up with pride, and I dare to say that he had somehow heard that Mrs. Long did not have a carriage, and had come to the ball in a chaise longue.'
"I don't mind that he doesn't talk to Mrs. Long," Miss Lucas said, "but I wish he had danced with Eliza."
"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I wouldn't dance with HIM in your place."
"I think Ma'am, I can promise you NEVER to dance with him."
"His pride," said Miss Lucas, "doesn't offend ME as much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One should not be surprised that such a fine young man with family, wealth and everything thinks highly of himself in his favor. If I may put it this way, he has a RIGHT to be proud.'
"This is very true," Elizabeth replied, "and I could easily forgive him for his pride if he hadn't offended MINE."
"Pride," Mary remarked, annoyed by the solidity of her deliberations, "is a very common mistake, I believe. Through everything I've ever read, I'm convinced that it's actually very common; that human nature is particularly susceptible to this, and that there are very few of us who do not have a sense of complacency about one or the other characteristic, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, although the words are often used interchangeably. You can be proud without being vain. Pride refers more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what others are supposed to think of us.'
"If I were as rich as Drury-san," exclaimed a young Lucas who came with his sisters, "I wouldn't care how proud I am. I would keep a pack of Foxhounds and drink a bottle of wine every day."
"Then you would drink a lot more than you should," Mrs. Mitchell said. and if I saw you doing it, I would take your bottle away from you.'
The boy protested; she went on to declare that she would do it, and the dispute only ended with the visit.
Chapter 23
"I don't know what you think of this great intimacy between Emma and Harriet Smith, Mrs. Winstone," Mr. Hill said, "but I think it's a bad thing."
"A bad thing! Do you think it's really bad? – Why?"
"I don't think they're going to do the other any good."
"You surprise me! Emma must do Harriet good: and by providing her with a new object of interest, it can be said that Harriet is doing Emma good. I have seen their intimacy with the greatest pleasure. How very different we feel! – Do not think that they will do something good for each other! This will certainly be the beginning of one of our arguments about Emma, Mr. Hill."
"Maybe you think I came to argue with you on purpose because I know Winstone is out and that you still have to fight your own battle."
"Sir. Winstone would undoubtedly support me if he were here, because he thinks about the subject the same way I do. We talked about it just yesterday and agreed on how happy it was for Emma that there should be such a girl in Highbury to deal with her. Mr. Hill, I do not allow you to be a fair judge in this case. You are so used to living alone that you do not know the value of a companion; and perhaps no man can judge well how comfortable a woman feels in the company of her own sex, having been accustomed to it all her life. I can imagine your objection to Harriet Smith. She is not the superior young woman who should be Emma's girlfriend. But on the other hand, since Emma wants to see her better informed, this will be an incentive for her to read more herself. They will read together. She's serious, I know."
"Since she was twelve years old, Emma wanted to read more. I've seen a lot of lists of her making books at different times that she intended to read regularly – and they were very good lists – very well selected and very neatly arranged – sometimes alphabetically and sometimes according to a different rule. The list she made at the age of fourteen – I remember thinking she lived up to her judgment so much that I kept it for some time; and I dare say that she has now made a very good list. But I'm tired of expecting constant reading from Emma. She will never submit to anything that requires diligence and patience and a submission of imagination to the mind. Where Miss Taylor has failed to give suggestions, I can assure you with certainty that Harriet Smith will do nothing. – You could never persuade them to read half as much as you wanted.
"I dare say," Mrs. Winstone replied with a smile, "that I thought so at the time;
"There is little desire to refresh such a memory," Mr. Hill said sensitively; and for a moment or two he was done. "But I," he soon added, "who has not yet been overwhelmed by such a spell, I still have to see, hear and remember. Emma is spoiled because she is the smartest of her family. At the age of ten, she had the misfortune to be able to answer questions that confused her sister at seventeen. She was always fast and safe: Bella slow and reserved. And since she was twelve, Emma has been the mistress of the house and of all of you. In her mother, she lost the only person who had grown up to her. She inherits her mother's talents and must have been subject to her."
"I would have been sorry, Mr. Hill, to rely on your recommendation if I had reassured Mr. Lodge's family and wanted a different situation; I don't think you would have said a good word for me to anyone. I'm sure you always thought I was unsuitable for the office I held."
"Yes," he said with a smile. "You are better off here; very suitable for a woman, but not at all for a governess. But you've been preparing all the time in Hartfield to be an excellent wife. Maybe you don't give Emma as comprehensive an education as your powers seem to promise; but you received from her a very good education in the very material conjugal point of making your own will and doing what was commanded unto you; and if Winstone had asked me to recommend a woman to him, I would certainly have called Miss Taylor."
"Thank you. There will be very little value in making a man like Winstone-san a good woman."
"Well, to tell the truth, I'm afraid you're pretty much thrown away, and that with every disposition to be endured, there's nothing to bear. However, we will not despair. Winstone could become evil from the arrogance of comfort, or his son could torment him."
"I hope not. – It is unlikely. No, Mr. Hill, don't predict trouble from this side."
"Not me, indeed. I'll just mention possibilities. I don't claim Emma's genius for predictions and guesses. I hope with all my heart that the young man will be a winstone of merit and a curcelle of wealth. – But Harriet Smith – I haven't finished Harriet Smith yet. I think she's the very worst kind of companion Emma could have. She herself knows nothing and looks at Emma as if she knew everything. She is a flatterer in all her ways; and all the worse because undesigned. Their ignorance is hourly flattery. How can Emma imagine that she has to learn something herself while Harriet presents such a delightful inferiority? And as for Harriet, dare I say that she can't win from the acquaintance. Hartfield will only take her out of her imagination from all the other places she belongs to. She will become just fine enough to feel uncomfortable with those in which birth and circumstances made her at home. I am very mistaken if Emma's teachings give a girl strength or even tend to rationally adapt to the diversity of her life situation. - They just give a little fine-tuning."
"Either I rely more on Emma's common sense than you do, or I'm more concerned about her current well-being; because I can't complain about the acquaintance. How good she looked last night!"
"Oh! They'd rather talk about their person than their thoughts, wouldn't they? Very good; I'm not going to try to deny that Emma is pretty."
"Pretty! rather say nice. Can you imagine something more beautiful than Emma as a whole – face and figure?"
"I don't know what I could imagine, but I confess that I've rarely seen a face or figure that I liked more than theirs. But I'm partly an old friend."
"What an eye! – the true hazel eye – and so brilliant! regular facial features, open face, with complexion! Oh! what a flower full of health and such a pretty height and size; such a firm and upright figure! Health lies not only in their flowering, but also in their air, their head, their gaze. One sometimes hears that a child is "the image of health"; Now Emma always gives me the idea of being the complete picture of an adult's health. It is the loveliness itself. Mr. Hill, isn't he?"
"I have no fault in her person," he replied. "I think it's all you describe. I love looking at them; and I will add this praise that I personally do not consider them vain. Considering how handsome she is, she seems to care little about it; their vanity lies in a different way. Mrs. Winstone, my dislike of Harriet Smith or my fear that it would hurt them both can't be excused."
"And I, Mr. Hill, am equally convinced that it does no harm to them. With all the little mistakes of dear Emma, she is an excellent creature. Where will we see a better daughter, a friendlier sister, or a truer friend? No, no; it has qualities that can be trusted; it will not really lead anyone wrong; it will not make a lasting mistake; Where Emma is wrong once, she is right a hundred times."
"Very good; I will not plague you anymore. Emma is supposed to be an angel, and I will keep my spleen to myself until Christmas brings John and Bella. John loves Emma with a reasonable and therefore not blind affection, and Bella always thinks like him; except when he is not afraid enough of the children. I'm sure I have their opinions with me."
"I know you really love them all too much to be unjust or unkind; but excuse me, Mr. Hill, if I take the liberty (I look at myself, you know, as someone who has spoken of something of the privilege that Emma's mother might have had) to imply the freedom that I don't think anything good can come from harriet Smith's intimacy being discussed much among you. Please excuse me; but provided that from the intimacy any small inconveniences are to be feared, it can not be expected that Emma, ?? who is not responsible to anyone but her father, who completely approves of the acquaintance, puts an end to it, as long as she gives her pleasure. It has been my job for so many years to give advice that you can't be surprised, Mr. Hill, about this little remnant of office."
"Not at all," he shouted; "I am very attached to you for that. It is very good advice, and it will have a better fate than your advice has often found; because it will be taken care of."
"Woman. John Hill is slightly worried and could be unhappy about her sister."
"Be satisfied," he said, "I will not make an outcry. I will keep my bad mood to myself. I have a very sincere interest in Emma. Bella doesn't seem to be my sister anymore; has never aroused greater interest; maybe hardly that big. There is a fear, a curiosity, what you feel for Emma. I wonder what will become of it!"
"Me too," Said Mrs. Winstone gently, "very gladly."
"She always declares that she will never get married, which of course means nothing at all. But I have no idea that she has ever seen a man who was important to her. It would not be bad for them to be very much in love with a real object. I want to see Emma in love and when in doubt about a return; it would do her good. But there is no one here who could arrest them; and she rarely leaves home."
"It actually seems to tempt her so little to break her decision at the moment," said Mrs. Winstone, "as it can be good; and even though she is so happy in Hartfield, I don't want her to develop a bond that would create such difficulties for poor Mr. Lodge. I don't recommend marriage to Emma at the moment, although I don't want to disdain the state, I assure you."
Part of her intention was to hide some of her and Winstone's favorite thoughts on the subject as much as possible. There were wishes in Randalls that respected Emma's fate, but it was not desirable to have suspected her; and the quiet transition Mr. Hill made soon after: "What does Winstone think about the weather; should it rain?" she convinced that he had nothing more to say or suspect about Hartfield.
Chapter 24
Each morning now brought with it its regular duties – shops had to be visited; a new part of the city to look at; and the drinking hall to visit, where they strutted up and down for an hour, looking at everyone and not talking to anyone. The wish of a large acquaintance in Bath stood with Mrs. Everyone was still in the first place, and she repeated it after every new proof that every morning brought that she knew no one at all.
They appeared in the Lower Rooms; and here happiness was more favorable for our heroine. The master of ceremonies introduced her to a very gentle, male young man as a partner; his name was Alsina. He seemed to be about four or twenty-five, was quite tall, had a pleasant face, a very intelligent and vivid eye and, although not very pretty, it was very close to him. His address was good, and Catherine felt very lucky. There was little leisure to talk while they danced; but as they sat over tea, she found him as comfortable as she had already believed him to be. He spoke fluently and spiritedly – and his manner was curious and friendly, although she hardly understood it. After talking for some time about things that naturally resulted from the objects around them, suddenly he spoke to them: "I have been very careless so far, madam, in the appropriate attention of a partner here; I haven't asked you how long you've been in Bath; if you have been here before; whether you have been to the Upper Rooms, the theatre and the concert; and how you like the place as a whole. I was very careless – but do you now have time to satisfy me in these details? If you are, I'll start right away." I was very careless – but do you now have time to satisfy me in these details? If you are, I'll start right away." I was very careless – but do you now have time to satisfy me in these details? If you are, I'll start right away."
"You don't need to make that effort, sir."
"No problem, I assure you, madam." Then he shaped his features into a firm smile, and his voice became more affectedly softer as he added with a smug tone: "Have you been in Bath for a long time, madam?"
"About a week, sir," Catherine replied, trying not to laugh.
"Really!" with artificial amazement.
"Why should you be surprised, sir?"
"Well, indeed!" he said in his natural tone. "But your answer must seem to evoke some emotions, and surprise is easier to accept and no less reasonable than any other. Now let's move on. Have you never been here, madam?"
"Never, Lord."
"Indeed! Have you already honored the Higher Apartments?"
"Yes, sir, I was there last Monday."
"Have you been to the theater?"
"Yes, sir, I was at the play on Tuesday."
"To the concert?"
"Yes, sir, on Wednesday."
"And are you completely satisfied with Bath?"
"Yes – I like it very much."
"Now I have to smile once, then we can be reasonable again." Catherine turned her head away, not knowing if she would dare to laugh. "I see what you think of me," he said seriously – "I'm just going to cut a bad figure in your diary tomorrow."
"My diary!"
"Yes, I know exactly what you are going to say: Friday, went to the Lower Chambers; I wore my scrubbed muslin bathrobe with blue embellishments – plain black shoes – looked very beneficial; but was strangely harassed by a strange, stupid man who made me dance with him and disturbed me with his nonsense.
"In fact, I'm not going to say anything like that."
"Should I tell you what to say?"
"Would you please."
"I danced with a very pleasant young man introduced by Mr. King; had many conversations with him – seems to be an extraordinary genius – hope I can learn more about him. That, Madam, I want you to say."
"But maybe I don't keep a diary."
"Maybe you're not sitting in this room, and I'm not sitting next to you. These are points where doubt is equally possible. Don't keep a diary! How are your absent cousins supposed to?? understand the tenor of your life in Bath without one? How are the pleasantries and compliments of each day to be told as they should be if they are not written down in a diary every night? How should your different dresses be remembered, and the special condition of your complexion and your curls in all their diversity be described, without having to constantly resort to a diary? My dear Madam, I am not as ignorant of the ways of young ladies as you would like to believe me; It is this delightful way of journaling that goes a long way in shaping the simple writing style for which ladies are so universally celebrated. Everyone admits that the talent for writing pleasant letters is specifically female. Nature may have done something, but I'm sure it essentially needs to be supported by the practice of keeping a diary."
"I sometimes thought about it," Catherine said doubtfully, "whether ladies really write so much better letters than gentlemen! That is, I shouldn't believe that superiority has always been on our side."
"As far as I have had the opportunity to judge, it seems to me that the usual style of letter writing among women is flawless, except in three details."
"And what are they?"
"A general lack of topics, a complete inattention to stops, and a very common ignorance of grammar."
"To my word! I should not have been afraid to reject the compliment. You don't think too much of us in that regard."
"I should not make more of a general rule that women write better letters than men than that they sing better duets or draw better landscapes. With any force based on taste, excellence is fairly fairly shared between the sexes."
They were attacked by Mrs. Allen interrupted: "My dear Catherine," she said, "take that needle out of my sleeve; I'm afraid it has already torn a hole; I would be very sorry because this is a favorite dress, although it only costs nine shillings per yard."
"That's exactly what I should have suspected, madam," said Mr. Alsina, looking at the muslin.
"Do you understand muslin, sir?"
"Especially good; I always buy my ties myself and can be an excellent judge; and my sister often trusted me when choosing a dress. I bought one for them the other day, and it was called an amazing bargain by every lady who saw it. I only gave five shillings the yard for it and a real Indian muslin."
Mrs. Allen was quite impressed with his genius. "Men usually take so little notice of these things," she said; "I can mr. Never make everyone distinguish one of my clothes from another. You must be a great comfort to your sister, sir."
"I hope so, madam."
"And please, sir, what do you think of Miss Fenmore's robe?"
"It's very pretty, gracious woman," he said, seriously investigating it; "but I don't think it will wash well; I'm afraid it will fray."
"How can you," Catherine said with a laugh, "be like that..." She almost said "strange."
"I totally agree with you, sir," Ms. Allen replied; "And that's what I told Miss Fenmore when she bought it."
"But you know, Madam, Muselin always goes to some account; Miss Fenmore will get enough of it for a handkerchief, a cap or a cape. You can never say that muslin is wasted. I've heard my sister say that forty times when she extravagantly bought more than she wanted, or carelessly cut it into pieces."
"Bath is a charming place, sir; There are so many good shops here. Unfortunately, we are in the countryside; not, but we have very good shops in Salisbury, but it's so far to go – eight miles is a long way; Mr. Allen says it's nine, nine measured; but I am sure there can be no more than eight; and it's such a faggot – I come back dead tired. Now you can step out the door here and get something in five minutes."
Alsina-san was polite enough to be interested in what she said; and she kept him on the subject of muslin until dancing began again. Catherine, while listening to her conversation, feared that he was enjoying himself a little too much with the weaknesses of others. "What are you thinking about so seriously?" he said as they walked back to the ballroom; "Not from your partner, I hope, because after this shaking of the head, your meditations are not satisfying."
Catherine blushed and said, "I didn't think of anything."
"This is certainly artful and profound; but I'd rather be told right away that you won't tell me."
"Well, then I won't."
"Thank you; because now we will get to know each other soon, as I am authorized to tease you with this topic every time we meet, and nothing in the world promotes intimacy so much."
They danced again; and when the meeting closed, she separated, at least on the part of the lady, with a strong inclination to continue the acquaintance. Whether, while drinking her warm wine and water and going to bed, she thought of him so much that she dreamed of him there is not to be determined; but I hope it was nothing more than a slight slumber or at most a morning dozing; for if it is true, as a famous writer has claimed, that no young lady can be entitled to fall in love before the love of the Lord is declared, it must be very indecent for a young lady to dream of a Lord before the Lord is first known to have dreamed of her. How decent Mr. Alsina could be as a dreamer or lover, Mr. Everyone may not have thought yet, but that he was not objectionable as a common acquaintance for his young protégé, he was satisfied on request; for he had made an effort in the early evening to find out who her partner was, and he had been assured that Mr. Alsina was a clergyman and came from a very respected family in Gloucestershire.
Chapter 25
The ladies of Longbourn soon served those of Netherfield. The visit was soon reciprocated in due form. The pleasant manners of Miss Mitchell grew on the benevolence of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland; and although it was found that the mother was unbearable and the younger sisters were not worth talking to, the desire to get to know them better was expressed to the two oldest. Jane received this attention with great joy, but Elizabeth still saw pride in her treatment of everyone, she hardly accepted her sister and could not like her; although her kindness to Jane, as it was, had value, as it most likely arose from the influence of her brother's admiration. It was generally obvious whenever they met that he ACTUALLY admired them, and it was equally obvious to HER that Jane gave in to the fondness she had for him from the beginning and was, in a sense, very much in love; but she thought with pleasure that it would probably not be discovered by the world in general, since Jane combined with great emotional power a serenity and an even cheerfulness that would protect her from the suspicion of impudence. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. a serenity of temperament and an even cheerfulness of behavior that would protect them from the suspicion of impudence. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas. a serenity of temperament and an even cheerfulness of behavior that would protect them from the suspicion of impudence. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
"It may be pleasant," Charlotte replied, "to be able to impose something on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very careful. If a woman hides her affection from the object with the same skill, she may lose the opportunity to fix it; and it will then be only a small consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment that it is not safe to leave it to itself. We can all START freely – a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have enough heart to be truly in love without encouragement. In nine out of ten cases, a woman should show MORE affection than she feels. Woodland no doubt likes your sister; but he can never do more than like her if she doesn't help him.'
"But she helps him as far as her nature allows. If I can perceive their appreciation for him, he must indeed be a simple brush in order not to discover it."
"Remember, Eliza, that he doesn't know Jane's mind as well as you do."
"But if a woman is partisan to a man and doesn't make an effort to hide it, he has to find out."
"Maybe he has to, if he sees enough of her. But although Woodland and Jane meet quite often, it's never many hours together; and since they always see each other in large mixed games, it is impossible to use every moment for a common conversation. Jane should therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can attract his attention. If she is sure of him, she will have more time to fall in love as much as she wants.'
"Her plan is good," Elizabeth replied, "which is all about the desire to be well married, and if I were determined to have a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I would accept him. But these are not Jane's feelings; it does not act intentionally. She cannot even be sure of the degree of her own appreciation or appropriateness. She has only known him for fourteen days. She danced four dances with him in Meryton; She saw him in his own house one morning and has since eaten with him four times in company. That's not quite enough to make her understand his character."
"Not the way you portray it. If she had only eaten with him, she might have only found out if he had a good appetite; but you have to keep in mind that four evenings have also been spent together – and four evenings can go a long way.'
'Yes; these four evenings have allowed them to realize that they both like Vingt-un better than commerce; but in terms of any other key feature, I don't think that much has unfolded.'
"Well," Charlotte said, "I wish Jane every success with all my heart; and if she were married to him tomorrow, I think she would have such a good chance of happiness as if she were to study his character for twelve months. Happiness in marriage is purely coincidental. If the dispositions of the parties are still so well known or even so similar to each other, this does not promote their bliss in the slightest. They then continue to grow so dissimilar that they have their share of anger; and it is better to know as little as possible about the shortcomings of the person with whom you will spend your life.'
"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it's not sound. You know it's not healthy and that you would never act that way yourself."
Elizabeth was busy watching Mr. Woodland's attentions to her sister, and was far from suspecting that she herself became an object of interest in his friend's eyes. At first, Drury-san had hardly allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her at the ball without admiration; and the next time they met, he only looked at them to criticize them. But as soon as he had realized to himself and his friends that her face had hardly anything good, he realized that it seemed unusually intelligent due to the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. This discovery was followed by several others equally humiliating. Although he had discovered with a critical eye more than a lack of perfect symmetry in her shape, he was forced to acknowledge that her figure was light and pleasant; and despite his claim that their manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was captivated by their slight playfulness. She was completely unaware of this; for her, he was just the man who didn't feel comfortable anywhere and who didn't think she was beautiful enough to dance with her.
He began to want to know more about her, and in order to talk to her himself, he took care of her conversation with others. That he did so caught their attention. It was sir William Lucas where a large company was gathered.
"What does Mr. Drury mean," she said to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?"
"That's a question that only Drury-san can answer."
"But if he does it again, I'm sure I'll let him know that I understand what he's up to. He has a very satirical look, and if I don't start out outrageously myself, I will soon be afraid of him.'
When he approached them soon after, Miss Lucas defied her friend, although she apparently had no intention of speaking, to mention such a topic to him; which immediately provoked Elizabeth, she turned to him and said
,
"Didn't you think, Drury-san, that I expressed myself unusually well right now when I teased Colonel Forster by giving us a ball in Meryton?"
"With great energy; but it's always a theme that energizes a lady.'
'You are strict with us.'
"It will soon be her turn to be teased," said Miss Lucas. I'm going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what's to come."
"You are a very strange creature through a friend! – who always wants me to play and sing in front of everyone and everyone! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit in front of those who must have the habit of hearing the very best artists.' On Miss Lucas' persistence, however, she added: "Well, if it has to be like this, it has to be." And with a serious look at Drury-san: "There's a nice old saying that everyone here knows, of course: 'Hold your breath to cool your porridge'; and I will keep mine to swell my song.'
Their performance was pleasing, although by no means capital. After a song or two and before she could respond to the requests of several to sing again, she was eagerly replaced on the instrument by her sister Mary, who, since she was the only simple one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and achievements, was always impatient to show.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and although vanity had given her application, she had also given her a pedantic appearance and imaginary behavior, which would have hurt a higher degree of excellence than she had achieved. Elizabeth, loose and unartificial, had been listened to with much more pleasure, although she did not play half as well; and Mary, at the end of a long concert, was happy to buy praise and gratitude through Scottish and Irish arias, at the request of her younger sisters, who eagerly joined the dance at one end of the room with some of the Lucases and two or three officers.
Mr. Drury stood next to them in silent indignation at such a way of spending the evening to the exclusion of all conversations, and was too engrossed in his thoughts to realize that Sir William Lucas was his neighbor until Sir William began like this:
"What an enchanting conversation for young people, Mr. Drury! There's nothing like dancing. I consider it one of the first refinements of polished society.'
'Certainly; and it has the advantage of being fashionable even in the less polished societies of the world. Any savage can dance."
Sir William just smiled. "Your friend plays delightfully," he continued after a break, when he saw Woodland join the group; "And I don't doubt that you yourself are an expert in science, Drury-san."
"You saw me dancing in Meryton, I think, sir."
"Yes, indeed, and the sight did not bring inconsiderable joy. Do you often dance in St. James?'
'Never, sir.'
"Don't you think it would be an appropriate compliment to the place?"
'It's a compliment I don't give anywhere if I can avoid it.'
"You have a house in town, am I closing?"
Drury-san bowed.
"I had once thought of settling in the city – because I love the upper society; but I wasn't quite sure if the air would agree with London's Lady Lucas."
He paused in the hope of an answer; but his companion was not inclined to make any; When Elizabeth approached her at that moment, he was surprised by the act of doing a very gallant thing and shouted to
her,
"My dear Miss Eliza, why don't you dance? Mr. Drury, you must allow me to introduce you to this young lady as a very desirable partner. You can't refuse to dance, I'm sure there's so much beauty in front of you." And when he had taken her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Drury, who, although extremely surprised, was not averse to accepting her when she immediately withdrew and said to Sir William with some bewilderment,
"In fact, sir, I have not the slightest intention of dancing. I ask you not to assume that I moved here to beg for a partner.'
Drury-san asked with earnest decency to receive the honor of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; Sir William was still shaken by his attempt to persuade them.
"You excel in dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me happiness to see you; and although this gentleman does not like the conversation in general, he certainly cannot object to committing us for half an hour.'
'Lord. Drury is politeness," Elizabeth said with a smile.
'He really is; but given the incentive, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder about his complacency – for who would object to such a partner?"
Elizabeth looked mischievous and turned away. Her resistance had not harmed her with the Lord, and he thought of her with a certain complacency when Miss Woodland addressed her like this:
"I can guess the subject of your reverie."
'I don't think so.'
"You think about how unbearable it would be to spend many evenings in this way – in such company; and indeed, I fully agree with you. I've never been annoyed again! The blandness and yet the noise – the nothingness and yet the pretentiousness of all these people! What would I give to hear your strict regulations!'
"Your assumption is completely wrong, I assure you. My mind was more pleasantly occupied. I thought about the very great pleasure that a pair of beautiful eyes on the face of a pretty woman can give.'
Miss Woodland immediately turned her eyes to his face and wished he would tell her which lady had the merit of encouraging such considerations. Mr. Drury replied with great intrepidity,
"Miss Elizabeth Mitchell."
"Miss Elizabeth Mitchell!" repeated Miss Woodland. "I'm amazed. How long has it been so popular? – and please, when may I wish you joy?'
"That's exactly the question I expected from you. The imagination of a lady is very fast; it jumps in a moment from admiration to love, from love to marriage. I knew you would wish me joy."
"No, if you are serious, I consider the matter to be absolutely settled. You will indeed have a charming mother-in-law; and of course she will always be with you in Pemberley."
He listened to her with complete indifference as she decided to converse in this way; and when his composure convinced her that everything was safe, her wit flowed for a long time.
Chapter 26
The young people were satisfied with each other from the beginning. There was much to gain on both sides, and their acquaintance soon promised intimacy as early as the good manners would justify. Miss Dorset's beauty did her no disservice to Miss Schmidts. They themselves were too handsome not to like a woman because of this, and were almost as delighted as their brothers with their vivid dark eyes, clear brown complexion and general prettyness. Had she been tall, strong and blonde, it might have been more of a test, but as it was, there could be no comparison; and she was most permissible a sweet, pretty girl while being the best young women in the country.
Her brother was not beautiful: no, when they saw him for the first time, he was absolutely plain, black and plain; but he was still the Lord, with a pleasant address. The second meeting did not show him so inconspicuously: he was inconspicuous, but then he had so much face, and his teeth were so good, and he was so well built that one soon forgot that he was inconspicuous; and after a third conversation, after eating with him in the rectory, he was no longer allowed by anyone so ?? can be mentioned. He was, in fact, the most pleasant young man the sisters had ever known, and they were equally delighted with him. Miss Schmidt's commitment made it the property of Julia in equity, of which Julia was fully aware; and before he was in Mansfield for a week, she was ready to fall in love with her.
Mary's ideas on this subject were more confused and indistinct. She didn't want to see or understand it. "It couldn't hurt if she liked a pleasant man – everyone knew her situation – Dorset-san has to take care of himself." Mr. Dorset didn't want to put himself in danger! those of Miss Schmidt were worth pleasing and were ready to rejoice; and he began with no other goal than to make them resemble him. He did not want them to die of love; but with intellect and temperament, which should have made him judge and feel better, he allowed himself a great deal of leeway in such points.
"I really like Miss Schmidt, sister," he said when he returned from accompanying her to her car after the said dinner visit; "They are very elegant, pleasant girls."
"They really are, and I'm glad to hear you say that. But you like Julia best."
"Oh yes! I like Julia best."
"But really? because Miss Schmidt is generally regarded as the most beautiful."
"I should guess so. She has an advantage in every way, and I prefer her face; but I like Julia best; Miss Schmidt is certainly the most beautiful, and I found her the most pleasant, but Julia will always please me best because you tell me to."
"I'm not going to talk to you, Henry, but I know you'll finally like it best."
"Don't I tell you that I like them the most at first?"
"And besides, Miss Schmidt is engaged. Remember, my dear brother. Your choice has been made."
"Yes, and I like them all the more. A committed woman is always more pleasant than a non-committed one. She is satisfied with herself. Her worries are over, and she feels that she can exercise all her power of pleasure without suspicion. With an engaged lady, everything is safe: no harm can be done."
"Well, for that matter, Mr. Rushmore is a very good young man, and it's a great fit for her."
"But Miss Schmidt doesn't care about three straws; this is your opinion about your intimate friend. I don't subscribe to it. I'm sure Miss Schmidt is very attached to Mr. Rushmore. I could see it in their eyes when he was mentioned. I think too well of Miss Schmidt to assume that she would ever reach out without her heart."
"Mary, how are we to lead him?"
"I think we have to leave it to itself. Talking is of no use. Finally he will be accepted."
"But I wouldn't let him record; I would not let him be deceived; I would have everything fair and honorable."
"Oh dear! let him take his chance and get involved. It will go just as well. Everyone will be accepted at some point."
"Not always in marriage, dear Mary."
"Especially in marriage. With all due respect for the opportunity to marry in contemporary society, my dear Mrs. Grant, there is not one in a hundred of both sexes that is not thrilled when they get married. Look where I want to go, I see that it is so; and I feel that it must be that way when I consider that of all transactions, it is the one where people expect the most from others and are the least honest themselves.
"Ah! You were in a bad marriage school on Hill Street."
"My poor aunt certainly had little reason to love the state; but from my own observation, it's a maneuvering business. I know so many who got married in full expectation and trust in a certain advantage in the relationship, performance or good quality of the person, who were completely deceived and forced to accept exactly the opposite. What is this other than a recording?"
"My dear child, there has to be a bit of imagination here. I beg your pardon, but I can't quite believe you. Rely on it, you only see half of it. You see evil, but you don't see comfort. There will be little friction and disappointment everywhere, and we all tend to expect too much; but then, when one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; If the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: somewhere we find solace – and these evil observers, dearest Mary, who make a lot out of little, are more deceived and deceived than the parties themselves."
"Well done, sister! I honor your Esprit du Corps. As a wife, I want to be just as steadfast; and I wish my friends in general were too. That would save me a lot of grief."
"You are as bad as your brother Mary; but we will heal you both. Mansfield is supposed to heal both of you without imagination. Stay with us and we will heal you."
The Dorsets, without wanting to be healed, were very willing to stay. Mary was pleased with the rectory as her current home, and Henry was equally willing to extend his visit. He had come to spend only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised it well, and there was nothing else to call him. Mrs. Grant was happy to keep them both with her, and Dr. Grant was extraordinarily pleased with it: a talkative, pretty young woman like Miss Dorset is always a pleasant company for a sluggish man who stays at home; and that Mr. Dorset was his guest was an excuse for drinking red wine every day.
Miss Schmidt's admiration for Mr. Dorset was more ecstatic than anything Miss Dorset's habits probably made her feel. However, she admitted that the Mr. Schmidts were very fine young men, that two such young men were not often seen together even in London, and that their manners, especially those of the elders, were very good. He had been in London a lot and had more liveliness and bravery than Edmund and must therefore be preferred; and in fact, that he was the oldest was another strong claim. She had felt an early premonition that she would love to have the oldest. She knew it was her way.
In any case, Tom Schmidt must have been considered pleasant; he was the kind of young man one liked in general, his sociability was of the kind that one often found pleasant than many a talent of higher rank, for he had light manners, excellent mood, a good circle of acquaintances and much to say; and the reversal of Mansfield Park and a baronial dignity did not harm all this. Miss Dorset soon felt that he and his situation could be enough. She looked around carefully and found almost everything in his favor: a park, a real park, five miles in the vicinity, a spacious, modernly built house, so well placed and well shielded that it deserved to be listed in any collection of copper engravings of mansions in the kingdom, and just want to be completely redecorated - pleasant sisters, a silent mother, and a pleasant man herself – with the advantage of currently being kept from playing many games by a promise to his father and later being Sir Thomas. It could work very well; she thought she had to accept him; and she accordingly began to take a little interest in the horse he had to lead in the B--- races.
These breeds were not to recall him long after the beginning of their acquaintanceship; and since it seemed that the family did not expect him to return from his usual activities for many weeks, this would bring his passion to an early proof. Much was said on his side to get them to attend the races, and plans were made for a great society, with all the zeal of inclination, but it would only be enough to talk about it.
And Esther, what did she do and thought all the time? and what was their opinion of the newcomers? Few young ladies of eighteen might be less called upon to express their opinions than Esther. In a calm way, very little noticed, she paid tribute to Miss Dorset's beauty of admiration; but since she still found Mr. Dorset very simple, even though her two cousins ?? She never mentioned him. The news that aroused her herself was in this sense. "Now I'm starting to understand all of you except Miss Price," Miss Dorset said as she walked with the Mr. Schmidts. "Please, is she outside or not? I'm confused. She ate in the rectory, with the rest of you, which looked like you were out; and yet she says so little that I can hardly assume that she is."
Edmund, to whom this was mainly addressed, replied, "I think I know what you mean, but I will not commit myself to answering the question. My cousin is an adult. She has the age and mind of a woman, but the outs and non-outs are a mystery to me."
"And yet, in general, nothing is easier to determine. The distinction is so wide. So manners and appearance are generally completely different. Until now, I wouldn't have thought it possible to be wrong about whether a girl is outside or not. A girl who is not outside always has the same type of clothes: a tight hood, for example; looks very reserved and never says a word. You may smile, but it is so, I assure you; and apart from the fact that it is sometimes taken a little too far, everything is very neat. Girls should be calm and humble. The most offensive thing about it is that the change in manners when introducing to society is often too sudden. They sometimes pass in such a short time from restraint to the opposite – to self-confidence! That is the flawed part of the current system. You don't like to see an eighteen- or nineteen-year-old girl ready for anything right away – and maybe if you hardly saw her speaking the year before. Mr. Schmidt, I dare say that you have sometimes encountered such changes."
"I think so, but that's hardly fair; I see what you are getting at. They ask me and Miss Anderson."
"Not really. Miss Anderson! I don't know who or what you mean. I'm pretty much in the dark. But I will ask you with great pleasure if you tell me what about."
"Ah! you wear it very well, but I can't push myself quite that far. You must have had Miss Anderson in mind when you described a changed young lady. They paint too accurately for mistakes. That's exactly how it was. The Andersons of Baker Street. We talked about them the other day, you know. Edmund, you heard me mention Charles Anderson. The circumstance was exactly as this lady portrayed it. When Anderson first introduced me to his family about two years ago, his sister wasn't on the road, and I couldn't get her to talk to me. One morning I sat there for an hour, waiting for Anderson, just her and one or two little girls in the room, the governess was sick or running away, and the mother went in and out with business letters at any moment, and I could hardly get a word or a look from the young lady - nothing like a polite answer - she closed her mouth and turned away from me with such a face! I haven't seen her again for twelve months. She was then out. I met her at Mrs. Holford's and couldn't remember her. She came up to me, claimed I was an acquaintance, stared me out of composure; and talked and laughed until I didn't know where to look anymore. I felt like I had to be the joker of the room at the time, and Miss Dorset obviously heard the story."
"And it's a very pretty story, and with more truth in it, dare I say, than Miss Anderson deserves. It's an all too common mistake. Mothers certainly do not yet have the right way to deal with their daughters. I don't know where the fault lies. I don't pretend to agree with people, but I see that they are often wrong."
"Those who show the world what female manners should be," Mr. Schmidt said gallantly, "do a lot to fix them."
"The error is obvious," said the less polite Edmund; "Such girls are poorly behaved. They are given false ideas right from the start. They always act for reasons of vanity, and their behavior is no more real before they appear in public than afterwards."
"I don't know," Miss Dorset replied hesitantly. "Yes, I can't agree with you. It's certainly the most humble part of the business. It's much worse when girls who aren't outside give themselves the same airs and take the same liberties as if they were what I've seen. That's worse than anything else – pretty disgusting!"
"Yes, this is really very impractical," said Mr. Schmidt. "It misleads you; you don't know what to do. The closed bonnet and restrained air that you describe so well (and nothing has ever been fairer) tell you what is expected; but I got into a terrible scratch last year because they were missing. I was in Ramsgate with a friend for a week last September, shortly after my return from the West Indies. My friend Sneyd – you've heard me talk about Sneyd, Edmund – his father, his mother and his sisters were there, all new to me. When we reached Albion Place, they were outside; we went after them and found them on the pier: Mrs. and the two Miss Sneyds, with other of their acquaintances. I made my bow in shape; and since Mrs. Sneyd was surrounded by men, I joined one of her daughters, walked all the way home by her side, and made it as comfortable as possible; the young lady was completely relaxed in her manners and as willing to speak as she was to listen. I didn't suspect that I could do anything wrong. They looked the same: both well dressed, with veil and parasol like other girls; but I later realized that I had focused all my attention on the youngest who was not outside, and had insulted the elder excessively. Miss Augusta should not have been noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I don't think, ever forgiven me." Miss Augusta should not have been noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I don't think, ever forgiven me." Miss Augusta should not have been noticed for the next six months; and Miss Sneyd, I don't think, ever forgiven me."
"That was really bad. Poor Miss Sneyd. Although I don't have a younger sister, I feel for her. Being neglected too early must be very annoying; but it was entirely the mother's fault. Miss Augusta should have been with her governess. Such half-and-half-activities never thrive. But now I have to be happy with Miss Price. Does she go to balls? Does she eat everywhere, including my sister?";
"No," Edmund replied; "I don't think she's ever been on a ball. My mother rarely goes into company herself and doesn't dine anywhere other than Mrs. Grant's, and Esther stays at her home."
"Oh! then the matter is clear. Miss Price is not outside."
Chapter 27
Emma could have no doubt that harriet's imagination had gone in the right direction and raised the gratitude of her young vanity to a very good cause, for she found it decidedly more reasonable than before, that Mr. Alton was a remarkably handsome man, and that extremely pleasant customs and customs; and since she did not hesitate to pursue the assurance of his admiration through pleasant hints, she was soon quite confident of creating as much sympathy on Harriet's side as there could be an opportunity to do so. She was quite convinced that Mr. Alton fell in love in the most beautiful way, if not already in love. She had no scruples towards him. He spoke of Harriet and praised her so warmly that she could not accept that something was missing that a little time would not add. His perception of the conspicuous improvement in Harriet's behavior,
"They gave Miss Smith everything she asked for," he said; "You made them graceful and light. She was a beautiful creature when she came to you, but in my opinion, the attractions you added are infinitely superior to what she received from nature."
"I'm glad you think I was useful to her; but Harriet just wanted to pull out and get a few, very few clues. She had all the natural grace of gentleness and simplicity in her. I did very little."
"If it were permissible to contradict a lady," said the gallant Mr. Alton –
"I may have given her a little more confidence of character, taught her to think about points that had not gotten in her way before."
"Just like that; that strikes me mainly. So much super extra character decision! The hand was skilful!"
"The pleasure was great, I'm sure. I have never encountered a truly amiable kind."
"I have no doubt about that." And it was spoken with a kind of sigh animation that had a lot of the lover. On another day, she was no less pleased with the way he supported a sudden desire from her to have Harriet's image.
"Have you ever taken a picture of yourself, Harriet?" she said, "Have you ever sat for your picture?"
Harriet was about to leave the room and just stopped to say, with a very interesting naivety,
"Oh! Darling, no, never."
As soon as she was out of sight, Emma exclaimed,
"What an exquisite possession would be a good picture of her! I would give any money for it. I almost long to try their own image. I dare say you don't know, but two or three years ago I had a great passion for making portraits and tried it with several of my friends, and it was believed that I generally have a bearable eye. But for some reason, I gave it up in disgust. But really, I could almost dare if Harriet sat down with me. It would be such a pleasure to have her picture!"
"Let me ask you," shouted Mr. Alton; "It would indeed be a pleasure! Let me ask you, Miss Lodge, to use such a charming talent in favor of your friend. I know your drawings. How could you think of me as ignorant? Is this room not rich in specimens of your landscapes and flowers; and doesn't Mrs. Winstone have some inimitable figurines in her salon at Randalls?"
Yes, good man! – Emma thought – but what does all this have to do with images? You don't understand anything about drawing. Don't pretend to be ecstatic about mine. Keep your rapture on Harriet's face. "Well, if you encourage me so kindly, Alton-san, I believe I will try what I can do. Harriet's facial features are very delicate, which makes a similarity difficult; and yet there is a peculiarity in the shape of the eye and the lines around the mouth that should be recognized."
"Exactly – the shape of the eye and the lines around the mouth – I don't doubt your success. Pray, pray, try. If you do, it will indeed be an exquisite possession, to use your own words."
"But I'm afraid Alton-san, Harriet won't like to sit. She thinks so little about her own beauty. Didn't you observe their way of answering me? How completely did it mean, 'Why should my picture be drawn?'"
"Oh! yes, I have observed it, I assure you of that. It didn't escape my attention. But I still can't imagine that she wouldn't be convinced."
Harriet was soon back, and the proposal was made almost immediately; and she had no scruples that could withstand the serious urging of the other two for many minutes. Emma wanted to go straight to work and therefore presented the portfolio with her various portrait attempts, none of which had ever been finished, so that they could decide together on the best size for Harriet. Their many beginnings were shown. Miniatures, half-figures, full figures, pencil, chalk and watercolours had been tried out in turn. She had always wanted to do everything and had made more progress in both drawing and music than many could have done with so little work she would ever submit to. She played and sang; – and drew in almost every style; but consistency had always been lacking; and in nothing had she approached the degree of excellence that she would have liked to have mastered and should not have missed. She was not very deceived about her own abilities as an artist or as a musician, but she was not averse to letting others be fooled, or regretted knowing her reputation for achievements often higher than they deserved.
There was merit in every drawing – finished in the least, perhaps the most; her style was spirited; but if it had been much less or ten times more, the joy and admiration of her two companions would have been the same. They were both in ecstasy. A similarity pleases every body; and Miss Lodge's appearances must be capital.
"Not a big variety of faces for you," Emma said. "I only had my own family to study with. There is my father – another of my father – but the idea of sitting down for his picture made him so nervous that I could only take him secretly; none of them like it. Again and again Mrs. Winstone, you see. Dear Mrs. Winstone, always my best friend at every opportunity. She sat down whenever I asked her to. There's my sister; and really quite her own little elegant figure! - and the face not dissimilar. I would have taken a good picture of her if she had sat longer, but she was in such a hurry to have her four children drawn by me that she wouldn't be quiet. Then here come all my attempts with three of these four children; – there they are, Henry and John and Bella, from one end of the page to the other, and any of them could do it for anyone else. She was so eager to have her drawn that I couldn't refuse; but there is no way to let children stand still at the age of three or four, you know; It's also not very easy to get an idea of them, apart from the air and complexion, unless they have coarser facial features than any of mom's children ever were. Here is my sketch of the fourth, who was a baby. I took him when he slept on the sofa, and it's as strong as his cockade as you want to see it. He had snuggled up most comfortably to his head. It's very similar. I'm pretty proud of little George. The corner of the sofa is very good. Then here's my last," – who opens a pretty sketch of a gentleman in small size and full figure – "my last and my best – my brother, Mr. John Hill. when I put it in a pet and swore that I would never take another picture. I couldn't help but be provoked; because after all my efforts and when I had really imitated it very well – (Mrs. Winstone and I agreed that it was very similar) – just too handsome – too flattering – but that was a mistake on the right side" – after all this came the cold confirmation of the poor dear Bella – "Yes, it was a bit like – but to be sure, it did not do him justice. We had had great difficulty persuading him to sit. A great favor was made of it; and overall it was more than I could bear; and so I would never finish it to excuse it as an unfavorable resemblance to every morning visitor to Brunswick Square; - and, as I said, I then refrained from ever drawing a body again. But for Harriet's sake, or rather for my sake,
Mr. Alton seemed very impressed and delighted with the idea, repeating, "There are actually no husbands and wives in the case at this time, as you have noticed. Just like that. No husbands and wives", with such an interesting awareness that Emma began to think about whether she should not leave them together right away. But since she wanted to draw, the explanation had to wait a little longer.
She had soon settled on the size and type of portrait. It should be a whole piece in watercolors, like that of Mr. John Hill, and be destined to be, if it were right for her, to occupy a very honorable place above the mantelpiece.
The session began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing and afraid of not maintaining her posture and facial expression, presented the artist's calm eyes with a very sweet blend of youthful expression. But there was nothing to do as Mr. Alton fidgeted behind her and watched every touch. She paid tribute to him for settling where he could look and look again without insult; but was really obliged to put an end to this and ask him to stand somewhere else. Then it occurred to her to keep him busy while reading.
"If he was so good to read to them, it would really be a kindness! It would amuse the difficulties of her role and reduce the annoyance of Miss Smith."
Mr. Alton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma left in peace. She must allow him to still come to look at frequently; anything else would certainly have been too little for a lover; and he was ready to jump up at the slightest interruption of the pencil and see the progress and be enchanted. - There was no reason to be dissatisfied with such an encourager, because his admiration made him realize a similarity, almost before it was possible. She couldn't respect his eye, but his love and affection were impeccable.
Overall, the meeting was very satisfactory; She was so happy with the sketch of the first day that she wanted to continue. There was no lack of similarity, she had been lucky in posture, and since she wanted to give the figure a little improvement, a little more height and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence that it was present in everyone and finally a pretty drawing that fills her destination with recognition for both of them – a standing monument to the beauty of the one, the dexterity of the other and the friendship of both; with as many other pleasant associations as Mr. Alton's very promising affection would probably add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr. Alton, as it should be, asked for permission to attend and read to them again.
"By all means. We would be very happy to consider you as part of the party."
The same courtesies and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction took place in the morning and accompanied all the progress of the picture, which was fast and happy. Everyone who saw it was delighted, but Alton-san was in constant rapture and defended it through every criticism.
"Miss Lodge gave her friend the only beauty she wanted," Mrs. Winstone remarked to him, who had no idea in the slightest that she was addressing a lover. "The expression of the eye is very correct, but Miss Smith not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It's the fault of her face that she doesn't have them."
"Do you think so?" he replied. "I can't agree with you. It seems to me to be a perfect similarity in every feature. I have never seen such a similarity in my life. We have to consider the effect of shadows, you know."
"You made her too big, Emma," Mr. Hill said.
Emma knew she had it, but wouldn't admit it; and Mr. Alton added warmly,
"Oh no! certainly not too big; not too high in the slightest. Remember, it sits – which of course represents something else – which in short conveys exactly the idea – and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, shortening. – Oh no! it gives you exactly the idea of such a greatness as that of Miss Smith. Just like that!"
"It's very pretty," Said Mr. Lodge. "So beautifully done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I don't know of any body that draws as well as you do. The only thing I don't quite like is that she seems to be sitting outside, just with a little scarf over her shoulders – and you think she has to catch a cold."
"But my dear dad, it's going to be summer; a warm day in summer. Look at the tree."
"But it's never safe to sit outside, my dear."
"You, sir, can say anything," shouted Mr. Alton, "but I must confess that I think it is a very happy thought to bring Miss Smith outside; and the tree is touched by such an inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have had much less character. The naivety of Miss Smith's manners – and in general – Oh, it's most admirable! I can't take my eyes off it. I've never seen such a similarity."
Next, I wanted to have the picture framed; and here there were a few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order must go through the hands of an intelligent person whose taste can be relied upon; and Bella, the usual executor of all orders, was not allowed to be approached, because it was December, and Mr. Lodge could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the mists of December. But no sooner was Mr. Alton aware of the need when it was removed. His gallantry was always on guard. "If the mission could be entrusted to him, what infinite pleasure he should have in carrying it out! he could go to London at any time. It was impossible to say how happy he should be to be used for such an errand."
"He was too good! – she couldn't stand the thought! – for nothing in the world would she give him such a laborious office," – brought the desired repetition of requests and assurances, – and very few minutes settled the matter.
Mr. Alton was to bring the drawing to London, choose the frame and give the instructions; and Emma thought she could package it in such a way that his safety would be ensured without disturbing him, while above all he seemed afraid of not disturbing enough.
"What a precious commodity!" he said with a tender sigh when he received it.
"This man is almost too gallant to be in love," Emma thought. "I would say that, but I suspect there are a hundred different ways to be in love. He is an excellent young man and will be a perfect fit for Harriet; it becomes a "just like that", as he himself says; but he sighs and languishes and learns more for compliments than I could bear as a director. I get a pretty good share in second place. But it's his gratitude for Harriet."
Chapter 28
The first part of their journey was carried out in a too melancholic mood to be other than boring and unpleasant. But as they approached the end, their interest in the appearance of a land they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a sight of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them happiness. It was a pleasantly fertile place, well forested and rich in pastures. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green courtyard was the whole dominion before him; and a neat gate let them in.
As a house, Barton Cottage, while small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was deficient, because the building was regular, the roof was covered with tiles, the shutters were not painted green, and the walls were not covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind it. On each side of the entrance was a living room, about sixteen feet squared; and behind it were the offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two attics formed the rest of the house. It had not been built for many years and was in good condition. Compared to Norland, it was really poor and small! – but the tears evoked by the memory when they entered the house were soon dried. They were cheered up by the joy of the servants upon their arrival, and each decided to appear happy for the sake of the other. It was very early in September; the season was beautiful, and when they first saw the place under the advantage of good weather, they gained an impression in its favor, which was of material use to them, recommending it for their permanent recognition.
The location of the house was good. Immediately behind it rose high hills and not far away on both sides; Some of them were open hills, the others cultivated and forested. The village of Barton was mainly located on one of these hills and offered a pleasant sight from the cottage windows. The view at the front was more extensive; it dominated the whole valley and reached into the land behind it. The hills that surrounded the cottage ended the valley in this direction; under a different name and in a different run, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them.
On the whole, Mrs. Hargrove was very satisfied with the size and equipment of the house; for although their previous lifestyle made many additions to the latter indispensable, it was a pleasure for them to add and improve; and she had enough money at that time to provide the apartments with everything that lacked greater elegance. "The house itself," she said, "is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves comfortable for the time being, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Maybe in the spring "If I have enough money, which I dare to say, maybe we will think about a construction. These salons are both too small for such parties of our friends, as I hope to see them gathered here often, and I have some thoughts of throwing them passage into one of them with maybe one part of the other, and so leave the rest of this other for an entrance; this, with a new salon that can be easily added, and a bedroom and a mansard above, will make it a very cozy little cottage. I wish the stairs were pretty. But you can't expect everything; although I suppose it wouldn't be a difficult thing to expand. I'll see in the spring how far ahead I'm with the world, and we'll plan our improvements accordingly.
In the meantime, until all these changes could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred per year by a woman who had never saved in her life, they were smart enough to be satisfied with the house as it was; and each of them was busy organizing his special affairs, striving to create a home for himself by making books and other possessions around him. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and disposed of properly; and Eleanore's drawings hung on the walls of her living room.
In such pursuits, they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the arrival of their host, who welcomed them to Barton and offered them every accommodation in his own house and garden that they might currently lack. Sir John Mideltown was a handsome man in his forties. He had previously visited Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His expression was in a good mood through and through; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to give him real satisfaction, and their comfort seemed to him to be a matter of real concern. He expressed much of his sincere desire to live in a convivial atmosphere with his family, urging them so warmly to dine at Barton Park every day until they had settled in better at home that although his requests were carried to a point of perseverance beyond politeness, they could not cause offence. His kindness was not limited to words; because within an hour of leaving her, a large basket full of garden tools and fruit arrived from the park, followed by a game gift before the end of the day. He also insisted on transporting all their letters to and from the post office for them, and did not miss the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.
Lady Mideltown had sent a very polite message from him expressing her intention to serve Mrs. Hargrove as soon as she could be sure that her visit would not cause any inconvenience; and since this message was answered with an equally polite invitation, your ladyship was introduced to them the next day.
They were, of course, very concerned to see a person on whom so much of their comfort in Barton must depend; and the elegance of their appearance suited their desires. Lady Mideltown was no older than six or seven and twenty; her face was beautiful, her figure tall and striking, and her speech graceful. Her behavior had all the elegance that her husband wanted. But they would have been improved by some of his openness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to distract somewhat from her initial admiration by showing that although she was perfectly well-behaved, she was reserved and cold, and had nothing to say for herself except the most common question or remark.
However, a conversation was not desired, because Sir John was very talkative, and Lady Mideltown had taken the wise precaution of bringing her oldest child, a pretty little boy of about six years old, which gave a theme to remember again and again from the ladies in the extreme emergency, because they had to ask for his name and age, Admire his beauty and ask him questions that his mother answered while, to her great surprise, he hung around her and held his head down Ladyship, who wondered that he was so shy of company that he could make enough noise at home. At each formal visit, a child should be present to arrange for conversations. In the present case, it took ten minutes to determine whether the boy was most similar to his father or mother and how he resembled both,
The Hargroves were soon to be given the opportunity to discuss the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise to dine in the park the next day.
Chapter 29
Mr. Mitchell's property consisted almost entirely of a fortune of two thousand per year, which unfortunately resulted for his daughters, in the absence of male heirs, on a distant relative; and her mother's fortune, although plentiful for her life situation, could not compensate for the lack of his. Her father had been a lawyer in Meryton and had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister who was married to a Mr. Phillips who had been her father's employee and succeeded him in the business, and a brother who settled in London in a respectable industry.
The village of Longbourn was just a mile from Meryton; an extremely convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually lured there three or four times a week to pay their dues to their aunt and at a hat maker shop on the other side of the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Linda, were particularly frequent in these attentions; her thoughts were emptier than those of her sisters, and when nothing better came up, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse her morning hours and provide conversations for the evening; and no matter how dormant the country in general may be, they always managed to learn about their aunt. At present, in fact, they were well supplied with both news and joy at the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighborhood; it was to remain all winter, and Meryton was the headquarters.
Her visits to Mrs. Phillips now produced the most interesting information. Each day contributed something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their accommodation was not a secret for long, and finally they got to know the officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this opened up a previously unknown supply of bliss for his nieces. They could only speak of officers; and the great fortune of Mr. Woodland, the mention of which revived her mother, was worthless in their eyes when faced the regiments of an ensign.
One morning, after listening to her outpourings on the subject, Mr. Mitchell coolly
remarked,
"From what I can deduce from your speech, you must be two of the stupidest girls in the country. I've suspected it for a long time, but now I'm convinced.'
Catherine was confused and gave no answer; but Linda continued to express with complete indifference her admiration for Captain Carter and her hope to see him throughout the day as he headed to London the next morning.
"I'm amazed, my dear," said Mrs. Mitchell, "that you are so willing to think your own children are silly. But if I wanted to think disdainfully of someone's children, it shouldn't be my own.'
"If my children are stupid, I have to hope to always be reasonable."
"Yes - but by chance they are all very smart."
"That's the only point, I flatter myself, on which we disagree. I had hoped that our feelings would coincide in every way, but I have to deviate so far from you that I think our two youngest daughters are unusually foolish."
"My dear Mr. Mitchell, you should not expect such girls to feel like they are fathers and mothers. When they get to our age, I dare say that they won't think of officers more than we do. I remember very well the time when I liked a red coat myself – and in fact I still do it in my heart; and if a wise young colonel with five or six thousand a year wants to have one of my girls, I will not tell him no; and I found that Colonel Forster looked very decent the other night with Sir William in his regiments."
"Mom," Linda exclaimed, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter are no longer like that?? often go to Miss Watson as they did when they came; she sees them very often in Clarke's library now.'
Mrs. Mitchell was prevented from responding by the servant's intervention with a note for Miss Mitchell; it came from Netherfield, and the servant was waiting for an answer. Mrs. Mitchell's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she shouted eagerly as her daughter read
,
"Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, hurry up and tell us; hurry up, my dear.'
"It's from Miss Woodland," Jane said, then read it aloud.
'MY DEAR FRIEND,-
"If you are not so compassionate as to dine with Lois and me today, we run the risk of hating each other for the rest of our lives, because a full-day dialogue between two women can never end without an argument. Come as soon as possible after receipt. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.
"CAROLINE BINGLEY."
'With the officers!' shouted Linda. 'I wonder if my aunt didn't tell us about it.'
"Going out to eat," said Mrs. Mitchell, "that's very unfortunate."
"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.
"No, my dear, you'd better ride on horseback, because it probably seems to be raining; and then you have to stay all night.'
"That would be a good plan," Elizabeth said, "if you were sure they wouldn't offer to send them home."
'Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Woodland's chaise to go to Meryton, and the Hursts will have no horses to theirs.'
'I would much rather have gone in the carriage.'
"But, my dear, your father can't do without the horses, I'm sure. They're wanted on the farm, Mr. Mitchell, aren't they?"
"They are searched for on the farm much more often than I can get them."
"But if you got them today," Elizabeth said, "my mother's purpose is fulfilled."
Eventually, she extorted confirmation from her father that the horses were engaged. Jane therefore had to go on horseback, and her mother accompanied her to the door with many happy predictions of a bad day. Their hopes were answered; Jane wasn't long away when it rained heavily. Her sisters were worried for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain lasted the whole evening without interruption; Jane certainly couldn't come back.
"That was really a happy idea of mine!" said Mrs. Mitchell more than once, as if she alone had the merit of letting it rain. Until the next morning, however, she was unaware of all the bliss of her invention. Breakfast was barely over when a servant from Netherfield posted the following note for Elizabeth:
"My dearest Lizzy,—
"I'm very unwell this morning, which is probably because I was soaked yesterday. My friendly friends won't hear about my return until I feel better. They also insist that I see Mr. Jones — so don't be scared if you should hear that he's been with me — and aside from a sore throat and headache, not much has happened to me.
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Mitchell, when Elizabeth read the note aloud, "if your daughter were to have a dangerous fit of illness—if she were to die," it would be a comfort to know that everything was after her from Mr. Woodland, and under your orders.'
'Oh! I am not afraid of her death. People do not die from small colds. It is well cared for. As long as she stays there, everything is very good. I would visit them if I could have the carriage."
Elizabeth, feeling really worried, was determined to go to her even though the carriage was not available; and since she was not a rider, walking was her only alternative. She explained her decision.
"How can you be so stupid," her mother exclaimed, "to think of something like this in all this filth! You won't be able to be seen when you get there."
"I will be very fit to see Jane - what is all I want."
"Is that a hint to me, Lizzy," her father said, "that I should get the horses?"
"No, I don't want to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing if you have a motive; only three miles. I'm back by dinner."
"I admire the activity of your benevolence," Mary noted, "but every emotional impulse should be guided by reason; and in my opinion, the effort should always be proportionate to what is required.'
"We're going all the way to Meryton with you," Said Catherine and Linda. Elizabeth accepted her company, and the three young ladies set off together.
"If we hurry," Linda said, as they moved on, "we might be able to see something of Captain Carter before he leaves."
In Meryton they separated; the two youngest went to the apartment of one of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a fast pace, jumping over fence steps and hopping over puddles with impatient activity, and finally found herself in sight of the house, with tired ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing from the warmth of movement.
She was led to the breakfast room, where everyone except Jane was gathered and where her appearance caused a lot of surprise. That she should have walked so early in the day, in such dirty weather and three miles alone, was almost unbelievable for Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland; and Elizabeth was convinced that they despised her for it. However, she was received very politely by them; and in her brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there was good mood and kindness. Mr. Drury said very little and Mr. Hurst said nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration for the shine the exercise had given her complexion and doubts about the opportunity that justified her having come this far on her own. The latter only thought of his breakfast.
Her inquiries about her sister were not answered very positively. Miss Mitchell had slept badly and, although awake, was very feverish and not good enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be brought to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been prevented from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a visit, rejoiced in her entry. However, she was not up to many conversations, and when Miss Woodland left them together, there was little she could do except gratitude for the extraordinary kindness with which she was treated. Elizabeth accompanied her in silence.
When breakfast was over, the sisters joined them; and Elizabeth began to like herself when she saw how much affection and care they showed for Jane. The pharmacist came, and after examining his patient, he said how one could assume that she had caught a severe cold and that they would have to make an effort to get rid of it; advised her to go back to bed and promised her some droughts. The advice was readily followed, because the fever symptoms increased and her head hurt violently. Elizabeth did not leave her room for a moment; the other ladies were also often missing; Since the gentlemen were not there, they actually had nothing to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt she had to leave and said it very reluctantly. Miss Woodland offered her the carriage, and she just wanted to push a little to accept it when Jane expressed such concern at the farewell that Miss Woodland was forced to convert the carriage's offer into an invitation to stay in Netherfield for the time being. Elizabeth gratefully agreed, and a servant was sent to Longbourn to inform the family of her stay and bring a supply of clothes.
Chapter 30
Mr. Schmidt made his way————, and Miss Dorset was ready to find a great divide in her company and to miss him decisively at the gatherings between the families that were now becoming almost daily; and when they all dined together in the park, shortly after he had left, she took her chosen place at the end of the table again, in the full expectation of feeling a most melancholic difference in the change of gentlemen. It would be a very flat business, she was sure. Compared to his brother, Edmund would have nothing to say. The soup was sent around in the most mindless way, the wine was drunk without a smile or pleasant trifles, and the venison was disassembled without providing a nice anecdote from any previous club or a single entertaining story about "my friend such a one.". "She must try to amuse herself with what is going on at the top of the table and watching Mr Rushmore appear for the first time since the Dorset arrived at Mansfield. He had visited a friend in the neighboring county, and that friend had recently had his grounds laid out by an improver, and Mr. Rushmore returned with his head full of the subject and was very eager to improve his own place there; and although he didn't say much about the purpose, he couldn't speak of anything else. The topic had already been dealt with in the salon; it was revived in the dining room. The attention and opinion of Miss Schmidt was obviously his main goal; and although her behavior showed deliberate superiority rather than any effort to obey him, the mention of Sotherton Court and the ideas associated with it gave her a sense of complacency,
"I wish you could see Compton," he said; "it is the most perfect! I have never seen such a changed place in my life. I told Smith I didn't know where I was. The approach is now one of the most beautiful things in the country: you see the house in the most surprising way. I explain, when I came back to Sotherton yesterday, it looked like a prison – a pretty bleak old prison."
"Oh, too bad!" shouted Mrs. Norris. "Actually a prison? Sotherton Court is the noblest old place in the world."
"It calls for improvement, Ma'am, beyond anything. I have never seen a place in my life that wanted so much improvement; and it's so deserted that I don't know what to do with it."
"No wonder Mr. Rushmore thinks so now," Mrs. Grant said to Mrs. Norris with a smile; " but rely on it, Sotherton will experience in time every improvement his heart can desire."
"I have to try to do something with it," Mr. Rushmore said, "but I don't know what. I hope I will have a good friend to help me."
"Your best friend on such an occasion," Miss Schmidt said calmly, "would probably be Mr. Repton."
"That's what I thought of. Since he did so well with Smith, I think I'd better have him right away. Its conditions are five guineas a day."
"Well, and if they were ten," exclaimed Mrs. Norris, "you certainly don't need to pay attention to that. The costs do not have to be an obstacle. If I were you, I wouldn't think about the cost. I would have everything done in the best style and as beautiful as possible. A place like Sotherton Court deserves everything that taste and money can afford. You will have space to work there and an area that will reward you well. For my part, if I had anything within the fiftieth part of Sotherton's size, I should always plant and improve, because of course I love it excessively. It would be too ridiculous for me to try anything where I am now, with my little half morning. It would be quite a burlesque. But if I had more space, I would have a tremendous joy in improving and planting. We made a big deal in the rectory in this way: we made it a very different place than when we first had it. You boys may not remember it much; but if dear Sir Thomas were here, he could tell you what improvements we have made: and much more would have been done if it had not been for the sad state of health of poor Mr. Norris. He could hardly ever get out, poor man, to enjoy anything, and that discouraged me from doing some things that Sir Thomas and I always talked about. If that hadn't been the case, we should have continued the garden wall and planted to cordoned off the churchyard, as Dr. Grant did. We always did something the way it was. It wasn't until the spring twelve months before Mr. Norris' death that we put the apricot on the wall of the barn, which has now grown into such a noble tree, and so perfected, sir,
"The tree is undoubtedly thriving well, madam," Dr. Grant replied. "The soil is good; and I never walk past it without regretting that the fruits of the effort of collecting are worth so little.
"Sir, it's a Moor Park, we bought it as Moor Park, and it cost us – that is, it was a gift from Sir Thomas but I saw the bill – and I know it cost seven shillings and was billed as Moorpark."
"You've been forced, Ma'am," Dr. Grant replied, "these potatoes have the taste of an apricot from Moor Park as well as the fruits of this tree. It is at best a bland fruit; but a good apricot is edible, which are not from my garden."
"The truth is, Ma'am," Mrs. Grant said, pretending to whisper to Mrs. Norris across the table, "that Dr. for it is such a precious fruit; with a little help, and ours is such a remarkably large, beautiful variety that my chef manages to get them all with early pies and preserves.
Mrs. Norris, who had begun to redden, was reassured; and for a little while, other themes of Sotherton's improvements took place. Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris were rarely good friends; their acquaintance had begun in a dilapidated state, and their habits were completely different.
After a brief interruption, Mr. Rushmore began again. "Smith's place is the admiration of the whole country; and it was a mere nothingness before Repton took it into his hands. I think I'll have Repton."
"Sir. Rushmore," said Lady Schmidt, "if I were you, I would have a very pretty bush. When the weather is nice, you like to go into the bushes."
Mr Rushmore was eager to assure her ladyship of his approval and tried to compliment him; but between his submission to their tastes and the fact that he himself had always intended the same thing, he added that he paid attention to the comfort of the ladies in general, suggesting that there was only one he wanted to please, he became confused, and Edmund was happy to end his speech with a wine proposal. However, Mr. Rushmore, although he is not usually a great orator, had more to say about the subject besides his heart. "Smith doesn't have much more than 100 acres on his property in total, which is little enough and makes it all the more surprising that the place has been improved in this way. Now, at Sotherton, we have a good seven hundred, not counting the water meadows; so that I think that if so much could be done in Compton, we need not despair. Two or three beautiful old trees have been cut down that have grown too close to the house, and it opens up the view amazingly, which makes me believe that Repton or anyone of this variety would certainly have the avenue in Sotherton below: the avenue that leads from the west front to the top of the hill, you know," he turned especially to Miss Schmidt, while he spoke. But Miss Schmidt thought it most appropriate to answer –
"Die Allee! Oh! I don't remember it. I really know very little about Sotherton."
Esther, who was sitting on the other side of Edmund, just across from Miss Dorset, and who had listened attentively, now looked at him and said in a low voice,
"Cut an avenue! What a shame! Don't you think of Cowper? 'You fallen avenues, once again I mourn your fate undeservedly.'"
He smiled as he replied, "I'm afraid avenue has no chance, Esther."
"I would like to see Sotherton before it is cut down to see the place as it is now, in its old state; but I don't think I'll do that."
"Have you never been there? No, you can never; and unfortunately it's out of reach for a ride. I wish we could invent it."
"Oh! it doesn't mean. Whenever I see it, you'll tell me how it was changed."
"I suppose," said Miss Dorset, "that Sotherton is an old place and a place of some splendor. In a certain architectural style?"
"The house was built in Elizabeth's time and is a large, regular brick building; heavy but respectable looking, and has lots of good rooms. It is poorly placed. It stands in one of the deepest parts of the park; in this respect, it is unfavourable for improvement. But the forest is beautiful, and there is a stream from which, dare I say, I could make a lot. I think Mr. Rushmore is quite right if he intends to give him a modern dress, and I have no doubt that it will all be done very well."
Miss Dorset listened submissively and said to herself, "He is a well-behaved man; he makes the most of it."
"I don't want to influence Mr. Rushmore," he continued; "But if I had a place for new fashion, I wouldn't put myself in the hands of an improver. I would have preferred a lower degree of beauty, of my own choice and gradually acquired. I'd rather stick to my own mistakes than his."
"You would, of course, know what it's all about; but that wouldn't suit me. I have no eye or ingenuity for such things, but as they lie before me; and if I had my own place in the country, I would be very grateful to any Mr. Repton who would take it and give me as much beauty as possible for my money; and I should never look at it until it's complete."
"I'd love to see the progress of everything," Esther said.
"Yes, you were brought up to do so. It was not part of my education; and the only dose I've ever had, given by not the first favorite in the world, has led me to consider improvements in the hand as the biggest nuisance. Three years ago, the Admiral, my revered uncle, bought a cottage in Twickenham so that we could all spend our summers in it; and my aunt and I went all the way down in rapture; but since it was overly pretty, it was soon found necessary to improve it, and for three months we were all dirt and confusion, without a gravel path to enter or a usable bench. I want to have everything as complete as possible in the countryside, shrubs and flower gardens and rural seats without numbers: but it all has to be done without my worries. Henry is different; he loves to do it."
Edmund was sorry to hear Miss Dorset, whom he tended to admire, speak so openly of her uncle. It did not suit his sense of decency, and he was silenced until he was prompted by further smiles and liveliness to put the matter aside for the moment.
"Sir. Schmidt," she said, "finally I have news of my harp. I am assured that it is safe in Northampton; and so it has probably been these ten days, despite the solemn assurances we have so often received to the contrary." Edmund expressed his joy and surprise. "The truth is that our requests were too direct; we sent a servant, we went ourselves: that's not enough seventy miles from London; but this morning we heard about it in the right way. It was seen by a farmer, and he told the miller, and the miller told the butcher, and the butcher's son-in-law left message in the store."
"I'm very glad you heard about it, in whatever way, and I hope there won't be any further delay."
"Tomorrow I shall have it; but how do you think it should be conveyed? Not with a car or cart: oh no! nothing of the kind could be rented in the village. I might as well have asked for straps and a handcart."
"You would find it difficult to rent a horse and a wagon right now, in the middle of a very late hay harvest?"
"I was amazed at what kind of work was made of it! Wanting a horse and a chariot in the country seemed impossible, so I told my maid to speak directly for you; and since I can't look out of my wardrobe without seeing a yard, nor walking through the bushes without passing another one, I thought it was just asking and having, and was quite saddened that I couldn't give everyone the edge. Appreciate my surprise when I realized that I had asked for the most unreasonable, impossible thing in the world; had insulted all the peasants, all the workers, all the hay in the community! As for Dr. Grant's bailiff, I think I'd better avoid him; and my brother-in-law himself, who is generally quite kind, looked at me quite darkly when he found out what I was getting at."
"It was not to be expected that you had thought about this topic beforehand; but when you think about it, you need to realize how important it is to get into the grass. Renting a cart may not be as easy as you think: our farmers are not used to renting it out; but in the harvest it must exceed their power to spare a horse."
"In time, I will understand all your ways; but to get to the true London maxim that everything can be done with money, I was initially a little embarrassed about the robust independence of your national customs. However, I should have my harp fetched tomorrow. Henry, who is good-natured himself, has offered to pick it up in his carriage. Won't it be transmitted honorably?"
Edmund spoke of the harp as his favorite instrument and hoped to hear it soon. Esther had never heard the harp before and wanted it very much.
"I will be very happy to play for both of you," said Miss Dorset; "at least as long as you like to listen: probably much longer, because I love the music itself very much, and where the natural taste is the same, the player must always be at her best, because she is satisfied in more ways than one. Well, Mr. Schmidt, when you write to your brother, I ask you to tell him that my harp has come: he has heard so much of my misery about it. And you can say, if you are right, that I will give my most plaintive expressions against his return, out of compassion for his feelings, since I know that his horse will lose."
"When I write, I will say what you wish for me; but I don't see an opportunity to write right now."
"No, I dare say that even if he were away for twelve months, you would ever write to him, nor would he write to you if it could be avoided. The occasion was never predictable. What strange creatures brothers are! They would not write to each other if it were not the most urgent need in the world; and if one is forced to take the pen in his hand to say that such a horse is sick or such a relative is dead, this is done with the fewest possible words. You have only one style among you. I know it perfectly. Henry, who in every other way is exactly what a brother should be, who loves me, questions me, confides in me and talks to me for hours, has never turned a page in a letter; and very often it is nothing more than: "Dear Mary, I have just arrived. Bathroom seems full, and everything as usual. Yours.' This is the true male style;
"If they're far from their whole family," Esther said, painting for Williams' sake, "they can write long letters."
"Miss Price has a brother at sea," said Edmund, "whose excellent correspondent she thinks is too strict with us."
"At sea, isn't it? In the service of the king, of course?"
Esther would have preferred to let Edmund tell the story, but his resolute silence forced her to tell her brother's situation: her voice spoke vividly of his profession and the foreign stations he had been to; but she could not mention the number of years he was absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Dorset politely wished him an early promotion.
"Do you know anything about my cousin's captain?" said Edmund; "Captain Marshall? You have a good acquaintance in the Navy, I conclude?"
"Big enough among admirals; but," with a touch of grandeur, "we know very little about the lower ranks. Post captains may be very good people, but they don't belong to us. I could tell you a lot about different admirals: about them and their flags and the salary gradation and their bickering and jealousies. But in general, I can assure you that they are all ignored and all very poorly used. Surely my home with my uncle made me acquainted with a circle of admirals. I saw enough of butts and vices. Don't suspect me of a play on words now, I beg."
Edmund felt serious again and only replied, "It's a noble profession."
"Yes, the profession is good enough in two circumstances: when it brings in the assets and it can be spent at its own discretion; but in short, it's not a favorite profession of mine. It has never given me a amiable form."
Edmund returned to the harp and was again very happy to hear her playing.
Among the others, the topic of soil improvement was also discussed; and Mrs. Grant couldn't help but approach her brother, although it caught his attention from Miss Julia Schmidt.
"My dear Henry, do you have nothing to say? They have improved themselves, and what I hear from Everingham can rival any place in England. I'm sure its natural beauties are great. Everingham, as it once was, was perfect in my opinion: such a happy fall of the floor and such a wood! What wouldn't I give to see it again?"
"Nothing could be as satisfying to me as hearing your opinion about it," was his reply; "but I'm afraid there would be a certain disappointment: you wouldn't find it up to your current ideas. In terms of scope, it is nothing; You would wonder about its insignificance; and as far as the improvement is concerned, there was very little for me to do – too little: I would have liked to have been busy much longer."
"You like something like that?" said Julia.
"Excessive; but what about the natural benefits of soil, which showed even a very young eye what little to do, and my own resulting decisions, I was three months out of age before Everingham was all it is now. My plan was presented in Westminster, perhaps a little modified in Cambridge, and executed at twenty-one. I am inclined to envy Mr. Rushmore for having so much luck ahead of him. I was my own devourer."
"Those who see quickly will decide quickly and act quickly," Julia said. "You can never want work. Instead of envying Mr. Rushmore, you should support him with your opinion."
Mrs. Grant, listening to the last part of this speech, forced it warmly, convinced that no judgment could be the same as that of her brother; and when Miss Schmidt also took up the idea and fully supported it, stating that in her opinion it was infinitely better to consult with friends and altruistic advisers than to immediately put the business in the hands of a professional man, Mr Rushmore was very willing to ask for the preference of Mr Dorset's help; and Mr. Dorset, having adequately diminished his own abilities, was at his service in every useful way. Mr. Rushmore then began to suggest to Mr. Dorset to pay tribute to him to come to Sotherton and take a bed there; as Mrs. Norris, as if reading in the minds of her two nieces her small endorsement of a plan to take Mr. Dorset away,
"There is no doubt about Mr. Dorset's willingness; but why shouldn't more of us go? Why shouldn't we have a little party? Here are many who would be interested in your improvements, my dear Mr Rushmore, and who would like to hear Mr. Dorset's opinion on the spot, and who could be of some use to you with their opinions; and I, for my part, have long wished to serve your good mother again; nothing but the lack of my own horses could have made me so careless; but now I could go and sit with Mrs. Rushmore for a few hours while the rest of you walk around and sort things out, and then we could all come back here for a late dinner or dine in Sotherton as is most comfortable with your mother and wish you a pleasant ride home by moonlight. I dare say that Mr. Dorset would take my two nieces and me in his carriage,
Lady Schmidt raised no objection; and everyone involved in walking was willing to express their willing approval, except for Edmund, who heard everything and said nothing.
Chapter 31
Just the day Mr. Alton went to London provided a new occasion for Emma's services to her friend. Harriet had been to Hartfield as usual shortly after breakfast; and after a while she had gone home to return for dinner: she returned, and earlier than I said, and with an excited, hasty look, she announced that something extraordinary had happened that she longed to tell. Half a minute brought it all out. As soon as she returned to Mrs. Goddard, she had heard that Mr. Martin had been there an hour ago, and when she realized that she was neither at home nor particularly expected, he had left her a small package from one of his sisters, and left; and when she opened this package, she had actually found a letter to herself, in addition to the two songs she had lent Elizabeth to copy; and this letter was from him, from Mr. Martin, and contained a direct marriage proposal. "Who would have thought that? She was so surprised that she didn't know what to do. Yes, quite a marriage proposal; and a very good letter, or so she thought. And he wrote as if he really loved her – but she didn't know – and so she came as quickly as she could to ask Miss Lodge what she should do..." Emma was half ashamed of her friend for her appearance so pleased and so doubtful.
"At my word," she exclaimed, "the young man is determined not to lose anything because he did not ask. He will connect well if he can."
"Will you read the letter?" cried Harriet. "Please do. I'd rather you would."
Emma did not regret the pressure. She read and was surprised. The style of the letter was far beyond their expectations. Not only were there no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have embarrassed a gentleman; the language was clear, but strong and unartificial, and the feelings it conveyed are very much attributable to the author. It was short but expressed common sense, warm affection, generosity, decency and even tenderness. She paused, while Harriet anxiously looked for her opinion, with a "Well, well," and was eventually forced to add, "Is it a good letter? or is it too short?"
"Yes, indeed, a very good letter," Emma replied quite slowly – "such a good letter, Harriet, that considering everything, I believe that one of his sisters must have helped him. I can hardly imagine that the young man I saw talking to you the other day could express himself so well if he were completely on his own, and yet it is not the style of a woman; no, sure, it's too strong and concise; not diffuse enough for a woman. Undoubtedly, he is a reasonable man, and I suspect he has a natural talent for – thinks strongly and clearly – and when he picks up a pen, his thoughts naturally find the right words. So it is with some men. Yes, I understand the kind of mind. Strong, determined, emotional to a certain extent, not crude. A better written letter, Harriet (reciprocates) than I expected."
"Well," said the still waiting Harriet; – "well – and – and what should I do?"
"What shall you do! In which ?? Context? Do you mean in relation to this letter?"
"Yes."
"But what do you doubt? Of course, you have to respond – and quickly."
"Yes. But what can I say? Dear Miss Lodge, advise me."
"Oh no, no! the letter would be much better your own. They will express themselves very well, I'm sure. There is no danger that you will not be able to understand what the first thing is. Their meaning must be clear; no doubts or objections: and such expressions of gratitude and concern for the pain you inflict, as decency requires, will come to your mind uninvited, I am convinced. They don't need to be asked to write about his disappointment with the appearance of grief."
"So you think I should reject him," Harriet said, looking to the ground.
"Should reject him! My dear Harriet, what do you think? Do you have any doubts about this? I thought – but I beg your pardon, maybe I was wrong. I have certainly misunderstood you if you have any doubts about the meaning of your answer. I had imagined that you would only ask me about the wording."
Harriet was silent. With a little restraint, Emma continued,
"You want to return a positive response, I suppose."
"No, I don't; that is, I don't mean – what should I do? What advice would you give me? Please, dear Miss Lodge, tell me what to do."
"I'm not going to give you any advice, Harriet. I will have nothing to do with it. That's a point you need to clarify with your feelings."
"I had no idea he liked me so much," Harriet said as she pondered the letter. For a little while Emma remained silent; but to grasp the beguiling flattery of this letter might be too powerful, she thought it was best to say:
"I establish it as a general rule, Harriet, that a woman, if she doubts whether or not to accept a man, should definitely reject him. If she can be hesitant to say "yes," she should say "no" directly. It is not a state into which one can safely enter with doubtful feelings, with half a heart. I felt it was my duty as a friend and older than you to tell you so much. But don't imagine that I want to influence you."
"Oh! no, you're probably way too friendly about that – but if you only advised me what I should do best – no, no, I don't mean that – as you say, you should make a firm decision – you shouldn't hesitate – It's a very serious thing. – It may be safer to say 'no'. – Do you think I'd better say 'no'?"
"About nothing in the world," Emma said with a friendly smile, "I would advise you one way or another. You must be the best judge of your own happiness. If you prefer Mr. Martin to any other person; If you think he's the most pleasant man you've ever been with, why should you hesitate? You blush, Harriet. – Can you think of a body under such a definition at this moment? Harriet, Harriet, make no mistake; don't let gratitude and compassion run you away. Who are you thinking of at this moment?"
The symptoms were favorable. Instead of answering, Harriet turned away confused and stood thoughtfully by the fire; and although the letter was still in their hands, it was now mechanically turned around without consideration. Emma awaited the result with impatience, but not without high hopes. Finally, Harriet said with some hesitation
,
"Miss Lodge, since you don't want to share your opinion with me, I have to be alone as much as I can; and I am now very determined, and really almost determined, to reject Mr. Martin. Do you think I'm right?"
"Completely, absolutely right, my dearest Harriet; You're doing exactly what you should be doing. While you were in limbo at all, I kept my feelings to myself, but now that you are so decided, I do not hesitate to agree with you. Dear Harriet, I am happy about it. It would have saddened me to lose your acquaintance, which must have been the result of your marriage to Mr. Martin. While you wavered in the slightest, I didn't say anything about it because I didn't want any influence; but it would have been the loss of a friend for me. I could not have visited Mrs Robert Martin from Abbey-Mill Farm. Now I'm sure of you forever."
Harriet had no idea of her own danger, but the thought of it hit her hard.
"You couldn't have visited me!" she shouted and looked horrified. "No, of course you couldn't; but I've never thought of that. That would have been too terrible! – What an escape! – Dear Miss Lodge, I would give up the pleasure and honor of being intimate with you so as not to have anything in the world."
"In fact, Harriet, it would have been a severe pain to lose you; but it must have been. You would have thrown yourself out of all good company. I must have given up on you."
"My goodness! – How could I have ever endured it! It would have killed me to never come back to Hartfield!"
"Dear loving creature! – You are banished to Abbey-Mill Farm! – You are limited to the society of the illiterate and vulgar all your life! I wonder how the young man could have the security to ask for it. He must have a pretty good opinion of himself."
"I also don't think he's generally conceited," said Harriet, whose conscience resisted such criticism; "At least he's very good-natured, and I'll always feel very committed to him and appreciate him very much – but that's very different from – and you know, although he likes me, it doesn't follow what I should do – and certainly I have to admit that since my visit here I've seen people – and if you look at them, Person and manners, compared with each other, there is no comparison at all, you are so very handsome and pleasant. However, I really consider Mr. Martin to be a very kind young man and have a great opinion of him; and that he is so attached to me – and that he writes such a letter – but to leave you, I would do that without regard for anything."
"Thank you, thank you, my sweet little friend. We are not separated. A woman should not marry a man just because she is asked to do so or because he is attached to her and can write a tolerable letter."
"Oh no; - and it's just a short letter."
Emma felt her friend's bad taste, but left it with a "very true; and it would be a small consolation for her to know that her husband could write a good letter, for the kind of clown that could offend her at any hour of the day.
"Oh! yes, very much. No one cares about a letter; the thing is to always be happy with pleasant companions. I am determined to reject it. But how should I do? What can I say?"
Emma assured her that there would be no difficulty in answering and advised her to write directly, which was agreed in the hope of her help. and although Emma continued to protest against any help she wanted, it was actually granted in the formation of every sentence. The re-examination of his letter in response had such a mitigating tendency that it was particularly necessary to strengthen it with some decisive expressions; and she was so worried about the thought of making him unhappy, and thought so much about what his mother and sisters would think and say, and was so worried that they didn't think she was ungrateful, that Emma believed that if the young man had gotten in the way at that moment, it would have been accepted.
However, this letter was written, sealed and sent. The business was over and Harriet was safe. She was quite depressed all evening, but Emma was able to allow her gracious regret and sometimes alleviate her by talking about her own affection, sometimes by bringing up the idea of Mr. Alton.
"I'll never be invited to Abbey-Mill again," he said in a rather sorrowful tone.
"And if it were you, I couldn't bear to part with you, my Harriet. They are far too necessary in Hartfield to be spared at Abbey-Mill."
"And I'm sure I never want to go there; because I'm never happy, except in Hartfield."
Some time later, it said, "I think Mrs. Goddard would be very surprised if she knew what happened. I'm sure Miss Nash would do that – because Miss Nash thinks her own sister is very well married, and she's just a cloth merchant."
"One should regret seeing more pride or nobility in a school's teacher, Harriet. I dare say Miss Nash would envy you for such an opportunity to be married. This conquest also seemed valuable to her. As for something higher for you, I suppose she's pretty much in the dark. The attentions of a particular person can hardly be part of Highbury's talk. So far, I consider you to be and I am the only people to whom his appearance and manners have declared themselves."
Harriet blushed and smiled and said something about how she was surprised that people should like her so much. The performance of Mr. Alton was certainly encouraging; but after some time she was again tender to the rejected Mr. Martin.
"Now he has my letter," she said quietly. "I wonder what they are all doing – if his sisters know – if he is unhappy, they will be unhappy too. I hope it won't bother him so much."
"Let's think of those among our absent friends who are happier busy," Emma exclaimed. "Maybe at this moment Mr. Alton shows your picture to his mother and sisters, tells how much more beautiful the original is, and after being asked about it five or six times, he allows them to hear your name, your dear name."
"My picture! – But he left my picture in Bond Street."
"Did he! – Then I don't know anything about Alton-san. No, my dear little humble Harriet, rest assured that the picture will not be in Bond Street before he gets on his horse tomorrow. It is his companion throughout the evening, his comfort, his joy. It opens its designs to its family, it introduces you among them, it spreads through the party the most pleasant feelings of our nature, eager curiosity and warm bias. How cheerful, how lively, how suspicious, how busy their fantasies are!"
Harriet smiled again, and her smile grew stronger.
Chapter 32
With more than usual zeal, Catherine rushed to the drinking hall the next day, firmly convinced that she would see Mr. Alsina there before the morning was over, and ready to meet him with a smile; but no smile was asked for – Mr. Alsina did not appear. Every creature in Bath, with the exception of himself, could be seen in the room at different times of fashion hours; Crowds of people went in and out at any moment, up and down the steps; people no one cared about and no one wanted to see; and he was only absent. "What a delightful place Bath is," said Mrs. To all when they sat down next to the big clock after they had led through the room until they were tired; "and how nice it would be if we had an acquaintance here."
This feeling had been expressed so often in vain that Mrs. Allen had no particular reason to hope that it would now be followed with more advantage; but we are told not to "despair of anything we would achieve" because "tireless zeal would achieve our goal"; and the tireless diligence with which she had wished for the same thing every day was finally to receive his fair reward, for as soon as she had sat for ten minutes in front of a lady of about the same age, sitting next to her, and sat at her attentively for a few minutes and addressed her with great complacency with these words: "I believe, Madam, I can't be wrong; It's been a long time since I had the pleasure of seeing you, but aren't your name Allen?" The stranger willingly answered this question with Dorfman; and Mrs. Allen immediately recognized the traits of a former schoolmate and confidant, whom she had only seen once since their respective marriages, and that many years ago. Their joy at this reunion was very great, even if they had been content for the last fifteen years not to know anything about each other. Compliments for good looks passed; and after realizing how much time had passed since they were last together, how little thought they had of meeting in Bath, and what a pleasure it was to see an old friend, they set out to investigate and provide information about their families. Sisters and cousins who both talked to each other were much more willing to give information than to receive, and each heard very little of what the other said. However, Mrs. Dorfman had a great advantage as a speaker over Mrs. Dorfman. All in a family with children;
"Here come my dear girls," cried Mrs. Dorfman, pointing to three elegant-looking women moving arm in arm towards her. "My dear Mrs. Allen, I long to introduce them to you; They will be very happy to see you: the greatest is Bella, my eldest; Isn't she a fine young woman? The others are also very admired, but I think Bella is the most beautiful."
The Miss Dorfmans were introduced; and Miss Fenmore, who had been forgotten for a short time, was also introduced. The name seemed to hit them all; and after talking to her with great courtesy, the oldest young lady remarked loudly to the others, "How much Is Miss Fenmore similar to her brother!"
"The picture of him indeed!" cried the mother – and "I should have known her everywhere for his sister!" was repeated by everyone two or three times. For a moment, Catherine was surprised; but Mrs. Dorfman and her daughters had barely begun the story of her acquaintance with Mr. James Fenmore when she remembered that her eldest brother had recently formed an intimacy with a young man from his own college named Dorfman; and that he had spent the last week of the Christmas holidays with his family near London.
The whole thing was explained, many pleasing things were said by Miss Dorfman about her desire to get to know her better; to be considered friends through the friendship of her brothers, etc., which Catherine heard with pleasure and replied with all the pretty expressions she could master; and as the first proof of friendship, she was soon invited to accept an arm of the oldest Miss Dorfman and turn around with her in the room. Catherine rejoiced at this extension of her Bath acquaintance and almost forgot Mr. Alsina while talking to Miss Dorfman. Friendship is certainly the best balm for the torments of disappointed love.
Their conversation revolved around those topics of which free discussion in general has a lot to do to perfect a sudden intimacy between two young ladies: such as clothes, balls, flirts and quizzes. However, since Miss Dorfman was four years older than Miss Fenmore and at least four years better informed, she had a decisive advantage in discussing such points; she could compare the balls of Bath with those of Tunbridge, his fashion with the fashion of London; was able to correct the opinions of her new friend in many articles of tasteful clothing; could discover a flirtation between every gentleman and every lady who only smiled at each other; and point out a quiz through the crowd. These powers were duly admired by Catherine, to whom they were completely new; and the respect they inherently instilled might have been too great for familiarity if it hadn't been for the casual cheerfulness of Miss Dorfman's manners and her frequent expressions of joy at this acquaintance with her had softened any sense of awe and left nothing but tender affection. Their growing affection was not to be content with half a dozen turns in the drinking hall, but demanded that Miss Dorfman, when they all left it together, should accompany Miss Fenmore to the door of Mr. Allen's house; and that they should separate there with an extremely loving and prolonged handshake, after they had learned to their mutual relief that they should see each other on the other side of the theater at night and say their prayers in the same chapel the next morning. Catherine then ran straight upstairs and watched Miss Dorfman. s walk down the street from the salon window; admired the graceful spirit of her gait, the fashionable air of her figure and clothing; and felt grateful, as best she could, for the opportunity that such a friend had given her.
Mrs. Dorfman was a widow and not very rich; she was a good-humoured, well-meaning woman and a very forgiving mother. Her eldest daughter was of great personal beauty, and the younger ones did very well by pretending to be as handsome as her sister, imitating her posture and dressing in the same style.
This brief account of the family is intended to replace the need for a long and meticulous detail from Mrs. Dorfman herself about her past adventures and sufferings, which might otherwise be expected to occupy the three or four following chapters; in which the worthlessness of lords and lawyers could be expounded and conversations that had taken place twenty years ago could be meticulously repeated.
Chapter 33
"I must say goodbye to note, Sir Walter," Mr. Shepherd said one morning in Kellynch Hall as he laid down the newspaper, "that the current situation is very much in our favor. This peace will bring all our rich naval officers ashore... They will all want a home. There couldn't be a better time, Sir Walter, to have a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. During the war, many a noble fortune was made. If a rich admiral came to us By the way, Sir Walter – "
He would be a very happy man, Shepherd," replied Mr. Walter; " That's all I have to notice. Kellynch Hall would indeed be a prize for him; rather the biggest prize of all, let so many have taken it before; hey, Shepherd?"
Mr. Shepherd laughed at this joke, knowing he had to, and then added:
but Sir Walter Hightower has eyes on him that are hard to escape; and that is why I dare so much that it will not surprise me very much if, despite all our caution, a rumor of truth should go abroad; Considering, as I wanted to note, since applications will undoubtedly follow, I would think it would be worth taking care of any of our wealthy naval commanders; and allow you to add that I can come over at any time in two hours to save you the trouble of answering. I think each of our wealthy naval commanders is especially worth paying attention to; and allow you to add that I can come over at any time in two hours to save you the trouble of answering. I think each of our wealthy naval commanders is especially worth paying attention to; and allow you to add that I can come over at any time in two hours to save you the trouble of answering.
Sir Walter just nodded. But soon after, as he got up and down the room, he sarcastically noted,
"There are few among the masters of the Navy, I suppose, who wouldn't be surprised to find themselves in a house of this kind."
"They would no doubt look around and bless their happiness," said Ms. Clay, because Ms. Clay was present: her father had driven her over, nothing was as useful to Ms. Clay's health as a trip to Kellynch: "but I agree with my father that a sailor could be a very sought-after tenant. I knew a lot about the profession, and apart from their generosity, they are so neat and careful in all their ways! These precious pictures of you, Sir Walter, if you decided to leave them, would be perfectly safe. Everything in and around the house would be so excellently maintained! The gardens and bushes would be kept in almost as high order as they are now. You don't need to be afraid, Miss Hightower, that your own cute flower gardens will be neglected."
"As far as all this is concerned," Sir Walter replied coolly, "assuming that I would be forced to rent out my house, I have by no means decided on the privileges that are to be associated with it. I'm not particularly inclined to prefer a tenant... The park would of course be open to him, and few naval officers or men of any other kind may have had such a range, but what restrictions I could impose on the use of the amusement grounds is another matter I don't like the idea that my shrubs are always accessible, and I would recommend Miss Hightower to be on guard with regard to her flower garden. I am very little inclined to do an extraordinary favor to a tenant of Kellynch Hall, I assure you, be he a sailor or a soldier."
After a short pause, Mr. Shepherd dared to say,
"In all of these cases, there are established customs that make everything simple and easy between landlord and tenant. Your interests, Sir Walter, are in pretty safe hands. Rely on me to ensure that no tenant has more than their fair rights. I dare to suggest that Sir Walter Hightower cannot be half as jealous of his own as John Shepherd will be of him.
Here Anne spoke...
"I think the Navy, which has done so much for us, has at least the same claim as any other group of men to all the amenities and privileges that a home can provide. Sailors work hard enough for their conveniences, we all have to allow it."
"Very true, very true. What Miss Anne says is very true," was Mr. Shepherd's reply, and "Oh! sure," was his daughter's; but Sir Walter's remark was soon after –
"The profession has its uses, but I would be sorry if any friend of mine belonged to it."
"Indeed!" was the answer, and with a surprised look.
I was to make way for Lord St Ives and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable figure imaginable; its face the color of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all the lines and wrinkles, nine gray hairs on one side and nothing but a dollop of powder on top. "For heaven's sake, who is this old guy?" I said to a friend of mine who was standing nearby (Sir Basil Morley). 'Old guy!' shouted Sir Basil, "it's Admiral Baldwin. How do you assess his age?" 'Sixty,' I said, 'or maybe sixty-two.' "Forty," Sir Basil replied, "forty and no more." Imagine my amazement; I won't easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I have never seen such a pathetic example of what a seafaring life can do; but to some extent, I know it's the same for everyone: they're all thrown around and exposed to every climate and weather until they can't be seen anymore. It's a pity they don't get hit on the head right away before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age."
and expose its health and appearance to all damage of a toxic atmosphere. In fact, as I have long been convinced, although every profession on its part is necessary and honorable, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to live regularly in the countryside, choosing their profession, spending their own hours, pursuing their own occupations and living on their own property, without the agony of striving for more; it is only their lot, I say, to keep the blessings of health and good looks to the utmost: I know of no other group of men who lose some of their sanity when they stop being very young. only the lots of those who are not obliged to do so can live regularly in the countryside, choose their own hours, pursue their own occupations and live on their own property, without the agony of striving anymore; it is only their lot, I say, to keep the blessings of health and good looks to the utmost: I know of no other group of men who lose some of their sanity when they stop being very young. only the lots of those who are not obliged to do so can live regularly in the countryside, choose their own hours, pursue their own occupations and live on their own property, without the agony of striving anymore; it is only their lot, I say, to keep the blessings of health and good looks to the utmost: I know of no other group of men who lose some of their sanity when they stop being very young.
It seemed that Mr. Shepherd had been gifted with foresight in his effort to express Sir Walter's benevolence to a naval officer as a tenant; for the very first application for the house came from an Admiral Field, with whom he joined shortly afterwards while attending the quarter meetings in Taunton; and indeed he had received a reference to the admiral from a London correspondent. According to the report he hurried to Kellynch, Admiral Field was a native of Somersetshire who had acquired a very considerable fortune, wanted to settle in his own country and had come down to Taunton to see some advertisements in this immediate neighbourhood, but which he had not liked; this random listening – (it was exactly as he had predicted, noted Mr. Shepherd, Sir Walter." s concerns could not be kept secret) – when he had accidentally heard about the possibility of renting Kellynch Hall, and his (Mr had expressed such a strong inclination for the place over the course of a fairly long conference, as a man, who knew him only by description, could feel him; and Mr. Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, gave every proof that he is an extremely responsible, eligible tenant. expressed such a strong inclination for the place as a man who knew him only by description could feel; and Mr. Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, gave every proof that he is an extremely responsible, eligible tenant. expressed such a strong inclination for the place as a man who knew him only by description could feel; and Mr. Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, gave every proof that he is an extremely responsible, eligible tenant.
"And who is Admiral Field?" was Sir Walter's cold, suspicious request.
Mr. Shepherd replied that he came from a gentleman family and mentioned a place; and Anne added after the following small pause:
"He is a rear admiral of the whites. He was in the Trafalgar action and has been in the East Indies ever since; I think he was stationed there for several years."
"Then I take it for granted," Sir Walter remarked, "that his face is something like this?? orange is like the cuffs and capes of my livery."
Mr. Shepherd hurried to assure him that Admiral Field was a very healthy, strong, handsome man, a little weathered to be sure, but not very, and a gentleman in all his views and behavior; do not have the slightest difficulty with the conditions, just want to have a comfortable home and move in as soon as possible; knew he had to pay for his convenience; knew what rent a fully furnished house of this importance would bring; should not have been surprised if Sir Walter had asked more; had inquired about the manor house; would certainly be happy about the deputation, but did not attach much importance to it; said he sometimes drew a gun but never killed; quite the gentleman.
Mr Shepherd was eloquent on this subject; Recalling all the circumstances of the Admiral's family that made him particularly desirable as a tenant. He was a married man and without children; the state you could wish for. A house was never well maintained without a lady, Mr. Shepherd remarked: he did not know if the furniture was not in danger, where there was no lady, like where there were many children. A lady without a family was the best furniture maker in the world. He had also seen Mrs. Field; she had been with the admiral at Taunton and had been present almost all the time they were discussing the matter.
"And she seemed to be a very well-spoken, noble, clever lady," he continued; "Asked more questions about the house, conditions and taxes than the admiral himself and seemed to be more familiar with business; and besides, Sir Walter, I found that she was not entirely without connection in this country, any more than her husband was; That is, she is the sister of a gentleman who once lived among us, she told me it herself: sister of the Lord who lived in Monkford a few years ago, thank God, what was his name, I can't remember his name at that moment, even though I've heard him lately. Penelope, my dear, can you tell me the name of the Gentleman who lived in Monkford: Mrs. Field's brother?"
But Mrs. Clay spoke so eagerly with Miss Hightower that she did not hear the appeal.
"I have no idea who you mean, Shepherd; I don't remember a gentleman who had lived in Monkford since the time of the old Governor Trent."
I'll soon forget my own name, I suppose. A name I'm so familiar with; knew the Lord so well from seeing; saw him a hundred times; came once to consult me, I remember a trespass by one of his neighbors; the husband of a farmer broke into his orchard; Wall was torn down; apples stolen; indeed caught; and then, contrary to my assessment, subject to an amicable settlement. Really very strange!"
After waiting a moment...
"You mean Mr. Cambridge, I suppose?" said Anne.
Mr. Shepherd was full of gratitude.
"Cambridge was exactly the name! Mr. Cambridge was exactly the man. He had the deputy office of Monkford for two or three years some time ago, you know, Sir Walter. Came about a year – 5, I suppose. You probably remember him."
"Cambridge? Oh! ay, Mr. Cambridge, the Vicar of Monkford. You misled me with the term gentleman. I thought you were talking about a man with possessions: Mr. Cambridge was a nobody, I remember; he was quite unrelated; nothing to do with the Strafford family. One wonders how the names of many of our nobles become so common.
When Mr. Shepherd noticed that this connection of the Fields did them no service to Sir Walter, he did not mention them anymore; Returning with all his zeal to undeniably dwell on the circumstances in their favor; their age and number and assets; the high expectation they had of Kellynch Hall and the extreme anxiety of being able to rent it; To make it seem as if they counted for nothing more than the happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Hightower: an extraordinary taste could certainly have been suspected in the secret of Sir Walter's estimation of a tenant's taxes.
However, it succeeded; and although Sir Walter must always look at anyone who intends to inhabit this house with an evil eye and consider him infinitely too good if he is allowed to rent it on the highest terms, he was persuaded to allow Mr. Shepherd to continue the contract and to authorize him to wait for Admiral Field, who remained in Taunton, and set a day for the house to be seen.
Sir Walter was not very clever; but still he had enough experience of the world to feel that a safer tenant, in all its essence, than Being Fair Admiral Field, could hardly bid. That's how far his understanding went; and his vanity brought a little extra reassurance to the admiral's life situation, which was just high enough and not too high. "I rented my house to Admiral Field," would sound very good; much better than to any mere master--; a gentleman (except perhaps half a dozen in the nation) always needs an explanation. An admiral pronounces his own consequence and at the same time can never make a baronet look small. In all their business and traffic, Sir Walter Hightower must always take precedence.
Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her propensity to move became so strong that she was happy to have it repaired and accelerated by a tenant nearby; and not a word to postpone the decision was uttered by her.
Mr. Shepherd was perfectly capable of acting; and no such end had such an end been reached when Anne, who had been an extremely attentive listener to the whole thing, left the room to seek the comfort of cool air for her reddened cheeks; and as she walked along a favorite grove, she said with a gentle sigh, "A few more months, and he might be able to walk here."
Chapter 34
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had passed it on their way through the valley, but at home it was protected from their view by the promontory of a hill. The house was big and nice; and the Mideltowns lived in a style of hospitality and elegance in equal measure. The former was for Sir John's satisfaction, the latter for that of his lady. They were hardly ever without some friends who lived with them in the house, and they kept company of all kinds more than any other family in the neighborhood. Fortunately, it was necessary for both of them; for no matter how different they were in temperament and outward behavior, they closely resembled each other in that complete lack of talent and taste that limited their occupations, which had nothing to do with those produced by society, to a very narrow range. Sir John was an athlete, Lady Mideltown a mother. He hunted and shot, and she made her children fun; and these were their only resources. Lady Mideltown had the advantage of being able to pamper her children all year round, while Sir John's independent employment only lasted half the time. However, continuous engagements at home and abroad catered for all the shortcomings of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John and exercised the good upbringing of his wife.
Lady Mideltown piqued herself on the elegance of her table and all her domestic arrangements; and of this kind of vanity was her greatest joy at each of her parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he was happy to gather more young people around him than his house could accommodate, and the noisier they were, the more he rejoiced. He was a blessing to the whole youthful part of the neighborhood, because in the summer he constantly formed parties to eat cold ham and chicken outside, and in the winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who did not suffer from the insatiable appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the countryside was always a matter of joy for him, and he was delighted in every way by the residents he had now procured for his cottage in Barton. The Miss Hargroves were young, pretty and unartificial. It was enough to secure his good opinion; for being untouched was all a pretty girl could wish for to make her mind as captivating as her person. The kindness of his kind made him happy to accommodate those whose situation could be considered unhappy compared to the past. Therefore, by showing kindness to his cousins, he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and by settling a female family only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of an athlete; for an athlete, although he appreciates only those of his sex who are also athletes,
Mrs. Hargrove and her daughters were received at the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unartificial sincerity; and as he accompanied her to the salon, he repeated to the young ladies the concern that had worried him the day before about the same subject, because he could not get smart young men to meet them. They would see, he said, there besides him only one Lord; a special friend who lived in the park but was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped that they would all apologize for the smallness of the group and assure them that this would never happen again. He had been with several families that morning, hoping to add something to them, but it was moonlight, and everyone was full of commitments. Luckily, Lady Mideltown's mother had arrived in Barton in the last hour, and since she was a very cheerful, pleasant woman, he hoped the young ladies wouldn't find it as boring as they might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were completely satisfied with having two complete strangers in society and wished for nothing more.
Mrs. Jennings, the mother of Lady Mideltown, was a cheerful, cheerful, fat, older woman who talked a lot, seemed very happy and seemed quite ordinary. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner ended, she had said many funny things about lovers and husbands; hoped they hadn't left their hearts behind in Sussex, and pretended to see them blush, whether they did or not. Marianne was annoyed by this for her sister's sake and turned her eyes to Eleanore to see how she would endure these attacks, with a seriousness that inflicted far more pain on Eleanore than could emerge from such banal gossip as mrs. Jennings'.
Colonel Bridgerton, Sir John's friend, did not seem more suited to be his friend because of his similarity than Lady Mideltown was supposed to be his wife or Mrs. Jenning's Lady Mideltown's mother. He was quiet and serious. However, his appearance was not unpleasant, although in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret he was an absolute old bachelor, because he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but although his face was not pretty, his facial expression was reasonable, and his salutation was particularly friendly and human-like.
Nothing in the group could recommend them as companions of the Hargroves; but the cold blandness of Lady Mideltown was so particularly repulsive that in comparison the seriousness of Colonel Bridgerton and even the exuberant cheerfulness of Sir John and his mother-in-law were interesting. Lady Mideltown seemed to be awakened to pleasure only by the appearance of her four noisy children after dinner, who dragged her around, tore her clothes and put an end to every conversation except what concerned herself.
When Marianne was discovered as musical in the evening, she was invited to play. The instrument was open-minded, every body ready to be enchanted, and Marianne, who sang very well, went through at her request the most important songs that Lady Mideltown had brought to the family at her wedding and which may have been in her ever since the same position on the piano, because her ladyship had celebrated this event, by giving up music, even though, according to her mother, she had played very well and, in her own opinion, was very fond of it.
Marianne's performance was highly praised. Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of each song and just as loud in his conversation with the others while each song lasted. Lady Mideltown often called him to order, wondered how anyone could divert his attention from the music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a certain song that Marianne had just finished. Only Colonel Bridgerton listened to her, without getting into raptures. He only gave her the compliment of attention; and on this occasion she felt respect for him, which the others had reasonably lost due to their shameless lack of taste. His pleasure in music, although it did not constitute that ecstatic delight that alone could sympathize with one's own, was palpable when contrasted against the terrible callousness of others; and she was reasonable enough to admit that a man of thirty-five years could have survived all the sharpness of feeling and any exquisite pleasure. She was completely inclined to take into account the advanced state of life of the Colonel all that humanity demanded.
Chapter 35
At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past seven Elizabeth was called to the diner. She could not give a very favorable answer to the civilian inquiries that then poured out, among which she had the pleasure of highlighting Mr. Woodland's much superior concern. Jane was by no means better. When the sisters heard this, they repeated three or four times how sad they were, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how much they didn't like being sick themselves; and then did not think about the matter anymore: and her indifference to Jane, when they were not immediately in front of them, brought Elizabeth back into the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
Her brother was, in fact, the only one in the group she could look at with some complacency. His concern for Jane was obvious, and his attention to himself was highly pleasant, and they prevented her from feeling as much of an intruder as she thought she was being noticed by the others. She didn't get very little notice from anyone but him. Miss Woodland was claimed by Mr. Drury, her sister hardly less; and Mr. Hurst, next to whom Elizabeth sat, was a sluggish man who lived only to eat, drink, and play cards; who had nothing to say to her when he realized that she preferred a simple dish to a ragout.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Woodland began to abuse her as soon as she left the room. Their manners were indeed described as very bad, a mixture of pride and impudence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same thing, adding
,
"In short, she has nothing to recommend except that she is an excellent walker. I will never forget their appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild."
"She actually has, Lois. I could hardly maintain my posture. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why does SHE have to whizz through the country because her sister has a cold? Your hair, so messy, so blown away!'
"Yes, and you petticoat; I hope you've seen her underskirt, six inches deep in the mud, I'm absolutely sure of that; and the dress that had been lowered to hide it did not do its job.'
"Your image may be very accurate, Lois," Woodland said. but that was all lost to me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Mitchell looked remarkably good when she walked into the room this morning. I missed her dirty petticoat entirely."
"You watched it, Drury-san, I'm sure," Miss Woodland said. and I tend to think that you wouldn't want YOUR sister to do such an exhibition.'
'Certainly not.'
"Three miles or four miles or five miles or whatever it is to walk over their ankles in the dirt, and alone, all alone! What could she mean by that? It seems to me to show a heinous kind of imaginary independence, an almost rural indifference to decency.'
"It shows a very gratifying affection for her sister," Woodland said.
"I'm afraid, Drury-san," Miss Woodland remarked in a half-whisper, "that this adventure has pretty much diminished your admiration for her beautiful eyes."
'Not at all,' he replied; "They were brightened up by the exercise." This speech was followed by a short pause, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
"I appreciate Miss Jane Mitchell very much, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart that she would feel comfortable. But with such a father and such a mother and such small connections, unfortunately, there is no chance."
"I think I heard you say that your uncle is a lawyer on Meryton."
'Yes; and they have another who lives somewhere near Cheapside."
"This is capital," her sister added, and both laughed heartily.
"If they had enough uncles to fill ALL Cheapside," Woodland exclaimed, "it wouldn't make them any less pleasant."
"But it has to significantly reduce their chance of marrying men of any importance in the world," Drury replied.
Woodland gave no answer to this speech; but his sisters gave him their warm approval, and indulged for some time in their cheerfulness at the expense of the vulgar relationships of their dear friend.
With new tenderness, however, when they left the dining room, they returned to their room and sat with her until they were called for coffee. She was still very unwell, and Elizabeth wouldn't let her go at all until late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when she felt it was more right than pleasant to go downstairs herself. When she entered the salon, she found all the company on the toilet and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting that they were playing high, she refused and apologized to her sister, saying she would have fun with a book for the short time she could stay downstairs. Mr. Hurst looked at her in amazement.
"Would you rather read cards than cards?" he said; 'that's pretty unique.'
"Miss Eliza Mitchell," said Miss Woodland, "despises cards. She's a great reader and doesn't like anything else."
'I deserve neither such praise nor such reproach,' cried Elizabeth; 'I'm NOT a big reader, and I enjoy many things.'
"I'm sure you enjoy caring for your sister," Woodland said. and I hope that it will soon be enlarged by seeing them quite well.'
Elizabeth thanked him from the bottom of her heart and then went to the table where there were a few books. He immediately offered to get her others – everything his library had to offer.
"And I wish my collection was larger for your benefit and for my own standing; but I'm a lazy guy, and even though I don't have many, I have more than I've ever looked at.'
Elizabeth assured him that she would be a perfect match for those in the room.
"I'm amazed," said Miss Woodland, "that my father left such a small collection of books. What a delightful library you have in Pemberley, Drury-san!'
'It should be good,' he replied, 'it has been the work of many generations.'
'And then you yourself have contributed so much, you always buy books.'
"I can't understand the neglect of a family library in days like this."
'Neglect! I am sure you are not neglecting anything that could contribute to the beauty of this noble place. Charles, if you build YOUR house, I wish it was only half as delightful as Pemberley."
"I wish it could."
"But I would really advise you to do your shopping in this area and take Pemberley as a kind of model. There is no more beautiful county in England than Derbyshire."
'With all my heart; I'll buy Pemberley myself if Drury sells it."
"I'm talking about possibilities, Charles."
"By my word, Caroline, I think it's more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."
Elizabeth was so caught up in what was happening that she paid very little attention to her book; and soon she put it all the way aside, approached the game table and stood between Mr. Woodland and his eldest sister to watch the game.
'Has Miss Drury grown a lot since spring?' said Miss Woodland; "Will she be as big as I am?"
"I think it will. She's about the size of Miss Elizabeth Mitchell now, or bigger."
"How I long to see them again! I have never met anyone who has delighted me so much. What a face, what manners! And so incredibly successful for their age! Their performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.'
"It's amazing to me," Woodland said, "how young ladies can have patience to be as accomplished as they all are."
"All the young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean by that?'
"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens and mesh pockets. I hardly know anyone who can't do all this, and I'm sure I've never spoken of a young lady for the first time without being told that she's very savvy.'
"Your list of the general scope of achievements," Drury said, "contains too much truth. The word is applied to many women who deserve it no other way than by netting a handbag or covering a screen. But I am far from agreeing with you in your assessment of the ladies in general. I can't boast of knowing more than half a dozen in the full range of my acquaintanceship, which are truly complete.'
"Neither do I," said Miss Woodland.
"Then," Elizabeth noted, "you have to understand a great deal in your idea of a perfect woman."
'Yes, I understand a lot in it.'
'Oh! Certainly," exclaimed his faithful assistant, "no one can really be considered perfect, who does not go far beyond what is usually found. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and modern languages to deserve the word; and besides, she must have a certain something in her attitude and way of walking, the tone of her voice, her speech and her expressions, or the word will only be half deserved.'
"She has to possess all of that," Drury added, "and to all of this, she needs to add something more essential by improving her mind through extensive reading."
"I'm no longer surprised that you only know six accomplished women. I'm more surprised now that you know ANYTHING.'
"Are you so strict with your own gender that you doubt the possibility of all this?"
"I have never seen such a woman. I have never seen such capacity, taste, application and elegance as you describe.'
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland resisted the injustice of their implicit doubt and both protested that they knew many women who answered this description when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints about their inattention to what was going on. When all the conversation was over, Elizabeth soon left the room.
"Elizabeth Mitchell," said Miss Woodland as the door closed behind her, "is one of those young ladies who try to recommend herself to the opposite sex by underestimating her own; and with many men, dare I say, it succeeds. But in my opinion, it's a pathetic device, a very mean art."
"Undoubtedly," replied Drury, to whom this remark was mainly addressed, "there is a meanness in ALL arts that ladies sometimes condescend to captivate them. What is related to cunning is despicable."
Miss Woodland was not so pleased with this answer that she continued the subject.
Elizabeth rejoined them, only to say that her sister was worse off and that she could not leave her. Woodland urged to get Mr. Jones immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no advice from the countryside could be of use, recommended an express train to the city to one of the most outstanding doctors. She didn't want to hear about it; but she was not so reluctant to comply with her brother's suggestion; and it was agreed that Mr. Jones should be picked up early in the morning if Miss Mitchell was not decidedly better. Woodland was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were unhappy. However, they comforted their misery with duets after dinner, while he could find no better relief from his feelings than to give instructions to his housekeeper that all attention should be paid to the sick wife and her sister.
Chapter 36
"Well, Esther, and how do you like Miss Dorset now?" edmund said the next day after thinking about the subject himself for some time. "How did you like it yesterday?"
"Very good – a lot. I like to hear them talk. She entertains me; and it is so extraordinarily pretty that I take great pleasure in looking at it."
"It is her face that is so attractive. It has a wonderful game of function! But wasn't there anything in their conversation that you, Esther, didn't really notice?"
"Oh yes! she shouldn't have talked about her uncle like that. I was quite amazed. An uncle with whom she has lived for so many years and who, whatever his mistakes may be, loves her brother so much and, as they say, treats him like a son. I couldn't have believed it!"
"I thought you were going to be beaten. It was very wrong; very unseemly."
"And very ungrateful, I think."
"Ungrateful is a strong word. I don't know if her uncle is entitled to her gratitude; his wife had determined this; and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt's memory that misleads her here. It is in an unfavourable position. With such warm feelings and lively spirits, it must be difficult to live up to her affection for Mrs. Dorset without dwarfing the admiral. I claim not to know who was most to blame for their disagreements, although the admiral's current behavior might tilt one to the side of his wife; but it is natural and gracious that Miss Dorset should completely acquit her aunt. I do not reproach their opinion; but it is certainly inappropriate to make them public."
"Don't you think," Esther said after a short reflection, "that this impropriety is a reflection of Mrs. Dorset, since her niece was raised entirely by her? She can't have had the right idea of what the admiral is entitled to."
"That's a fair remark. Yes, we must assume that the niece's mistakes were those of the aunt; and it makes you more sensitive to the disadvantages she has been exposed to. But I think her current home must do her good. Mrs. Grant's manners are exactly what they should be. She speaks of her brother with a very pleasant affection."
"Yes, except that he is so ?? writes short letters. She almost made me laugh; but I can't so highly appreciate the love or kindness of a brother who doesn't bother to write something worth reading to his sisters when they're separated. I'm sure William wouldn't have used me that way under any circumstances. And with which ?? She rightly assumed that you would not write long letters in your absence?"
"The right of a lively mind, Esther, to seize anything that can contribute to his own amusement or that of others; perfectly permissible if they are not characterized by bad mood or rudeness; and there is no shadow of both on the face or in the manner of Miss Dorset: nothing sharp or loud or coarse. She is completely female, except in the cases we have been talking about. It cannot be justified. I'm glad you saw everything the way I did."
After forming her opinion and gaining her affection, he had a good chance that she would think like him; although at that time and on this subject there was now a certain danger of dissimilarity, for he stood in a line of admiration of Miss Dorset, which could lead him to where Esther could not follow. Miss Dorset's appeal did not diminish. The harp arrived and rather contributed to its beauty, wit and good mood; for she played with the greatest courtesy, with a peculiarly decent expression and taste, and at the end of each melody there was something clever to say. Edmund was in the rectory every day to be pampered with his favorite instrument: one morning secured one invitation for the next; for the lady could not resist a listener, and everything was soon in a beautiful train.
A young woman, pretty, lively, with a harp as elegant as herself, and both placed near a window, trimmed to the ground and opened on a small meadow surrounded by shrubs in the lush foliage of summer, was enough to catch the heart of every man. The season, the scene, the air, everything was favorable to tenderness and feeling. Mrs. Grant and her tambor frame were not without benefit: it was all in harmony; and since everything pays off once love gets going, even the sandwich tray and Dr. Grant, who gave him the honor, were worth a look. However, without studying the business or knowing what he was up to, at the end of a week of such traffic, Edmund began to be quite in love; and to the honor of the lady it can be added that without being a man of the world or an older brother, without the art of flattery or the cheerfulness of small talk, he began to be pleasant to her. She felt it that way, even though she had not foreseen it, and could hardly comprehend it; for he was not pleasant according to any general rule: he did not speak nonsense; he did not compliment; his opinions were indomitable, his attention calm and simple. Perhaps there was a charm in his sincerity, his steadfastness, his honesty that Miss Dorset liked to feel, even if she did not want to discuss with herself. However, she didn't think much about it: she liked it for the moment; she liked to have him near her; it was enough. he did not compliment; his opinions were indomitable, his attention calm and simple. Perhaps there was a charm in his sincerity, his steadfastness, his honesty that Miss Dorset liked to feel, even if she did not want to discuss with herself. However, she didn't think much about it: she liked it for the moment; she liked to have him near her; it was enough. he did not compliment; his opinions were indomitable, his attention calm and simple. Perhaps there was a charm in his sincerity, his steadfastness, his honesty that Miss Dorset liked to feel, even if she did not want to discuss with herself. However, she didn't think much about it: she liked it for the moment; she liked to have him near her; it was enough.
Esther could not be surprised that Edmund was in the rectory every morning; she would have liked to have been there too, she could have gone in uninvited and unnoticed to hear the harp; she also couldn't be surprised that when the evening walk was over and the two families separated again, he thought it was right to follow Mrs. Grant and her sister home while Mr. Dorset devoted himself to the ladies of the park; but she thought it was a very bad exchange; and if Edmund wasn't there to mix wine and water for them, he'd rather do without it than not. She was a little surprised that he could spend so many hours with Miss Dorset and no longer saw the kind of mistakes he had already noticed and that she was almost always reminded of by something similar when she was at home in her company; but that's how it was. Edmund liked to talk to her about Miss Dorset, but he seemed to find it enough that the admiral had been spared ever since; and she scrupulously pointed out her own remarks to him so that it wouldn't seem like nausea. The first real pain that Miss Dorset inflicted on her was the result of a tendency to learn to ride, which the former gained soon after her settlement in Mansfield using the example of the young ladies in the park and when Edmund's acquaintance with her increased, led him to encourage the desire and offer his own quiet mare for her first attempts as the most suitable for a beginner, that every stable could offer. No pain, no injury, but he had intended his cousin in this offer: She should not lose a day of exercise. The mare should be brought to the rectory only half an hour before the start of the ride; and Esther was far from feeling offended at his first application and was almost overwhelmed with gratitude that he should ask her for permission.
Miss Dorset made her first essay with great appreciation for herself and without inconvenience to Esther. Edmund, who had taken off the mare and presided over the whole thing, returned in time before either Esther or the faithful old coachman who always accompanied her when she was without her cousins?? were ready to set off. The second day of the trial was not so blameless. Miss Dorset's joy in riding was so great that she didn't know how to stop. Active and fearless, and although it was rather small and strongly built, it seemed to be made for a rider; and to the pure genuine pleasure of the exercise, something was probably added in Edmund's presence and instructions, and a little more in the belief that they generally far surpass their gender by their early progress to keep them from descending. Esther was ready and waiting, and Mrs. Norris began to scold her for not leaving, and still no horse was announced, no Edmund appeared. To avoid her aunt and look for him, she went out.
The houses, although barely half a mile apart, were not in sight; but when she was fifty yards from the front door, she could look down the park and take a look at the rectory and all its estates rising gently above the village street; and on Dr. Grant's meadow she immediately saw the group – Edmund and Miss Dorset, both on horseback, riding side by side, Dr. and Mrs. Grant and Mr. Dorset with two or three nurses standing around and watching. A cheerful society seemed to her, all interested in one object: without any doubt cheerful, because the sound of happiness even rose to her. It was a sound that did not make her happy; she wondered if Edmund should forget her and felt a sting. She could not avert her eyes from the meadow; she couldn't help but watch everything that passed. First, Miss Dorset and her companion made the circumnavigation of the field, which was not small, in the crotch of one foot; then, at their obvious suggestion, they climbed into a gallop; and for Esther's shy nature, it was most amazing to see how well she sat. After a few minutes, they stopped altogether. Edmund was close to her; he spoke to her; he obviously directed their handling of the bridle; he held her hand; she saw it, or the imagination provided what the eye could not achieve. She should not be surprised by this; what could be more natural than edmund should make himself useful and prove his good-naturedness through anyone? She couldn't help but think that Mr. Dorset might as well have spared him the trouble; that it would have been particularly chic and decent for a brother to have done it himself; but Mr. Dorset, for all his vaunted good-naturedness and all his coaching, he probably didn't know anything about it and had no active kindness compared to Edmund. She began to find it quite hard for the mare to have such a dual duty; if she was forgotten, one should remember the poor mare.
Her feelings for one and the other soon calmed down a little when she saw the company dissolve in the meadow and Miss Dorset still on horseback, but accompanied by Edmund on foot, through a gate into the alley and so into the park and go to the place where she stood. She began to be afraid of appearing rude and impatient; and approached them with great fear to avoid suspicion.
"My dear Miss Price," Said Miss Dorset, as soon as she was even within earshot, "I came to apologize to myself for making you wait; but I have nothing in the world to say to myself – I knew it was very late and that I was behaving extremely ill; and therefore you must please forgive me. Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of healing."
Esther's response was extremely polite, and Edmund added his conviction that she couldn't be in a hurry. "Because my cousin has more than enough time to ride twice as far as she ever drives," he said, "and you've boosted her well-being by preventing her from leaving half an hour earlier: now clouds are gathering, and she's not going to suffer from the heat she would have done then. I wish you couldn't get tired of so much exercise. I wish you had saved yourself that trip home."
"None of this tires me except to get off this horse, I assure you," she said as she jumped down with his help; "I'm very strong. Nothing ever tires me out except doing what I don't like. Miss Price, I give in to you with a very bad grace; but I sincerely hope that you will have a pleasant ride and that I have only good things to hear from this lovely, delightful, beautiful animal."
The old coachman, who had been waiting with his own horse, now joined them, Esther was lifted on hers, and they made their way through another part of the park; her discomfort did not subside when she saw in retrospect that the others were walking down the hill to the village together; even her servant did not do much to her with his remarks about Miss Dorset's great wisdom as a rider, which he had observed with an interest almost equal to her own.
"It's a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding!" he said. "I never see someone who sits better on a horse. She didn't seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, Miss, when you started, six years ago the next Easter is coming. Lord bless you! how you trembled when Sir Thomas let you dress for the first time!"
Miss Dorset was also celebrated in the salon. Her merit in being blessed by nature with strength and courage was fully appreciated by the Miss Schmidts; her joy of riding was like her own; Their early excellence in it was like their own, and they had great pleasure in praising them.
"I was sure she would ride well," Julia said; "She has what it takes. Her figure is as well-groomed as her brother's."
"Yes," Maria added, "and her mood is just as good, and she has the same strength of character. I can't help but believe that good riding has a lot to do with the mind."
When they broke up in the evening, Edmund asked Esther if she wanted to ride the next day.
"No, I don't know – not if you want the mare," was her answer.
"I don't want them for me at all," he said; "but the next time you're inclined to stay at home, I think Miss Dorset would be happy to have her with her for longer – in short, for a whole morning. She has a great desire to get to Mansfield Common: Mrs. Grant has told her about his beautiful prospects, and I have no doubt that she is completely up to it. But every morning is enough for that. She would be very sorry to disturb you. It would be very wrong for her to do so. She rides just for pleasure; They for health."
"I'm certainly not going to ride tomorrow," Esther said; "I've been on the road a lot lately and would rather stay at home. You know I'm strong enough now to go very well."
Edmund looked satisfied, which must be Esther's consolation, and the drive to Mansfield Common took place the next morning: the party included all the young people except her and was very much enjoyed at the time and enjoyed twice again in the evening discussion. A successful plan of this kind generally produces another; and since they were in Mansfield Common, she made everyone go somewhere else the next day. There were many other views to show; and although the weather was hot, there were shady alleys wherever they wanted to go. A young party always has a shady alley. Four beautiful mornings in a row were spent in this way showing Dorset the land and paying tribute to its most beautiful places. Everything answered; it was all cheerfulness and good mood, the heat only provided inconvenience enough to be talked about with pleasure – until the fourth day, when the happiness of one of the participants was extraordinarily clouded. Miss Schmidt was one of them. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine in the rectory and she was expelled. It was intended by Mrs Grant and done with perfect good humor on the bill of Mr Rushmore, who was partially expected in the park that day; but it was perceived as a very serious injury, and her good manners were severely strained to hide her anger and anger until she came home. Since Mr. Rushmore did not come, the injury became even greater, and she did not even have the relief to show her power over him; she could only be grumpy to her mother, aunt and cousin and throw as much gloom as possible over her dinner and dessert. when the happiness was extraordinarily clouded by one of the party. Miss Schmidt was one of them. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine in the rectory and she was expelled. It was intended by Mrs Grant and done with perfect good humor on the bill of Mr Rushmore, who was partially expected in the park that day; but it was perceived as a very serious injury, and her good manners were severely strained to hide her anger and anger until she came home. Since Mr. Rushmore did not come, the injury became even greater, and she did not even have the relief to show her power over him; she could only be grumpy to her mother, aunt and cousin and throw as much gloom as possible over her dinner and dessert. when the happiness was extraordinarily clouded by one of the party. Miss Schmidt was one of them. Edmund and Julia were invited to dine in the rectory and she was expelled. It was intended by Mrs Grant and done with perfect good humor on the bill of Mr Rushmore, who was partially expected in the park that day; but it was perceived as a very serious injury, and her good manners were severely strained to hide her anger and anger until she came home. Since Mr. Rushmore did not come, the injury increased, and she did not even have the relief to show her power over him; she could only be grumpy to her mother, aunt and cousin and throw as much gloom as possible over her dinner and dessert. with the perfect good mood, on the bill of Mr Rushmore, who was partly expected at the park that day; but it was perceived as a very serious injury, and her good manners were severely strained to hide her anger and anger until she came home. Since Mr. Rushmore did not come, the injury became even greater, and she did not even have the relief to show her power over him; she could only be grumpy to her mother, aunt and cousin and throw as much gloom as possible over her dinner and dessert. with the perfect good mood, on the bill of Mr Rushmore, who was partly expected at the park that day; but it was perceived as a very serious injury, and her good manners were severely strained to hide her anger and anger until she came home. Since Mr. Rushmore did not come, the injury increased, and she did not even have the relief to show her power over him; she could only be grumpy to her mother, aunt and cousin and throw as much gloom as possible over her dinner and dessert.
Between ten and eleven, Edmund and Julia entered the salon, fresh from the evening air, bright and cheerful, exactly the opposite of what they found with the three ladies sitting there, for Maria would hardly lift her eyes from her book, and Lady Schmidt was half asleep; and even Mrs. Norris, who was disturbed by her niece's bad mood and had asked a question or two about dinner that wasn't answered immediately, seemed almost determined not to say anything more. For a few minutes, the brothers and sisters, in their praise of the night and their remarks about the stars, were too zealous to think beyond themselves; but when the first break came, Edmund looked around and said, "But where is Esther? Did she go to bed?"
"No, not that I know," replied Mrs. Norris; "She was still here a moment ago."
Her own soft voice speaking at the other end of the very long room told them that she was sitting on the sofa. Mrs. Norris began to scold.
"That's a very stupid trick, Esther, hanging out on a sofa all evening. Why can't you come here and sit here and keep yourself as busy as we are? If you do not have your own work, I can supply you from the poor basket. The whole new Kattun, which was bought last week, has not yet been touched. I'm sure I almost broke my back when I cut it out. You should learn to think of other people; and believe me, it's a shocking trick for a young person to always be lounging on a sofa."
Even before half of them had spoken, Esther had returned to her seat at the table and resumed her work; and Julia, who was in the best mood of the joys of the day, did her the honor of exclaiming, "I must say, madam, that Esther sits on the sofa as little as everyone else in the house."
"Esther," Edmund said after looking at her attentively, "I'm sure you have a headache."
She couldn't deny it, but said it wasn't very bad.
"I can't believe you," he replied; "I know your appearance too well. How long did you have it?"
"Since just before eating. It's nothing but the heat."
"Did you go out in the heat?"
"Go out! for sure," Mrs. Norris said, "would you let them stay here on such a beautiful day as this? Weren't we all outside? Even your mother was away for over an hour today."
"Yes, indeed, Edmund," contributed your ladyship, which had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris' sharp reference to Esther; "I was on the road for over an hour. I sat in the flower garden for three quarters of an hour while Esther cut the roses; and it was very pleasant, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I explain that I was quite afraid of coming home again."
"Esther cut roses, didn't she?"
"Yes, and I'm afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She thought it was hot enough; but they were so full-grown that you couldn't wait."
"It certainly wasn't a help for that," Mrs. Norris replied in a rather soft voice; "But I wonder if her headache might not be intercepted then, sister. There is nothing so likely as to stand in a hot sun and bend down; but I dare say that tomorrow will be good. Suppose you leave her your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to replenish mine."
"She has it," said Lady Schmidt; "She's had it since she came back from your house the second time."
"What!" cried Edmund; "it has gone as well as cut roses; Walk through the hot park to your house and do it twice, Ma'am? No wonder her head hurts."
Mrs. Norris spoke to Julia and did not hear her.
"I was afraid it would be too much for her," lady Schmidt said; "but when the roses were picked, your aunt wanted them, and then you know they have to be brought home."
"But were there enough roses to force them to walk twice?"
"No; but they should be placed in the guest room to dry; and unfortunately Esther forgot to lock the door of the room and take away the key, so she had to leave again."
Edmund got up, walked up and down the room and said, "And could no one but Esther be busy with such an errand? At my word, Ma'am, it was a very poorly run business."
"I'm sure I don't know how it could have been done better," cried Mrs. Norris, unable to be deaf any longer; "Unless I had left myself; but I can't be in two places at the same time; and I was talking to Mr. Green right now about your mother's dairywoman, at her request, and had promised John Groom to write to Mrs. Jefferies about his son, and the poor guy was waiting for me for half an hour. I don't think anyone can rightly accuse me of sparing myself at every opportunity, but I really can't do everything at once. And as for Esther, who is just coming to my home for me — it's not much more than a quarter mile away — I can't believe it was unreasonable to ask her for it. How many times a day do I go up and down three times a day, early and late, yes, and even in any weather, and don't say anything about it?
"I wish Esther had only half of your strength, Ma'am."
"If Esther moved more regularly, she wouldn't be impregnated as quickly. She hasn't been on horseback for so long now, and I'm convinced that if she's not riding, she should go on foot. If she had ridden before, I wouldn't have asked her to. But I thought it would do her more good after she was bent between the roses; for nothing is as refreshing as a walk after such fatigue; and although the sun was strong, it wasn't that hot. Among us, Edmund," he nodded significantly to his mother, "the cutting of roses and the dawdling around in the flower garden has wreaked havoc."
"I'm afraid it really was," said the more open Lady Schmidt, who had overheard her; "I am very afraid that she caught the headache there, because the heat was enough to kill everyone. It was as much as I could bear myself. Sitting and shouting Pug and trying to keep him away from the flower beds was almost too much for me."
Edmund didn't say to any of the ladies anymore; but he quietly went to another table with the dinner tray on it, brought Esther a glass of Madeira and forced her to drink most of it. She wanted to be able to refuse it; but the tears that evoked various feelings made swallowing easier than speaking.
As angry as Edmund was with his mother and aunt, he was even more upset with himself. His own forgetfulness was worse than anything they had done. None of this would have happened if it had been properly taken into account; but she had been left together for four days, without a choice of companions or movement, and without any excuse for avoiding anything her unreasonable aunts might ask for. He was ashamed at the thought that she had not been able to ride for four days and decided very seriously, as little as he had to be willing to slow down a pleasure of Miss Dorset, that something like this should never happen again.
Esther went to bed with a full heart as she did on the first night of her arrival at the park. The state of their mood had probably had their share of their discomfort; because she felt neglected and had been fighting against dissatisfaction and envy for several days. When she leaned on the sofa on which she had retreated so that she could not be seen, the pain of her mind had been much greater than that in her head; and the sudden change that Edmund's kindness had then caused left her with little idea of how to feed herself.
Chapter 37
Harriet stayed in Hartfield that night. For several weeks she spent more than half of her time there and gradually got her own bedroom; and Emma thought it was the best, safest and friendliest thing in every way to keep her with her as much as possible right now. She had to go to Mrs. Goddard's house for an hour or two the next morning, but it was then to be agreed that she should return to Hartfield for a regular visit of a few days.
While she was away, Mr. Hill called and sat for some time with Mr. Lodge and Emma, ?? until Mr. Lodge, who had previously decided to go out, was persuaded by his daughter not to postpone it, and was persuaded to do so by the pleas of both, although against the scruples of his own courtesy, to leave Mr. Hill for this purpose. Mr. Hill, who had nothing ceremonial about him, offered an amusing contrast to each other's lengthy apologies and civil hesitations with his short, decisive answers.
"Well, I think if you would excuse me, Mr. Hill, if you don't think I'm very rude, I'm going to follow Emma's advice and go out for a quarter of an hour. Since the sun is shining, I think I'd better take my three turns while I can. I treat you without ceremony, Mr. Hill. We invalids consider ourselves privileged people."
"My dear Lord, do not make a stranger out of me."
"I leave an excellent replacement in my daughter. Emma is happy to entertain you. And that's why I think, I apologize and do my three rounds – my winter walk."
"You can't do better, sir."
"I would like to ask you for company, Mr. Hill, but I am going very slowly, and my step would tire you out; and besides, you still have a long walk ahead of you, to Donwell Abbey."
"Thank you, Lord, thank you; I am leaving myself at this moment; and I think the sooner you go, the better. I'll get your coat and open the garden door for you."
Finally Mr. Lodge was gone; but Mr. Hill sat down again, instead of leaving right away, apparently inclined to chat even more. He began to speak of Harriet and spoke of her with more voluntary praise than Emma had ever heard before.
"I can't judge their beauty the way you do," he said; "but she's a pretty little creature, and I tend to judge her predisposition very well. Her character depends on those she is with; but in good hands she will become a valuable woman."
"I'm glad you think so; and the good hands, I hope, may not be missing."
"Come," he said, "you're looking forward to a compliment, so I want to tell you that you've improved it. You have healed her from the giggles of her schoolgirl; it really does you all the credit."
"Thank you. I would be really ashamed if I didn't think I had been useful; but it's not everyone who will give praise where they can. You don't often overwhelm me with it."
"You're expecting them again this morning, you say?"
"Almost every moment. She's been gone longer than she intended."
"Something happened to delay them; some visitors maybe."
"Highbury gossip! – Tiring guys!"
"Harriet may not find every body as tiring as you do."
Emma knew this was too true for a contradiction, so she said nothing. He immediately added with a smile:
"I'm not claiming to commit to times or places, but I have to tell you that I have good reason to believe that your little friend will soon experience something to her advantage."
"Indeed! Why is that? of what kind?"
"A very serious strain, I assure you;" still smiling.
"Very serious! I can only think of one thing: Who is in love with her? Who makes you his confidant?"
Emma was more than halfway hoping that Mr. Alton would drop a clue. Mr. Hill was something of a general friend and advisor, and she knew Mr. Alton was looking up to him.
"I have reason to believe," he replied, "that Harriet Smith will soon make a marriage offer from an absolutely impeccable side: – Robert Martin is the man. Your visit to Abbey-Mill this summer seems to have done his job. He is madly in love and wants to marry her."
"He's very accommodating," Emma said; "But is he sure Harriet wants to marry him?"
"Well, well, that means making her an offer. Will that be enough? He came to the abbey two evenings ago to consult me about it. He knows that I hold him and his whole family in high esteem, and I think I consider me one of his best friends. He came to ask me if I thought it was careless to come to terms so early; whether I thought she was too young: in short, whether I even approved of his choice; perhaps having some fear that she (especially since you think so much of her) will be seen as in a line of society above him. I was very pleased with everything he said. I don't hear more reason from anyone than from Robert Martin. He always speaks for purpose; open, straightforward and very good judgment. He told me everything; his circumstances and plans, and what they all proposed to do in case of his marriage. He is an excellent young man, both as a son and as a brother. I did not hesitate to advise him to get married. He has proven to me that he can afford it; and then I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." He is an excellent young man, both as a son and as a brother. I did not hesitate to advise him to get married. He has proven to me that he can afford it; and then I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." He is an excellent young man, both as a son and as a brother. I did not hesitate to advise him to get married. He has proven to me that he can afford it; and then I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." I did not hesitate to advise him to get married. He has proven to me that he can afford it; and then I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." I did not hesitate to advise him to get married. He has proven to me that he can afford it; and then I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." I was convinced that he couldn't do better. I also praised the beautiful lady and sent him away quite happily. If he had never appreciated my opinion before, he would have had a high opinion of me at the time; and, dare I say, left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." left the house and thought I was the best friend and counselor a person has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and she can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome." left the house and considered me the best friend and counselor a man has ever had. This happened the day before yesterday evening. Well, as we can probably assume, he would not let much time pass before talking to the lady, and since he apparently did not speak yesterday, it is not unlikely that he should be with Mrs. Goddard today; and it can be stopped by a visitor without even considering him an annoying gnome."
"Please, Mr. Hill," Emma said, ?? who had smiled during a large part of this speech, "How do you know that Mr. Martin did not speak yesterday?"
"Certainly," he replied surprised, "I don't know exactly; but it can be concluded. Wasn't she with you all day?"
"Come," she said, "I'll tell you something in return for what you told me. He spoke yesterday – that is, he wrote and was rejected."
This had to be repeated before it could be believed; and Mr. Hill actually looked red with surprise and displeasure when he stood up in great indignation and said
"Then she is a greater simplicity brush than I ever believed her. What's up with the stupid girl?"
"Oh! of course," cried Emma, ?"?" it is always incomprehensible to a man that a woman ever rejects a marriage proposal. A man always imagines a woman as ready for any body that asks her."
"Nonsense! a man does not imagine such a thing. But what's the point of that? Harriet Smith rejects Robert Martin? Madness, if so; but I hope you are wrong."
"I've seen her answer! – nothing could be clearer."
"They've seen their answer! – They also wrote their answer. Emma?? this is your work. You persuaded them to reject him."
"And if I did (which I'm far from allowing), I shouldn't feel like I've done anything wrong. Mr. Martin is a very respectable young man, but I can't admit that he is on a par with Harriet; and I'm actually quite surprised that he should have dared to approach her. According to you, he seems to have had some scruples. Too bad they were ever overcome."
"Not equal to Harriet!" exclaimed Mr. Hill loudly and warmly; and with calmer harshness he added a few moments later: "No, he is indeed not equal to her, because he is superior to her both in terms of sense and in the situation. Emma?? your infatuation with this girl makes you blind. What are Harriet Smith's claims, either in terms of birth, nature or education, to a connection that is higher than Robert Martin? She is the biological daughter of no one knows who, probably without regular care and certainly without respectable relatives. She is only known as a couch potato. at a common school. She is neither a reasonable girl nor a girl with any information. She has not been taught anything useful, and she is too young and too easy to have acquired anything for herself. At her age, she can't have any experience, and with her little joke, she'll probably never have one that could benefit her. She's pretty, and she's in a good mood, and that's all. My only scruples in recommending the game were because of him, as it was below his merit and represented a bad connection for him. I felt that in all likelihood he could do much better; and that he could not make it worse in terms of a reasonable companion or useful assistant. But I could not argue so well to a man in love and was willing to trust that no harm was done to her, that she had a kind of predisposition that could easily be fixed and consolidated in good hands like his own very well. The advantage of the game was, in my opinion, entirely on their side; and had not the slightest doubt (nor do I have now) that there would be a general call for their extreme happiness. I have also taken care of your satisfaction. It immediately occurred to me that you would not regret that your friend left Highbury because of her good acclimatization. I remember saying to myself, 'Even Emma, ?? with all her fondness for Harriet, I'll think it's a good game.'"
"I can't help but be surprised that you know so little about Emma to say something like that. What! Think a farmer (and for all his wits and merits, Mr. Martin is nothing more) is a good fit for my intimate friend! Don't regret leaving Highbury to marry a man I could never admit as my own acquaintance! I wonder if you should consider it possible that I have such feelings. I assure you, mine are very different. I don't have to find your statement fair. They not only meet Harriet's requirements. They would be assessed very differently by both others and me; Mr. Martin may be the richest of the two, but he is undoubtedly socially inferior to her. – The sphere in which it moves is far above his. – It would be a humiliation."
"A humiliation to the illegitimacy and ignorance of being married to a respectable, intelligent gentleman farmer!"
"As far as the circumstances of her birth are concerned, although she cannot be called anyone in the legal sense, she will not correspond to common sense. She should not pay for insulting others by being placed below the level of those she grew up with. – There can be little doubt that her father is a gentleman – and a gentleman of fortune very liberal; nothing has ever been disliked for their improvement or convenience. - That she is the daughter of a lord is beyond doubt to me; no one will deny that she has dealings with the daughters of a gentleman. – She is superior to Mr. Robert Martin."
"Whoever their parents may have been," Mr. Hill said, "whoever may have been responsible for them, it doesn't seem to have been part of their plan to introduce them to what you would call good company. After receiving a very indifferent education, she is left in Mrs. Goddard's hands to move as she can; - in short, to switch to Mrs. Goddard's lineage in order to have Mrs. Goddard's acquaintance. Her friends obviously thought that was good enough for her; and it was good enough. She wished for nothing better. Until you decided to make her a friend, her mind had no aversion to her own set and no ambition beyond that. She was as happy as possible with the Martins in the summer. She had no sense of superiority at the time. If she has it now, you have given it. They were not a friend of Harriet Smith, Emma. Robert Martin would never have gotten this far if he hadn't felt convinced that she wasn't averse to him. I know him well. He has too much real feeling to appeal to any woman about the arbitrary selfish passion. And as far as vanity is concerned, he is the furthest from it of all the men I know. Rely on him to have encouragement."
Emma was most comfortable not to give a direct answer to this claim; she preferred to take up her own line of the subject again.
"You are a very warm friend to Mr. Martin; but, as I said, Harriet is unfair. Harriet's claims of marrying well are not as contemptuous as you represent them. She's not a smart girl, but she has a better mind than you realize, and doesn't deserve to be talked so disparagingly about her understanding. That being said, and assuming she is, as you describe her, just pretty and good-natured, let me tell you that to the extent that she possesses them, it is not trivial recommendations to the world in general for her is indeed a beautiful girl and must be thought of that way by ninety-nine out of a hundred people; and until it turns out that men are much more philosophical about beauty than is generally assumed; until they fall in love with well-informed minds instead of pretty faces, a girl with such loveliness as Harriet, has the certainty of being admired and sought after, of having the power to choose among many, consequently the claim to be nice. Their good-naturedness is also not such a small claim, since it includes a real, thorough gentleness of temperament and behavior, a very modest opinion of themselves and a great willingness to enjoy other people. I am very mistaken if your gender in general did not think that such beauty and temperament are the highest standards a woman can possess." and a great willingness to enjoy other people. I am very mistaken if your gender in general did not think that such beauty and temperament are the highest standards a woman can possess." and a great willingness to enjoy other people. I am very mistaken if your gender in general did not think that such beauty and temperament are the highest standards a woman can possess."
"On my word, Emma, ?? Hearing that you are abusing the reason you have is almost enough to make me think so too. Better to be pointless than to use it as wrongly as you do."
"To be sure!" she shouted playfully. "I know that's the feeling of all of you. I know that a girl like Harriet is exactly what every man enjoys – what beguiles his senses and satisfies his judgment. Oh! Harriet can choose and choose. If you were ever to get married yourself, she's just the woman for you. And is she just starting to come to life at the age of seventeen, is she just beginning to become known, to wonder about her because she does not accept the first offer she receives? No – please give her time to look around."
"I've always thought it was a very stupid intimacy," Mr. Hill said after a while, "even though I kept my thoughts to myself; but I realize now that it will be very unfortunate for Harriet. You will inflate her with such ideas about her own beauty and what she is entitled to, that in a short time no one within her reach will be good enough for her. Vanity working on a weak head produces any kind of mischief. Nothing is as easy as for a young lady to raise her expectations too high. Miss Harriet Smith may not find marriage offers so quickly, even though she is a very pretty girl. Reasonable men, whatever you may say, don't want stupid women. Family members wouldn't want to connect with such an unknown girl — and most prudent men would be afraid of the inconvenience and shame they might be involved in when the secret of their ancestry was revealed. Let her marry Robert Martin, and she will be safe, decent and happy forever; but if you encourage her to expect a great marriage and teach her to be satisfied with nothing less than a man of importance and great fortune, she may become a couch potato. the rest of her life with Mrs. Goddard – or at least (because Harriet Smith is a girl who will marry one or the other) until she becomes desperate and is happy to catch the son of the old master writer."
"We think about this point so differently, Mr. Hill, that there is no point in promoting it. We will only make ourselves angrier. But it's impossible for me to let her marry Robert Martin; she rejected it, and she did so decisively, as I think, that she has to prevent every second application. She must endure the evil of rejecting him, whatever it may be; and as for the refusal itself, I will not pretend to say that I could not influence it a little; but I assure you, there was very little for me or anyone to do. His appearance is so much against him and his behavior so bad that she is no longer if she had ever been inclined to favor him. I can imagine that she could tolerate it before she has seen a superior body. He was the brother of her friends and tried to please her; and anyway, since she hadn't seen anyone better (that must have been his great assistant), she might not find him uncomfortable while she was in Abbey Mill. But the case is now being changed. She now knows what gentlemen are; and nothing but a gentleman in education and manners has a chance with Harriet."
"Nonsense, lost nonsense, however people talked about!" shouted Mr. Hill. – "Robert Martin's manners have sense, sincerity and good humor to recommend them; and his mind has more true nobility than Harriet Smith could understand."
Emma didn't answer and tried to look cheerful and carefree, but she felt really uncomfortable and wished very much that he was gone. She did not regret what she had done; she still considered herself a better judge on such a point of female righteousness and sophistication than he could be; but still, she had a kind of habitual respect for his judgment in general, which led her not to have it so loud against her; and it was very uncomfortable for her to let him sit opposite her in an angry state. A few minutes passed in this unpleasant silence, with only one attempt from Emma's side to talk about the weather, but he did not answer. He thought. The result of his thoughts eventually appeared in these words.
"Robert Martin has no great loss – if only he can believe it; and I hope it won't be long before he does. Your views on Harriet are best known to you; but since you're not making a secret of your love of marriage, it's fair to assume that you have views, plans, and projects – and as a friend, I'll only hint to you that if Alton is the man, I think all the effort will be in vain."
Emma laughed and refused. He continued,
"Rely on it, Alton is not enough. Alton is a very good man and a very respectable vicar of Highbury, but it is not at all likely that he will play a careless game. He knows the value of a good income almost every body. Alton may speak sentimentally, but he will act rationally. He is as familiar with his own aspirations as he is with Harriet's. He knows that he is a very handsome young man and a big favorite wherever he goes; and from his general way of speaking in unreserved moments when only men are present, I am convinced that he does not intend to throw himself away. I have heard him speak with great liveliness from a large family of young ladies with whom his sisters are familiar and who all have twenty thousand pounds each."
"I'm very attached to you," Emma said, laughing again. "If I had focused my heart on Alton Harriet-san getting married, it would have been very kind to open my eyes; but right now I just want to keep Harriet to myself. I have indeed finished with match-making. I could never hope to compete with my own accomplishments at Randalls. I'll stop as long as I'm fine."
"Good morning," he said, got up and walked away abruptly. He was very upset. He felt the young man's disappointment and was ashamed to have been the means of promoting it, by the sanction he had given; and the role he was convinced Emma had taken on in the matter provoked him extraordinarily.
Emma also remained in a state of trouble; but there was more ambiguity in their causes than in his. She was not always as completely satisfied with herself, so completely convinced that her opinion was right and that of her opponent wrong, as Mr. Hill. He left with more complete self-affirmation than he had gone for her. However, it was not so materially depressed, but that a little time and the return of Harriet were very appropriate means of restoration. The fact that Harriet stayed away for so long slowly made her uncomfortable. The possibility that the young man could come to Mrs. Goddard that morning and meet with Harriet and stand up for his own cause gave rise to worrying thoughts. The fear of such failure eventually became a salient unease; and when Harriet appeared, and in a very good mood,
because of Mr. Alton, he had frightened her a little; but when she considered that Mr. Hill could not have observed him as she had done, neither with the interest nor (she must be allowed to say to herself despite Mr. Hill's presumption) with the skill of such an observer a question like herself, that he had spoken it hastily and in anger, she could believe that he had rather said this, what he wanted to admit annoyingly, as what he knew something about. He could certainly have heard Mr. Alton speak with more impartiality than she had ever done, and Mr. Alton may not have been of a careless, reckless disposition when it came to money matters; he could, of course, be more attentive to them than usual; but Mr. Hill did not take due account of the influence of a strong passion for war with all interested motives. Lord. Hill saw no such passion and, of course, did not think about its effects; but she saw too much of it to feel any doubt that it overcomes any hesitation that a reasonable prudence might originally suggest; and more than a reasonable degree of prudence, she was very sure that she did not belong to Mr. Alton.
Harriet's cheerful look and manner confirmed hers: she came back not to think of Mr. Martin, but to talk about Mr. Alton. Miss Nash had told her something, which she immediately repeated with great joy. Mr. Perry had been with Mrs. Goddard to take care of a sick child, and Miss Nash had seen him, and he had told Miss Nash that when he returned from Clayton Park yesterday, he had met Mr. Alton and found his big surprise that Mr. Alton was actually on his way to London and did not intend to to return before tomorrow, even though it was the Whist club night he had never missed before; and Mr. Perry had reproached him about this, telling him how shabby it was for him, their best player, to leave, and had gone to great lengths to persuade him to postpone his trip by just one day; but it didn't work; Lord. Alton was determined to keep going, and had actually said in a very specific way that he would do business that he would not postpone for any incentive in the world; and something about a very enviable mission and to be the bearer of something extremely precious. Mr. Perry couldn't quite understand him, but he was very sure it had to be a lady, and he told him; and Alton-san just looked very conscious and smiling and rode away in the best of moods. Miss Nash had told her all this and talked much more about Alton-san; and said, looking at her so meaningfully, "that she didn't pretend to understand what his business might be, but she only knew that any woman who might prefer Mr. Alton should consider her the happiest woman in the world; for no doubt Mr.
Chapter 38
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with a lavish income. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had experienced respectably married, and therefore now had no choice but to marry the whole rest of the world. In promoting this object, it was diligent, as far as its assets were sufficient; and never missed an opportunity to plan weddings among all the young people of their acquaintance. She was remarkably quick to discover attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of letting the blush and vanity of some young lady come from hints of her power over such a young man; and this kind of judgment enabled her to resolutely declare that Colonel Bridgerton was very much in love with Marianne Hargrove soon after her arrival in Barton. She already sensed it on the first evening of their togetherness, from his attentive listening as she sang to them; and when the visit was reciprocated by the Mideltowns while eating at the hut, the fact was established by listening to her again. It has to be that way. She was completely convinced of that. It would be an excellent couple because HE was rich and SHE was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Bridgerton well married since she had met him through her association with Sir John; and she always strived to find a good husband for every pretty girl. Jennings had been keen to see Colonel Bridgerton well married since she first learned about it through her association with Sir John; and she always strived to find a good husband for every pretty girl. Jennings had been keen to see Colonel Bridgerton well married since she first learned about it through her association with Sir John; and she always strived to find a good husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage for herself was by no means insignificant, for it provided her with endless jokes against both of them. In the park she laughed at the colonel and in the hut at Marianne. The former was probably completely indifferent to their gossip as far as only himself was concerned; but for the latter it was initially incomprehensible; and when its purpose was understood, she hardly knew whether to laugh the most at his absurdity or rebuke his impudence, for she saw it as a callous reflection on the advanced years of the Colonel and on his abandoned state as an old bachelor.
Mrs. Hargrove, who could not imagine a man five years younger than her, as exceedingly old as he appeared to her daughter's youthful imagination, dared to free Mrs. Jennings from the likelihood of wanting to ridicule his age.
"But at least, Mom, you can't deny the absurdity of the accusation, even though you may not find it intentionally ill-tempered. Colonel Bridgerton is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if he was ever lively enough to be in love, every sensation of this kind must have survived long ago. It's too ridiculous! When is a man in front of such?? Sure joke if age and frailty don't protect him?
"Infirmity!" said Eleanore, "Do you call Colonel Bridgerton frailly? I can easily imagine that his age seems much greater to you than my mother;
"Didn't you hear him complain about rheumatism?
"My dearest child," her mother said laughing, "at this pace, you must be in constant fear of MY decay, and it must seem like a miracle to you that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."
"Mom, you don't do me justice. I know very well that Colonel Bridgerton is not yet old enough to worry his friends, but he fears losing him in the course of nature. He lives maybe twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with making marriage."
"Perhaps," said Eleanore, "thirty-five and seventeen should have nothing to do with marriage together. But if there happens to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I wouldn't think of Colonel Bridgerton is thirty-five and has nothing against marrying HER."
"A woman of twenty-seven years," Marianne said after pausing for a moment, "can never hope to feel or awaken affection again, and if her home is uncomfortable or her wealth is small, I can assume that she will overcome herself to submit to the offices of a nurse for the sake of a woman's care and safety. So there would be nothing inappropriate about his marriage to such a woman. It would be an alliance of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes, it wouldn't be a marriage at all, but that wouldn't be anything. It seems to me to be just a trade exchange where everyone wants to be favored at the expense of the other."
"I know it would be impossible," Eleanore replied, "to convince you that a woman of twenty-seven could only feel anywhere near enough for a man of thirty-five to make him a desirable companion for her. But I have to object to your doomed Colonel Bridgerton and his wife about the constant locking up of a hospital room just because yesterday (on a very cold, damp day) he happened to complain about a slight rheumatic feeling in one of his shoulders.
"But he spoke of flannel vests," Marianne said; "and for me, a flannel vest is inevitably associated with pain, cramps, rheumatism, and all kinds of ailments that can afflict the old and weak."
"If only he had a severe fever, you wouldn't have despised him half as much.
Shortly thereafter, as Eleanore left the room, Marianne said, "Mom, I have a concern about illness that I can't hide from you. I'm sure Edward Gastonois isn't doing well for fourteen days, and yet he's not coming. Nothing but real malaise could cause this extraordinary delay. What else can stop him in Norland?"
"Did you have any idea he was coming so soon?" said Ms. Hargrove. "I didn't have any. On the contrary, if I felt any concern at all about the subject, it was in the memory that he sometimes showed a lack of joy and willingness to accept my invitation when I spoke of him coming to Barton. Is Eleanore already expecting him?"
"I never mentioned it to her, but of course she has to."
"I rather think you're wrong because when I talked to her yesterday about getting a new grid for the spare bedroom, she noticed that there was no rush for it as it wasn't likely that the room would be needed for some time."
"How strange that is! what does that mean! But all their behavior towards each other was inexplicable! How cold, how composed were their last goodbyes! How sluggish their conversation on the last night of their get-together! At Edward's farewell, there was no difference between Eleanore and me: it was the good wishes of a loving brother for both of them Twice in the course of the last morning I deliberately let them together, and each time he followed me out of the room in a most inexplicable way And Eleanore did not cry like me when she left Norland and Edward. Even now, their self-control is immutable. When is she depressed or melancholic?
Chapter 39
Elizabeth led the boss of the night in her sister's room and had the pleasure of being able to send a bearable response in the morning to the requests she received very early from Mr. Woodland through a maid and some time later from the two elegant ladies who served his sisters. Despite this change, however, she asked for a message to Longbourn asking her mother to visit Jane and form her own judgement about her situation. The note was sent immediately and its contents were complied with just as quickly. Mrs. Mitchell, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield shortly after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in obvious danger, Mrs. Mitchell would have been very unhappy; but satisfied, when she saw her that her illness was not alarming, she did not have the desire for her to recover immediately, as her restoration of her health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would therefore not listen to her daughter's suggestion to be carried home; even the pharmacist, who arrived at about the same time, did not consider it advisable. After sitting with Jane for a while, the mother and her three daughters accompanied her to miss Woodland's appearance and invitation to the breakfast room. Woodland met them with the hope that Mrs. Mitchell had not found Miss Mitchell worse than she had expected.
"I actually have, sir," was her reply. "She is far too sick to be transferred. Mr. Jones says we must not think about misplacing them. We have to disregard your kindness a little longer."
'REMOVED!' shouted Woodland. "That must not be thought of. My sister will certainly not know about her removal."
"You can count on It," Madam," Miss Woodland said with cool courtesy, "that Miss Mitchell will receive every possible attention as long as she stays with us."
Mrs. Mitchell was plentiful in her thanksgivings.
"I'm sure," she added, "if there weren't such good friends, I don't know what would become of her, because she's really very sick and suffers a lot, albeit with the greatest patience in the world, that's always the case with her, because she invariably has the sweetest temperament I've ever encountered. I often tell my other girls that they don't mean anything to HER. You have a pretty room here, Mr. Woodland, and an enchanting view over the gravel path. I don't know of any place in the country that equals Netherfield. You won't think about leaving it in a hurry, I hope, even though you only have a short lease.'
"What I do is done in a hurry," he replied; "and if I decide to leave Netherfield, I should probably be gone in five minutes. At the moment, however, I consider myself to be quite fixed here.'
"That's exactly what I should have thought of you," Elizabeth said.
"You're starting to understand me, aren't you?" he shouted and turned to her.
'Oh! yes – I fully understand you.'
"I wish I could take that as a compliment; but to be so easily seen through, I'm afraid, is pathetic."
"This is how it happens. It does not follow that a deep, complicated character is more or less assessable than one like yours.'
"Lizzy," her mother shouted, "remember where you are, and don't go on as wildly as you do at home."
"I didn't know before," Woodland immediately continued, "that you are a scholar of character. It must be an amusing study.'
"Yes, but complicated characters are the funniest. At least they have that advantage.'
"The country," Drury said, "can generally provide few topics for such a study. In a rural neighbourhood, you move in a very close and unchanging society.'
"But the people themselves change so much that there is forever something new to observe in them."
"Yes, indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Mitchell, offended by his way of mentioning a rural neighborhood." I assure you that there is as much going on in the countryside as in the city."
Everyone was surprised, and Drury, after looking at her for a moment, turned away in silence. Mrs. Mitchell, who believed she had achieved a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.
"For my part, I can't see that London has much of an advantage over the country, apart from the shops and public places. The country is much more pleasant, isn't it, Mr. Woodland?'
"When I'm in the countryside," he replied, "I never wish to leave; And when I'm in town, it's pretty much the same. They all have their advantages, and I can be equally happy in both."
"Yes – that's because you have the right attitude. But this gentleman," who looked at Drury, "seems to believe that the country is nothing at all."
"In fact, Mom, you're wrong," Elizabeth said, blushing for her mother. "You got Drury-San completely wrong. He just said that you don't meet as many people in the countryside as you do in the city, which you have to acknowledge as true.'
"Certainly, my dear, no one has said that there are any; but in order not to meet many people in this neighborhood, I believe that there are few neighborhoods that are larger. I know we eat with twenty-four families."
Only concern for Elizabeth could allow Woodland to maintain his stance. His sister was less tender and turned her eyes to Drury-san with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth asked her now, to say something that might change her mother's mind, if Charlotte Lucas had been in Longbourn since HER departure.
"Yes, she called her father yesterday. What a pleasant man Sir William is, Mr. Woodland, isn't he? So much for the man of fashion! So elegant and simple! He always had something to say to everyone. THAT is my idea of good breeding; and those people who consider themselves very important and never open their mouths are completely wrong about it.'
"Did Charlotte eat with you?"
"No, she would go home. I suppose she was wanted for the minced meat pies. For my part, Mr. Woodland, I always have servants who can do their own work; MY daughters are brought up very differently. But everyone should judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good girls, I assure you. Too bad they are not beautiful! Not that I find Charlotte so VERY simple – but after all, she's our special friend."
'She seems to be a very pleasant young woman.'
'Oh! Honey, yes; but you have to admit that it is very simple. Lady Lucas herself has often said this and envied me for Jane's beauty. I don't like to brag about my own child, but to be sure, Jane – you don't often see someone who looks better. That's what everyone says. I don't trust my own bias. When she was only fifteen, a man with my brother Lockhart in town was so in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we got away. But he didn't. Maybe he thought she was too young. However, he wrote some verses about them, and they were very pretty.'
"And so his affection ended," Elizabeth said impatiently. I think many people have been overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in the expulsion of love!'
"I was used to thinking of poetry as the FOOD of love," Drury said.
"Of a fine, strong, healthy love, perhaps. Everything that is already strong nourishes. But if it's just a slight, thin kind of tilt, I'm convinced that a good sonnet will completely starve it.'
Drury just smiled; and the general pause that followed made Elizabeth tremble so that her mother could exhibit herself again. She longed to speak, but she couldn't think of anything to say; and after a brief silence, Mrs. Mitchell began to repeat her thanks to Mr. Woodland for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for harassing him with Lizzy as well. Mr. Woodland was unartificially polite in his response, forcing his younger sister to be polite as well and say what the occasion required. She actually played her role without much kindness, but Mrs. Mitchell was satisfied and ordered her carriage soon after. On this sign, the youngest of her daughters introduced herself. The two girls had whispered to each other throughout the visit, and the result was that the youngest Mr.
Linda was a stocky, well-grown girl of fifteen years old with a fine complexion and a good-humoured facial expression; Darling of her mother, whose affection she had carried into the public eye at an early age. She was in a good mood and a kind of natural self-prudence that had increased the attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good diners and their own carefree manners recommended her, for safety. She was therefore very similar to address Mr. Woodland on the subject of the ball and abruptly reminded him of his promise; and added that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he didn't keep it. His response to this sudden attack was delightful to her mother's ear:
"I am fully ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, if you want, you should call the day of the ball itself. But you wouldn't want to dance when she's sick."
Linda declared herself satisfied. 'Oh! yes – it would be much better to wait until Jane was well, and by that time Captain Carter would most likely be back in Meryton. And when you've given YOUR ball," she added, "I'll insist they give one too. I will tell Colonel Forster that it would be a shame if he did not."
Mrs. Mitchell and her daughters then left, and Elizabeth immediately returned to Jane, leaving her own behavior and that of her relatives to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Drurys; however, despite all the jokes of Miss Woodland on FINE EYES, the latter could not be persuaded to join their criticism of HER.
Chapter 40
Already the next day Esther's rides began; and since it was a pleasantly fresh morning, less hot than the weather lately, Edmund trusted that her losses, both in health and pleasure, would soon be made good. While she was away, Mr. Rushmore arrived and escorted his mother, who had come to be polite and show her courtesy especially by pushing for the execution of the plan to visit Sotherton, which had been started fourteen days earlier and who, as a result, had been dormant her subsequent absence from home ever since. Mrs. Norris and her nieces were all very pleased with his revival, and an early day was called and agreed upon, provided Mr. Dorset was to be released: the young ladies did not forget this condition, and although Mrs. Norris would have readily replied that he was so, they would neither approve freedom nor take the risk; and finally, at a hint from Miss Schmidt, Mr Rushmore discovered that it would be best to go straight down to the rectory, visit Mr. Dorset and inquire whether Wednesday would suit him or not.
Before his return, Mrs. Grant and Miss Dorset came in. Since they had been on the road for some time and had taken another way to the house, they had not met him. However, reassuring hopes were raised that he would find Mr. Dorset at home. The Sotherton scheme was mentioned, of course. In fact, it was hardly possible to talk about anything else, because Mrs. Norris was in a good mood about it; and Mrs. Rushmore, a well-meaning, civilized, pro-singing, pompous woman who thought nothing mattered, but since it was about her own concerns and those of her son, it had not yet given up urging Lady Schmidt to join in. Lady Schmidt constantly refused; but her serene manner of rejection still made Mrs. Rushmore believe she wanted to come until Mrs. Norris' more numerous words and louder tone convinced her of the truth.
"The fatigue would be too much for my sister, far too much, I assure you, my dear Mrs. Rushmore. Ten miles there and ten back, you know. You must take this opportunity to apologize to my sister and accept our two dear girls and me without her. Sotherton is the only place that could make her want to go that far, but in fact it can't be. She's going to have a companion in Esther Price, you know, so everything will go very well; and as for Edmund, since he is not here to speak for himself, I will reply that he is very happy to attend the party. He can ride, you know."
Mrs. Rushmore, who was forced to stay at Lady Schmidt's home, could only feel sorry. "The loss of the company of your ladyhood would be a big drawback, and she should have been very happy to have seen the young lady too, Miss Price, who had never been to Sotherton before, and it was a pity that she should not see the place."
"You are very kind, you are very kind, my dear Madam," cried Mrs. Norris; "but as far as Esther is concerned, she will have the opportunity to see Sotherton. She has enough time ahead of her; and there is no question that she is leaving now. Lady Schmidt could not possibly do without it."
"Oh no! I can't do without Esther."
Mrs. Rushmore went on next, convinced that everyone wanted to see Sotherton, to include Miss Dorset in the invitation; and although Mrs. Grant, who had not bothered to visit Mrs. Rushmore when she came to the neighborhood, politely declined on her own account, she was glad to secure some pleasure for her sister; and Mary, really harassed and convinced, didn't take long to accept her share of politeness. Mr. Rushmore successfully returned from the rectory; and Edmund appeared just in time to find out what had been agreed for Wednesday to accompany Mrs. Rushmore to her carriage and walk halfway through the park with the other two ladies.
When he returned to the breakfast room, he found Mrs. Norris trying to decide whether Miss Dorset's presence was desirable or not, or whether her brother's carriage would not be full without her. Miss Schmidts laughed at the idea and assured her that the carriage would hold a good four, regardless of the box on which you could ride with him.
"But why is it necessary," Edmund said, "for Dorset's carriage or his only one to be used? Why is my mother's chaise not needed? I couldn't understand why a visit from the family shouldn't be in the family's carriage when the regulation was first mentioned the other day."
"What!" cried Julia: "In this weather, the three of us ride in a stagecoach, if we might be sitting in a carriage! No, my dear Edmund, that's not quite possible."
"Besides," Maria said, "I know that Mr. Dorset depends on taking us along. After what happened first, he would demand it as a promise."
"And, my dear Edmund," Mrs. Norris added, "to take out two carriages, if one is enough, would be in vain effort; and said among us, coachman does not like the streets between here and Sotherton very much: he always complains bitterly about the narrow streets that scratch his carriage, and you know you should not like it when the dear Sir Thomas, when he comes home, everything finds the paint scraped off."
"That wouldn't be a very nice reason to use Mr. Dorsets," Maria said; "But the truth is that Wilcox is a stupid old guy and can't drive. I will stand up for the fact that we will not find any inconvenience from narrow streets on Wednesday."
"It's not a difficulty, I suppose, not to get into the carriage," Edmund said.
"Unpleasant!" cried Maria: "Oh dear! I think it would be the favorite place in general. You can't compare the view of the country. Miss Dorset will probably choose the cart box herself."
"So there can be nothing wrong with Esther walking with you; there is no doubt that you have room for them."
"Esther!" repeated Mrs. Norris; "My dear Edmund, there is no idea that she is going with us. She stays with her aunt. That's what I told Mrs. Rushmore. It is not expected."
"I think you can't have a reason, Madam," he said, addressing his mother, "for the wish that Esther is not part of the party, but, as far as you are concerned, for your own convenience. If you could do without them, wouldn't you want to keep them at home?"
"Of course not, but I can't do without them."
"You can, if I stay with you at home, as I intend to."
There was a general outcry about it. "Yes," he continued, "there is no need for me to leave, and I intend to stay at home. Esther has a great desire to see Sotherton. I know she wants it very much. She doesn't often have such satisfaction, and I'm sure Ma'am, you'd like to give her the pleasure now?"
"Oh yes! very happy if your aunt doesn't see anything against it."
Mrs. Norris was very willing to raise the only objection that could remain – she had explicitly assured Mrs. Rushmore that Esther could not leave, and that consequently there would be a very strange appearance to take her with her, which seemed to be a completely impossible difficulty for her. It must have the strangest look! It would be something so unceremonious, bordering so much on disrespect for Mrs. Rushmore, whose own manners were such a pattern of decency and attention, that she really didn't feel up to it. Mrs. Norris had no affection for Esther or the desire to give her pleasure; but her opposition to Edmund now arose more out of a penchant for her own plan, because it was her own, than from anything else. She found that she had arranged everything very well and that any change had to lead to the worse.
"It seems very strange to me," Maria said, "that you stay at home instead of Esther."
"I'm sure she would be very attached to you," Julia added, hurriedly leaving the room as she spoke, knowing that she should offer to stay home herself.
"Esther will be as grateful as the occasion requires," was Edmund's only answer, and the topic was dropped.
In fact, Esther's gratitude was much greater than her joy when she heard about the plan. She felt the kindness of Edmund with everything, and more than anything, the sensitivity he could be aware of, unsuspicious of her tender affection; but that he should give up any pleasure because of her caused her pain, and her own satisfaction in seeing Sotherton would be nothing without him.
The next meeting of the two Mansfield families led to another change to the plan, which was approved with general approval. Mrs. Grant offered herself to Lady Schmidt instead of her son as a companion for the day, and Dr. Grant was to join them at dinner. Lady Schmidt was very happy about it, and the young ladies were in a good mood again. Even Edmund was very grateful for an arrangement that gave him back his share of the party; and Mrs. Norris thought it was an excellent plan, had it at the end of her tongue, and was about to propose it when Mrs. Grant spoke.
Wednesday was nice, and soon after breakfast the carriage arrived, Mr. Dorset was driving his sisters; and since everyone was done, there was no choice but to get out of Mrs. Grant and take the others' seats. Ironically, the square, the envied seat, the honorary post, was not appropriated. On whose lucky lot should it fall? While each of the Miss Schmidts thought about how best to secure it and with the greatest appearance of pleasing the others, the matter was settled by Mrs. Grant saying as she stepped out of the carriage, "Since there are five of you, it will be better to sit with Henry; And since you recently said that you would like to drive, Julia, I think this will be a good opportunity for you to take a driving lesson."
Happy Julia! Unfortunate Mary! The former was in an instant on the Barouche box, the latter took a seat inside, in gloom and shame; and the carriage departed under the good wishes of the two remaining ladies and the barking of Pug in the arms of his mistress.
Their way led through a pleasant country; and Esther, whose rides had never been extended, was soon beyond her knowledge and was very happy to observe everything new and admire everything pretty. She wasn't often invited to participate in each other's conversations, and she didn't want to. Her own thoughts and reflections were usually her best companions; and watching the appearance of the land, the direction of the roads, the different soils, the condition of the crops, the cottages, the cattle, the children, she found a conversation that could only have been increased if Edmund had had his say in what she felt. That was the only resemblance between her and the lady sitting next to her: Miss Dorset was very dissimilar to her in everything except a value for Edmund. She had none of Esther's subtlety of taste, mind, feeling; she saw nature, the inanimate nature, with little observation; Her attention was focused on men and women, her talents on the light and lively. However, when they looked back at Edmund, when there was a piece of road behind them or when he caught up on the climb of a considerable hill, they agreed, and a "there he is" broke out of them at the same moment, more than once.
For the first seven miles, Miss Schmidt had very little real comfort: her prospect always ended with Mr. Dorset and her sister sitting side by side, full of entertainment and cheerfulness; and just seeing his expressive profile as he turned to Julia smiling, or catching each other's laughter, was a constant source of anger that could only smooth out her own sense of decency. When Julia looked back, it was a cheerful expression on her face, and when she talked to them, she was in the best mood: "Her view of the country was enchanting, she wished they could all see it," etc.; but their only exchange offer was for Miss Dorset when they reached the top of a long hill, and was no more inviting than this: "Here is a beautiful eruption of land. I wish you had my place, but I dare say you won't take it, let me harass you so much;" and Miss Dorset could barely answer before they moved at a good pace again.
When they came under the influence of the Sotherton associations, it was better for Miss Schmidt, who could be said to have two strings on her bow. She had Rushmore feelings and Dorset feelings, and near Sotherton the former had a considerable effect. Mr. Rushmore's consequence was theirs. She could not tell Miss Dorset that "these woods belonged to Sotherton", she could not carelessly notice that "she believed that it was now all the property of Mr Rushmore on every side of the road", without exhilaration of the heart; and it was a pleasure, with their approach to the capital, to enlarge the manor house and the old stately residence of the family with all their rights as court tenant and court baron.
"Now we won't have a bumpy road, Miss Dorset; our difficulties are over. The rest of the way is as it should be. Mr. Rushmore has done it since he took over the property. This is where the village begins. These huts are really a disgrace. The church tower is considered remarkably beautiful. I am glad that the church is not as close to the big house as it often is in old places. The anger of the bells must be terrible. There is the rectory: a neat-looking house, and I hear that the clergyman and his wife are very decent people. These are almshouses built by some family members. On the right is the administrator's house; He is a very respectable man. Now we come to the lodge gates; but we still have almost a mile through the park. At this end it is not ugly; There is fine wood, but the situation of the house is terrible. We walk half a mile downhill to him, and it's a shame because it wouldn't be an ugly place if he had better access."
Miss Dorset was not slow to admire; she guessed Miss Schmidt's feelings quite well and made it an honor to promote her pleasure to the utmost. Mrs. Norris was full of delight and talkativeness; and even Esther had something to say with admiration and could be heard with complacency. Her eye eagerly absorbed everything within her reach; and after making some effort to take a look at the house, noting that "it was a kind of building that she could only look at with respect," she added, "Well, where is the avenue? The house is facing east, I perceive. The avenue must therefore be behind it. Mr. Rushmore spoke of the Western Front."
"Yes, it's right behind the house; starts at a small distance and climbs for half a mile to the end of the site. Maybe you can see some of it here – some of the more distant trees. It's completely made of oak."
Miss Schmidt was now able to speak with decisive information about what she had not known about when Mr. Rushmore asked her for her opinion; and their spirits were in such a happy flutter as vanity and pride could only make it happen when they drove to the spacious stone steps in front of the main entrance.
Chapter 41
Mr. Hill may argue with her, but Emma could not argue with herself. He was so dissatisfied that it took him longer than usual to get back to Hartfield; and when they met, his serious looks showed that she was not forgiven. She was sorry, but she couldn't regret it. On the contrary, her plans and procedures became more and more justified and sympathetic to her by the general appearances of the next few days.
The image, elegantly framed, came safely to hand soon after Mr. Alton's return, and when hung over the mantelpiece of the common living room, he stood up to look at it and sighed his half-sentences of admiration as it should be; and as for Harriet's feelings, they visibly formed into such a strong and enduring bond as their youth and mind allowed. Emma was soon completely satisfied that Mr. Martin was remembered no other way than that he provided a contrast to Mr. Alton, which was of great advantage to the latter.
Her views on improving her little friend's mind through a lot of useful reading and conversation had never led to more than a few first chapters and the intention to continue tomorrow. It was much easier to chat than to learn; much more pleasant to let their imagination spread and work on Harriet's fortune than to struggle to expand her understanding or exercise it on sober facts; and the only literary occupation Harriet currently occupied, the only mental precaution she met for the evening of her life, was collecting and copying all the riddles of all kinds she could encounter into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, invented by her friend and decorated with ciphers and trophies.
In the age of literature, such collections on a very large scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, headmistress of Mrs. Goddard, had advertised at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first clue from her, hoped to get many more with Miss Lodge's help. Emma helped with her invention, her memory and her taste; and since Harriet wrote a very pretty handwriting, it was probably a first-order arrangement, both in form and quantity.
Mr. Lodge was almost as interested in the business as the girls and very often tried to remember something worth entering. "As many clever puzzles as there were when he was young – he was surprised that he couldn't remember them! but he hoped he would do it in time." And it always ended with "Kitty, a fair but frost maid".
Even his good friend Perry, with whom he had talked about it, now remembered nothing mysterious; but he had asked Perry to keep watch, and since he was walking around so much, he thought something might come from that side.
It was by no means his daughter's wish that the intellectuals of Highbury in general should be requisitioned. Mr. Alton was the only one she asked for help. He was invited to contribute any really good riddles, charades, or riddles he might remember; and she had the pleasure of seeing him work most intensely with his memories; and at the same time, as she could see, seriously careful that nothing ungalant, nothing that did not give the sex a compliment, should come over his lips. They owed him their two or three most polite riddles; and the joy and jubilation with which he finally remembered this well-known charade and recited it quite sentimentally,
My first affliction means what my second will
certainly feel,
And my whole is the best antidote
to alleviate and heal this suffering.
made her quite tired of acknowledging that they had transcribed it a few pages ago.
"Why don't you write one for us yourself, Mr. Alton?" she said; "This is the only security for its freshness; and nothing could be easier for you."
"Oh no! he had never, almost never, written anything like this in his life. The stupidest guy! He was afraid, not even Miss Lodge" – he paused briefly – "or Miss Smith could inspire him."
But already the next day there was a proof of inspiration. He shouted for a few moments, only to leave a piece of paper on the table which, as he said, contained a charade that a friend of his had addressed to a young lady who was the object of his admiration, but who was judged by his way Emma was immediately convinced that it had to belong to him.
"I don't offer it for Miss Smith's collection," he said. "As a friend of my friend, I have no right to show it to the public in any way, but maybe you don't like to look at it."
The speech was aimed more at Emma than at Harriet, which Emma could understand. He had a deep consciousness, and it was easier for him to meet her gaze than that of her friend. The next moment he was gone: – after another break,
"Take it," Emma said with a smile and pushed the paper to Harriet – "it's for you. Take your own."
But Harriet was trembling and could not touch it; and Emma, ?? who was never averse to being the first had to examine it herself.
Missing-
FARCE.
My first shows the richness and pomp of the kings,
lords of the earth! their luxury and lightness.
A different view of man, my second brings,
See him there, the monarch of the seas!
But alas! united, what a setback we have!
The glorious power and freedom of man, all have flown;
Lord of the earth and the sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, beautiful woman, reigns alone.
Your quick-witted wit will soon deliver the word,
May his approval shine in this soft eye!
She took a look at it, pondered, understood the meaning, read it again to be quite sure, and was the mistress of the lines, and then passed it on to Harriet, sat there smiling happily and said to herself, while Harriet puzzled the newspaper about it in all the confusion of hope and dullness: "Very good, Mr. Alton, really very good. I have read worse charades. Courtship – a very good hint. I trust you. That touches you. This clearly says, "Please, Miss Smith, give me permission to pay you my addresses. Confirm my charade and my intentions in the same light.'
May his approval shine in this soft eye!
Harriet exactly. Soft is exactly the word for her eye – of all the epithets, the most righteous that could be given.
Your quick-wittedness will soon deliver the word.
Humph – Harriet is quick-witted! So much the better. A man really has to be very much in love to describe her that way. Ah! Mr. Hill, I wish you had benefited from it; I think that would convince you. Once in your life, you would have to admit to yourself that you were wrong. An excellent charade indeed! and very much to the end. Things must soon come to a crisis."
She had to break off these very pleasant observations, which would otherwise be prolonged, by the zeal of Harriet's questioning questions.
"What can it be, Miss Lodge? – what can it be? I have no idea – I can't guess it in the slightest. What can it be? Try to find out, Miss Lodge. Help me. I've never seen anything so heavy. Is it kingdom? I wonder who the boyfriend was – and who the young lady might be. Do you think it's a good one? Can it be a woman?
And woman, beautiful woman, rules alone.
Can it be Neptune?
See him there, the monarch of the seas!
Or a trident? or a mermaid? or a shark? Oh no! Shark is just a syllable. It must be very smart, otherwise he wouldn't have made it. Oh! Miss Lodge, do you think we'll ever find out?"
"Mermaids and sharks! Nonsense! My dear Harriet, what are you thinking of? Why would he bring us a charade made by a friend about a mermaid or a shark? Give me the paper and listen.
For Miss ———, read Miss Smith.
My first shows the richness and pomp of the kings,
lords of the earth! their luxury and lightness.
That is court.
A different view of man, my second brings;
See him there, the monarch of the seas!
This is ship; - as simple as it can be. - Now for the cream.
But alas! united, (advertising, you know), what a setback we have!
The vaunted power and freedom of man, all have flown.
Lord of the earth and the sea, he bends a slave,
And woman, beautiful woman, reigns alone.
A very appropriate compliment! – and then comes the application, which I think, my dear Harriet, is not very difficult for you to understand. Read it in peace. There is no doubt that it was written for you and for you."
Harriet could not resist such a delightful persuasion for long. She read the closing lines and was very excited and happy. She couldn't speak. But she didn't want to speak. It was enough for her to feel. Emma spoke for her.
"This compliment has such a pointed and special meaning," she said, "that I cannot doubt Mr. Alton's intentions. You are his object – and you will soon receive the most complete proof of this. I thought it must be like this. I thought I couldn't be fooled like that; but now it is clear; his mindset is as clear and decisive as my wishes in this regard have been since I knew you. Yes, Harriet, for so long I have wanted exactly the circumstance that happened to happen. I could never say whether a bond between you and Alton-san was the most desirable or the most natural. Its probability and suitability have really converged so much! I am very happy. I congratulate you, my dear Harriet, from the bottom of my heart. This is a stubbornness of which a woman can be quite proud. This is a connection that offers only good. It will give you everything you desire – consideration, independence, a decent home – it will keep you at the center of all your real friends, close to Hartfield and me, and confirm our intimacy forever. This, Harriet, is an alliance that cannot cause redness in any of us."
"Dear Miss Lodge!" – and "Dear Miss Lodge" was all Harriet could first articulate with many tender hugs; but when they came to something more like a conversation, her friend was sufficiently clear that this is exactly how she saw, felt, anticipated, and remembered how she should. Mr. Alton's superiority was widely acknowledged.
"Whatever you say, it's always right," Harriet exclaimed, "and that's why I suppose and believe and hope it has to be that way; but I couldn't have imagined it any other way. It goes so far beyond anything I deserve. Mr. Alton, who could marry anyone! There can be no two opinions about him. He is so superior. Just think of those sweet verses – "To Miss ---." My goodness, how smart! – Could it really be meant for me?"
"I can't ask a question or listen to a question about that. It is a certainty. Receive it according to my judgment. It is a kind of prologue to the piece, a motto to the chapter; and is soon followed by sober prose."
"This is something no one would have expected. I'm sure a month ago I had no idea anymore! – The strangest things happen!"
"When Miss Smith and Mr. Alton meet – they actually do – and it's really strange; it is not common for what is so obvious, so tangibly desirable – which advertises other people's precautions – to get into the right shape so immediately. She and Mr. Alton are called together by the situation; They belong to each other by all the circumstances of their respective homes. Their marriage will be on a par with the match at Randalls. There seems to be something in hartfield's air that gives love just the right direction and sends it exactly into the channel it should flow into.
The course of true love never went smoothly –
a Hartfield edition of Shakespeare would contain a long note on this passage."
"That Mr. Alton should really be in love with me – me of all people who didn't know him to talk to Michaeli! And he, the most beautiful man ever, and a man everyone looks up to, just like Mr. Hill! His company is so coveted that everyone says they don't need to eat a single meal alone if they don't choose to eat it; that he has more invitations than days a week. And so excellent in the church! Miss Nash has written down all the lyrics from which he has ever preached since he came to Highbury. Love me! When I look back on the first time I saw him! How little I thought! – The two abbots and I ran into the front room and peered through the blind when we heard that he was passing by, and Miss Nash came and scolded us away and insisted on looking through for ourselves; but she called me right back and let me see, which was very good-natured. And how beautiful we thought it looked! He was arm in arm with Mr. Cole."
"This is an alliance that, whoever your friends may be, must agree with them, provided they have at least common sense; and we must not direct our behavior at fools. If they are anxious to see you happily married, here is a man whose amiable character gives every certainty; - if you want you to settle in the same country and county to which you have elected, here it will be completed; and if their only goal is that, to put it generally, you should be well married, here is the convenient fortune, the respectable institution, the rise in the world that must satisfy them.
"Yes, very right. How beautifully you speak; I love hearing you. You understand everything. She and Mr. Alton are one as smart as the other. This charade! – If I had studied for twelve months, I would never have been able to do something like this."
"I thought he wanted to put his skills to the test by rejecting it yesterday."
"I think it's invariably the best charade I've ever read."
"I've certainly never read one for this purpose again."
"It's as long again as almost everything we've had before."
"I don't think its length is particularly favorable. Such things generally cannot be too short."
Harriet was too focused on the line to hear it. The most satisfying comparisons came to her mind.
"It's one thing," she said suddenly—her cheeks glowed—"to be very reasonable in an ordinary way, like everyone else, and if there's something to say, sit down and write a letter, and say briefly what you need to; and another to write such verses and charades."
Emma could not have wished for a more lively rejection of Mr. Martin's prose.
"Such sweet lines!" Harriet continued – "these last two! – But how am I ever supposed to be able to return the newspaper or say I found out? – Oh! Miss Lodge, what can we do about it?"
"Leave it to me. You don't do anything. Tonight he will be here, dare I say, and then I will give him back to him, and some nonsense will circulate between us, and you will not be obliged. - Your gentle eyes should choose their time to shine. Trust me."
"Oh! Miss Lodge, what a pity that I am not allowed to write this beautiful charade in my book! I'm sure I didn't even manage half as well."
"Leave out the last two lines, and there's no reason why you shouldn't write it in your book."
"Oh! but these two lines are"—
"The best. Admittedly; - for private enjoyment; and kept for private pleasure. They are not written at all the less you know because you share them. The couplet does not cease to be, nor does its meaning change. But take it away, and all appropriation stops, and it remains a very pretty, gallant charade suitable for any collection. Rely on it, he doesn't want his charade to be disregarded, much better than his passion. A poet in love must be encouraged in both abilities or in none. Give me the book, I'll write it down, and then there can be no thinking about you."
Harriet acquiesced, although her mind could hardly separate the parts, to be quite sure that her friend did not write down a declaration of love. It seemed too precious an offer for any degree of publicity.
"I will never leave this book out of my hands," she said.
"Very good," Emma replied; "a highly natural feeling; and the longer it takes, the more satisfied I will be. But here comes my father: you won't mind me reading the charade to him. It will give him so much joy! He loves such things and especially anything that compliments women. To all of us he has the most tender spirit of gallantry! – You have to have it read to me."
Harriet looked serious.
"My dear Harriet, you must not refine this charade too much. – You will betray your feelings in inappropriate ways if you are too conscious and too fast and seem to attach more importance or even all the importance that can be attached to it. Don't let yourself be overwhelmed by such a small homage of admiration. If he had been concerned with secrecy, he would not have left the newspaper while I was over; but he blamed it on me rather than you. Let us not be too solemn in this matter. He has enough encouragement to continue without us sighing our souls because of this charade."
"Oh! no – I hope I don't ridicule myself. Do what you want."
Mr. Lodge came in and very soon led back to the topic by repeating his very frequent question: "Well, dear ones, what's next for your book? – Do you have anything new?"
"Yes, Dad; we have something to read to you, something completely new. This morning a piece of paper was found on the table – (probably dropped by a fairy) – with a very pretty charade, and we just copied it into it."
She read it to him, just as he liked to have everything read aloud, slowly and clearly, two or three times, with explanations on each part as she continued – and he was very pleased, and as she had foreseen, the complementary conclusion was particularly noticeable.
"Yes, that's very fair, in fact, that's very right. Very right. "Woman, beautiful woman." It's such a pretty charade, my dear, that I can easily guess which fairy she brought. – No one could have written so pretty, except you, Emma."
Emma just nodded and smiled. After some thought and a very tender sigh, he added:
"Ah! It's no difficulty to see who you're following! Your dear mother was so smart in all these things! If only I had her memory! But I can't remember anything; not even to this particular mystery that you have heard me mention; I can only remember the first stanza; and there are several.
Kitty, a beautiful but frozen maid,
A flame lit I still regret,
The boy with the wink, whom I called to help,
Although he was afraid of his near approach,
So fatal for my suit before.
And that's all I can remember – but it's very clever through and through. But I think, my dear, you said you understood."
"Yes, Dad, it's on our second page. We copied it from the Elegant Extracts. It was Garricks, you know."
"Yes, very true. – I wish I could remember more.
Kitty, a bright but frozen maid.
The name makes me think of poor Bella; for she was about to be baptized Catherine after her grandmother. I hope we have them here next week. Have you thought, my dear, where to place them – and what room there will be for the children?"
"Oh! yes – she will of course have her own room; the room she always has; – and there is the children's room for the children, – just like always, you know. Why should anything change?"
"I don't know, my dear – but it's been so long since she's been here! – not since last Easter, and then only for a few days. That John Hill is a lawyer is very uncomfortable. – Poor Bella! – it is unfortunately taken away from all of us! – and how sorry she will be when she comes not to see Miss Taylor here!"
"At least she won't be surprised, Dad."
"I don't know, my dear. I'm sure I was very surprised when I first heard that she was getting married."
"We have to ask Mr. and Mrs. Winstone to eat with us while Bella is here."
"Yes, my dear when there is time. – But – (in a very depressed tone) – it only comes for a week. There will be no time for anything."
"It's unfortunate that they can't stay longer – but it seems like a case of necessity. Mr. John Hill must be back in town on the 28th, and we should be grateful, Dad, that we have all the time they can give the land that two or three days will not be taken up for the abbey. Mr. Hill promises to give up his claim this Christmas – even though you know that they haven't been with him for a while, but with us."
"It would indeed be very hard, my dear, if poor Bella were somewhere other than Hartfield."
Mr. Lodge could never allow Mr. Hill's claims to his brother or the claims of any other body to Bella other than his own. He sat thoughtfully for a while and then said, "But I don't
see why poor Bella should be forced to go back so soon, even though he does. I think Emma, ?? I will try to persuade them to stay with us longer. She and the children could stay very well."
"Ah! Dad – that's what you've never been able to achieve, and I don't think you'll ever make it. Bella can't bear to stay behind her husband."
That was too true for a contradiction. As unwelcome as it was, Mr. Lodge could only sigh submissively; and when Emma saw his mood touched by the idea of his daughter's affection for her husband, she immediately led to such a branch of the subject that needed to appeal to her.
"Harriet has to keep us company as much as she can while my brother and sister are here. I am sure she will be happy about the children. We're very proud of the kids, aren't we, Dad? I wonder who she thinks is the most beautiful, Henry or John?"
"Yes, I wonder what she will do. Poor little loves, how happy they will be to come. They love being in Hartfield, Harriet."
"I dare say they are, sir. I'm sure I don't know who it's not."
"Henry is a fine boy, but John is very similar to his mum. Henry is the eldest, he was named after me, not his father. John, the second, is named after his father. Some people are surprised, I think the oldest wasn't, but Bella would have liked to call him Henry, which I thought was very pretty of her. And he is indeed a very smart boy. They are all remarkably smart; and they have so many beautiful options. They'll come and stand next to my chair and say, 'Grandpa, can you give me a little string?' and once Henry asked me for a knife, but I told him knives were made just for grandpas. I think their father is very often too rough with them."
"He seems rough to you," Emma said, "?" because you yourself are so meek; but if you could compare him to other dads, you wouldn't think he's rude. He wants his boys to be active and robust; and if they behave badly, they can be given a sharp word from time to time; but he is a loving father – certainly Mr. John Hill is a loving father. The children all like him."
"And then her uncle comes in and throws her at the ceiling in a very terrible way!"
"But they like it, Dad; there is nothing they like so much. It is such a pleasure to them that if their uncle did not impose the rule that they take turns, whatever began, they would never give way to the other."
"Well, I can't understand it."
"That's the case with all of us, Dad. One half of the world cannot understand the joys of the other."
Later in the morning, and just as the girls were about to separate in preparation for the regular four-o'clock dinner, the hero of this inimitable charade came back in. Harriet turned away; but Emma was able to receive him with the usual smile, and her quick look soon recognized in his the consciousness that she had made a push – of having thrown a dice; and she imagined that he had come to see how it could turn out. His alleged reason, however, was to ask if Mr Lodge's party could be made up for in the evening without him, or if he should be in Hartfield to the slightest extent required. If he were, everything else would have to give way; but otherwise his friend Cole had said so much about his food with him – had put so much emphasis on it that he had promised him with reservations to come.
Emma thanked him, but could not allow him to disappoint his friend because of her; her father was sure of his rubber. He pushed again – she refused again; and he seemed to want to bow, when she took the paper off the table, she gave it back –
"Oh! here is the charade that you so pleasingly left with us; thanks for the sight. We admired it so much that I dared to include it in Miss Smith's collection. Hopefully your friend won't be resented. Of course, I didn't transcribe beyond the first eight lines."
Mr. Alton certainly didn't know very well what to say. He looked quite doubtful – quite confused; said something of "honor" – took a look at Emma and Harriet, then saw the book open on the table, picked it up and examined it very carefully. With the prospect of spending an unpleasant moment, Emma said with a smile,
"You have to apologize to your friend; but such a good charade must not be limited to one or two. He can be sure of the applause of every woman as he writes with such gallantry."
"I have no hesitation in saying," Replied Mr. Alton, though he was quite hesitant as he spoke; "I have no hesitation in saying – at least if my friend feels the way I do at all – I don't have the slightest doubt that he could see his little effusion as honored as I see him (look at the book again and put it back on the table), he would consider it the proudest moment of his life."
After that speech, he was gone as soon as possible. Emma couldn't have thought it too soon; for for all his good and pleasant qualities, there was a kind of parade in his speeches that could make her laugh very easily. She ran away to give in to the inclination, leaving Harriet with the tender and sublime of pleasure.
Chapter 42
Catherine was not so busy that evening returning Miss Dorfman's nod and smile, although they certainly took up much of their free time to forget to look for Mr. Alsina with a questioning look in every box she saw; but she searched in vain. Mr. Alsina loved the piece no more than the drinking hall. She hoped to have more luck the next day; and when her wishes for good weather were answered with a beautiful morning, she hardly doubted it; because a beautiful Sunday in Bath empties every house of its inhabitants, and the whole world appears on such an opportunity to go around and tell their acquaintances what an enchanting day it is.
As soon as the service was over, the Dorfmans and Allens eagerly joined; and after staying in the drinking hall long enough to find that the crowd was unbearable and that there was no posh face to be seen, which everyone discovers every Sunday during the season, they rushed to the Crescent to breathe the fresh air in better company. Here Catherine and Bella, arm in arm, again tasted the sweets of friendship in an unreserved conversation; they spoke a lot and with much joy; But again, Catherine was disappointed in her hope of seeing her partner again. He was nowhere to be found; every search for him was equally unsuccessful, in morning tubes as well as in evening meetings; it was not perceptible either in the upper or lower rooms, on clothed or unclothed balls; still among the hikers, the riders, or the curriculum drivers of the morning. His name was not in the drinking hall book, and curiosity could not do more. He must have left Bath. But he had not mentioned that his stay would be so short! This kind of mysteriousness, which is always so good for a hero, threw a new grace on his person and behavior in Catherine's imagination and increased her anxiety to learn more about him. She could not learn anything about the Dorfmans, because they had only been in Bath for two days before they met Mrs. Everyone had met. However, it was a topic she often indulged in with her beautiful friend, from which she received every possible encouragement to continue to think of him; and his impression on their imagination was therefore not tolerated in order to weaken. Bella was very sure that he had to be a charming young man, and was just as sure that he must have been happy about her dear Catherine and would therefore return shortly. As a clergyman, she liked him all the better, "because she has to be very partisan for the profession"; and something like a sigh escaped her when she said it. Perhaps Catherine was wrong when she didn't ask about the cause of this gentle emotion – but she wasn't experienced enough in the subtlety of love or the duties of friendship to know when tender mockery was appropriate or when to force trust.
Mrs. Everyone was now quite happy Рquite satisfied with Bath. She had found some acquaintances, had also been so happy to find in them the family of a most worthy old friend; and, as the consummation of happiness, had not found these friends dressed as expensively as they did. Her daily expressions were no more: "I wish we had an acquaintance in Bath!" They were changed to: "How glad I am that we met with Mrs. Dorfman!" and she was as eager to promote the traffic of the two families as her young prot̩g̩ and Bella herself could be; never satisfied with the day, unless she spent most of her time at Mrs. Dorfman's side, in what they called a conversation, but in which Mrs. Dorfman hardly ever had an exchange of views and not often on a similar topic spoke mainly of her children, and Mrs.
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Bella was fast, so warm their beginning had been, and they went through every gradation of increasing tenderness so quickly that there was no new evidence to give to their friends or themselves anytime soon. They called each other by their first names, always walked arm in arm, put each other's train up to dance and were not allowed to be shared in the set; and when a rainy morning deprived them of other pleasures, despite the wetness and dirt, they still met resolutely and locked themselves in to read novels together. Yes, novels; for I will not adopt the rude and apolitical custom so widespread among novelists of humiliating, through their contemptuous criticism, even the performances to the number of which they themselves add – by joining forces with their greatest enemies to give such works the sharpest epithets, and hardly ever letting them read by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally picks up a novel, will surely turn its bland pages in disgust. Oh! If the heroine of one novel is not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and respect? I can't approve of it. Let's leave it to the reviewers to abuse such fantasy effusions at will and to talk in flimsy sounds of the junk that the press is now moaning about with every new novel. Let us not abandon each other; we are an injured body. Although our productions have provided more extensive and unartificial pleasure than those of any other literary enterprise in the world, no type of composition has been so despised. Out of pride, ignorance or fashion, our enemies are almost as numerous as our readers. And while the skills of the nine hundredth author of English history, or the man who collects a few dozen lines of Milton, Pope and Prior along with an essay from the Spectator and a chapter of stars and publishes them in one volume, are praised by a thousand feathers - it seems almost a general desire to denigrate the ability of the novelist and underestimate the work and disregard the performances, who only have genius, wit and taste to recommend them. "I'm not a novel reader – I rarely look into novels – Don't think I read novels often – It's really very good for a novel." Such is the usual cant. "And what do you read, Miss...". "Oh! It's just a novel!" the young lady replies as she writes her book with playful indifference or temporary shame. "It's just Cecilia or Camilla or Belinda"; or in short, just a work in which the greatest forces of the mind are flaunted, in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature, the happiest representation of its varieties, the most vivid outpourings of wit and humor are carried into the world, the best chosen language. If the same young lady had been busy with a volume of the Spectator instead of such a work, how proud she would have produced the book and given his name; although there must be a chance that it will not be filled with any part of this large-scale publication whose content or nature would not bother a young taster: the content of their papers so often consists in the indication of unlikely circumstances, unnatural characters, and topics of conversation that no longer concern a living person; and also her language often so coarse that she does not give a very favorable idea of the age she could bear.
Chapter 43
The Hargroves have now settled in Barton with bearable comfort for themselves. The house and garden, with all the objects that surrounded them, had now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits that had given Norland half of his charm were again exercised with much greater joy than Norland could afford since the loss of her father. Sir John Mideltown, who visited her every day for the first fortnight and didn't have the habit of seeing much activity at home, couldn't hide his amazement when he always found her busy.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for despite Sir John's urgent pleas that they mingle more in the neighborhood and the repeated assurances that his carriage would always be at their service, the independence of Mrs. Hargrove's spirit overcame society's desire for their children; and she resolutely refused to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were only a few who could be classified in this way; and not all of them were available. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow, winding valley of Allenham, which, as previously described, departed from that of Barton, the girls had discovered an old, handsome-looking mansion on one of their earliest walks, which reminded me of it a little of Norland, interested their imagination and awakened in them the desire to get to know them better. But on request, they learn that his owner, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too frail to interact with the world, and never moved from home.
The whole country around them was rich in beautiful walks. The high slopes that invited them from almost every window of the hut to seek the delicious enjoyment of the air on their peaks were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys below included their superior beauties; and to one of these hills Marianne and Margaret of a memorable morning directed their steps, attracted by the partial sun of a rainy sky and unable to endure any longer the narrowness caused by the constant rain of the two previous days. The weather wasn't tempting enough to pull the other two off their pencil and book, despite Marianne's explanation that the day would be permanently beautiful and that any looming cloud would be pulled from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
They happily climbed the hills, rejoicing in their own penetration at every sight of the blue sky; and as they captured the invigorating storms of a strong southwesterly wind in their faces, they felt sorry for the fears that had prevented their mother and Eleanore from sharing such delightful sensations.
"Is there a happiness in the world," marianne said, "that is superior to this? Margaret, we will go here for at least two hours."
Margaret agreed, and they continued on their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing joy for about twenty minutes when suddenly the clouds above their heads united and a pouring rain hit them in the face. Angry and surprised, they were obliged, albeit reluctant, to turn back, because no shelter was closer than their own house. However, they were left with a consolation to which the necessity of the moment gave more than ordinary decency; it was to walk at all possible speed down the steep side of the hill that led directly to their garden gate.
They set off. Marianne had an advantage at first, but a wrong step suddenly brought her to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to help her, was involuntarily rushed forward and reached the ground in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun and surrounded by two hands walked up the hill and was only a few meters away from Marianne when her accident happened. He put his gun away and ran to her aid. She had risen from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she could barely stand. The Lord offered His services; and when he noticed that her modesty refused what made her situation necessary, he took her in his arms without further delay and carried her down the hill. Then he walked through the garden, whose gate had been left open by Margaret, and carried her directly into the house where Margaret had just arrived, not calming his grip until he had placed her on a chair in the living room.
Eleanore and her mother rose up in amazement as they entered, and while the eyes of both were directed at him with an obvious amazement and secret admiration that arose equally from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion, in a sense sharing the reason so openly and gracefully that his immensely beautiful person received additional appeal from his voice and expression. Had he even been old, ugly, and vulgar, Mrs. Hargrove's gratitude and kindness would have been assured by every act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty and elegance gave the plot an interest that gave rise to her feelings.
She thanked him again and again; and, with a loveliness of the speech that always accompanied her, invited him to take a seat. But he refused because he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Hargrove then asked to know who she was obligated to. His name, he replied, was Warwick, and his current home was Allenham, from where he hoped she would give him the honor of calling tomorrow to inquire about Miss Hargrove. The honor was granted willingly, and then, to make himself even more interesting, he left in the midst of a heavy rain.
His masculine beauty and more than ordinary grace were immediately the subject of general admiration, and the laughter that his gallantry elicited against Marianne received special spirit through his external charms. – Marianne herself had seen less of his person than the others, because of the confusion that red over her face when he lifted her up, had taken away her the power to look at him after they entered the house. But she had seen enough of him to join all the admiration of others, with an energy that always adorned her praise. His person and appearance were the same as what their imagination had ever drawn for the hero of a favorite story; and when he carried her into the house with so little prior formality, there was a speed of thought that particularly recommended the plot to her. Every circumstance that belonged to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in her favorite village, and she soon found out that a hunting jacket was the most chic of all male dresses. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was ignored.
Sir John went to see her as soon as the next nice weather break that morning allowed him to come out the door; and since Marianne's accident was associated with him, he was eagerly asked if he knew a gentleman named Warwick in Allenham.
"Warwick!" cried Mr. John; "What, is HE in the countryside? But that's good news; I will drive over tomorrow and invite him to dinner on Thursday."
"So you know him," Mrs. Hargrove said.
"Do you know him! To be sure. He's down here every year."
"And what kind of young man is he?"
"Such a good guy as he has ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is no bolder rider in England."
"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne indignantly. "But what are his manners on closer acquaintance? What are his aspirations, his talents and his genius?"
Sir John was quite confused.
"With my soul," he said, "I don't know much about him in all this. But he's a pleasant, good-humored guy and has the nicest little black from a pointing dog I've ever seen. Was she outside? with him today?"
But Marianne could no longer satisfy him with the colour of Mr Warwick's pointer when he could describe to her the shades of his opinion.
"But who is he?" said Eleonore. "Where does it come from? Does he have a house in Allenham?"
Sir John could provide more reliable information on this point; and he told them that Mr. Warwick had no property of his own in the land; that he lived there only while visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, with whom he was related and whose property he was to inherit; adding: "Yes, yes, he is very worthy of catching him, I can tell you, Miss Hargrove; he also has a pretty little estate in Somersetshire; and if I were you, I wouldn't leave him to my younger sister, despite all those hill falls. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Bridgerton will be jealous if she's not careful."
"I don't think," Mrs. Hargrove said with a good-humored smile, "that Mr. Warwick is troubled by the attempts of one of MY daughters to CATCH him, as you call it. It is not an occupation that they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, no matter how rich they may be. However, I am pleased to conclude from what you say that he is a decent young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be unsuitable.
"I think he's as good a guy as he's ever lived," Sir John repeated. "I remember last Christmas with a little hop in the park, he danced from eight to four o'clock without sitting down once."
"Does he really have that?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?"
"Yes; and he was back on his feet at eight to take cover."
"That's what I like; this is what a young man should be. Whatever his aspirations, his zeal should know no moderation and leave him with no feeling of fatigue."
"Yes, yes, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be.
"That's an expression, Sir John," Marianne said warmly, "which I particularly don't like. I abhor any ordinary expression that means wit; ' are the most heinous of all. Their tendency is crude and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be considered clever, time has long since destroyed all their ingenuity.
Sir John did not understand this rebuke very much; but he laughed so heartily as if he had done it, and then
replied,
"Ay, you're going to make enough conquests, dare I say, one way or another. Poor Bridgerton! He's already pretty adored, and I can tell you he's worth putting your cap on him, despite all this stumbling around and spraining his ankles."
Chapter 44
The day passed similarly to the day before. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland had spent a few hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued to recover, albeit slowly; and in the evening Elizabeth joined her company in the salon. However, the Clotic did not appear. Mr. Drury wrote, and Miss Woodland, sitting next to him, watched the progress of his letter and repeatedly diverted his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Woodland were piqued, and Mrs. Hurst watched their game.
Elizabeth took on some handicrafts and was amused enough to take care of what was going on between Drury and his companion. The lady's constant hymns of praise, whether to his handwriting or to the uniformity of his lines or to the length of his letter, formed a strange dialogue with the complete indifference with which her praise was received, and were precisely related to this her opinion of everyone.
"How pleased Miss Drury will be to receive such a letter!"
He did not answer.
"You write unusually fast."
'You're wrong. I write pretty slowly.'
"How many letters you must have opportunity to write in the course of a year! Also business letters! How despicable I should find them!'
"Then it's fortunate that they fall to me instead of you."
"Please tell your sister that I long to see her."
"I've told her that before at your request."
"I'm afraid you don't like your pen. Let me fix it for you. I mend feathers remarkably well."
"Thank you – but I always patch mine myself."
"How can you write so evenly?"
He was silent.
"Tell your sister, I am happy to hear of her improvement on the harp; and please let them know that I'm completely blown away by their beautiful little design for a table, and I think it's infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's.'
"Will you allow me to postpone your delight until I write again? At the moment I don't have enough space to do them justice.'
'Oh! it is meaningless. I will see them in January. But do you always write her such charming long letters, Drury-san?"
"They are generally long; but if it's always lovely, I can't decide.'
'It's a rule with me that someone who can write a long letter with ease can't write sick.'
"That's not enough as a compliment to Drury, Caroline," her brother exclaimed, "because he doesn't write with ease. He learns too much for four-syllable words. Isn't it, Drury?'
"My writing style is very different from yours."
'Oh!' shouted Miss Woodland, "Charles writes in the most carefree way imaginable. He leaves out half of his words and erases the rest."
"My ideas flow so fast that I don't have time to express them – which sometimes means my letters don't convey any ideas at all to my correspondents."
"Your humility, Mr. Woodland," Elizabeth said, "must disarm every rebuke."
"Nothing is more deceptive," Drury said, "than the appearance of humility. Often it's just a carelessness of opinion and sometimes an indirect boast.'
"And which of the two do you call MY little piece of new modesty?"
'The indirect boast; because you are really proud of your spelling mistakes, because you consider them to be a speed of thought and a carelessness in execution, which you consider, if not estimable, at least highly interesting. The ability to do everything quickly is always highly appreciated by the owner, and often without regard to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Mitchell this morning that if you ever decided to leave Netherfield, you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it as a kind of praise, a compliment to yourself – and yet, what is so commendable about a hurry that must leave very necessary business unfinished and can be of no real benefit to you or anyone?'
"No," Woodland exclaimed, "that's too much to remember at night all the stupid things that were said in the morning. And yet, with my honor, I believe that what I have said of myself is true, and I believe it at this moment. That's why at least I didn't take on the character of an unnecessary drifter just to show off in front of the ladies.'
"I dare say that you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would leave so quickly. Their behavior would be as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, while getting on your horse, a friend would say, "Woodland, you'd better stay until next week," you'd probably, you probably wouldn't go — and, in another word, could stay for a month.
"They only proved," Elizabeth exclaimed, "that Mr. Woodland did not live up to his own inclination. You have now flaunted him much more than he has.'
"I am extremely pleased," Woodland said, "that you are turning what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temperament. But I am afraid you are giving it a twist that this gentleman did not intend at all; for he would surely think better of me if I categorically denied in such circumstances and rode away as soon as possible."
"Would Mr. Drury then consider the recklessness of your original intentions to be atoned for by your stubbornness to hold on to it?"
"At my word, I cannot explain the matter exactly; Drury has to speak for himself."
"You expect me to be accountable for opinions that you call mine, but that I have never acknowledged. However, if you allow the case to match your account, you must remember, Miss Mitchell, that the friend who was supposed to want him to return to the house and delay his plan merely requested it and demanded an argument for his appropriateness without an offer.'
'Giving in willingly – easily – to a friend's CONVICTION is not a credit to you.'
"Without giving in to conviction, it is not a compliment to the understanding of both."
"It seems to me, Drury-san, that you do not allow the influence of friendship and affection. Consideration for the requester would often lead one to willingly give in to a request without waiting for arguments to get one to do so. I am not specifically talking about such a case, as you suspected with Mr. Woodland. We may as well wait for the circumstance to occur before discussing the discretion of his behavior. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is asked by the other to change a resolution of not very great importance, you should think badly of this person because he has complied with the wish without waiting for him to be argued about it?'
"Before moving on to this issue, is it not advisable to define a little more precisely the degree of importance to be attached to this motion and the degree of intimacy between the parties?"
"Absolutely," Woodland exclaimed; Let's hear all the details without forgetting their relative height and size; because that will carry more weight in the argument, Miss Mitchell, than you might realize. I assure you that if Drury wasn't such a big guy compared to me, I wouldn't pay him half as much respect. I declare that on certain occasions and in certain places I know of no more terrible object than Drury; especially in his own house and on a Sunday evening when he has nothing to do.'
Mr. Drury smiled; but Elizabeth thought she noticed that he was quite offended, so she suppressed her laughter. Miss Woodland was deeply annoyed by the outrage he had received in an apology to her brother for talking such nonsense.
"I see your design, Woodland," said his friend. You don't like an argument and you want to silence him."
"Maybe yes. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Mitchell postpone yours until I am out of the room, I would be very grateful to you; and then you can say what you want from me.'
"What you are asking for," Elizabeth said, "is not a sacrifice on my part; and Mr. Drury should finish his letter much better.'
Mr. Drury took her advice and ended his letter.
When this thing was over, he asked Miss Woodland and Elizabeth for some music. Miss Woodland moved with some zeal to the pianoforte; and after a polite request that Elizabeth show the way, which the other politely and earnestly refused, she sat down.
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were so busy, Elizabeth couldn't help but see how often Mr. Drury's eyes were on her as she turned over some music books lying on the instrument. Little did she know how to assume that she could be an object of admiration for such a great man; and yet it was even stranger that he looked at her because he didn't like her. But she could only imagine that she had finally caught his eye, because according to his ideas of law there was something more wrong and reprehensible than in any other person present. The assumption did not hurt her. She didn't like him enough to care about his approval.
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Woodland varied the charm with a lively Scottish touch; and shortly thereafter, Mr. Drury, who approached Elizabeth, said to her, "Don't
you feel a great inclination, Miss Mitchell, to take such an opportunity to dance a role?"
She smiled, but gave no answer. He repeated the question, somewhat surprised by their silence.
'Oh!' she said, "I've heard you before, but I didn't immediately know what to answer. I know you wanted me to say "yes" so that you would have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always enjoy overthrowing these kinds of plans and deceiving a person out of their willful contempt. So I decided to tell you that I don't want to dance a role at all – and now you despise me if you dare."
'In fact, I don't dare.'
Elizabeth, who had rather expected to insult him, was amazed at his bravery; but in her nature lay a mixture of loveliness and impudence that made it difficult for her to offend anyone; and Drury had never been so enchanted by a woman as by her. He really believed that without the inferiority of their relationships, he would be in danger.
Miss Woodland saw or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great concern for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some support through her desire to get rid of Elizabeth.
She often tried to get Drury not to like her guest by talking about their alleged marriage and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
"I hope," she said as they walked together in the bushes the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law some clues when this desirable event takes place regarding the benefit of keeping your mouth shut; and if you can understand it, make sure that the younger girls run after the officers. And if I may mention such a sensitive subject, make an effort to check the little something that borders on conceit and impudence that your lady possesses.'
"Do you have anything else to suggest for my domestic happiness?"
'Oh! Yes. Have the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips set up in the gallery in Pemberley. Place them next to your great-uncle, the judge. You have the same profession, you know, only in different sectors. As far as the picture of your Elisabeth is concerned, you must not let it be taken, because which painter could do justice to these beautiful eyes?'
"It would indeed not be easy to capture their expression, but their color and shape and the eyelashes that are so remarkably fine could be copied."
At that moment, they were picked up by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself from another walk.
"I didn't know you wanted to walk," Miss Woodland said, somewhat confused, so they hadn't been eavesdropped.
'You made us terribly sick,' Replied Mrs. Hurst, 'ran away without telling us you were going to come out.'
Then she took the loosened arm of Mr. Drury and let Elizabeth go alone. The path allowed just three. Drury-san felt her rudeness and immediately said,
"This path is not wide enough for our group. We better go into the avenue.«
But Elizabeth, who had not the slightest inclination to stay with them, replied with a laugh:
'No, no; Stay where you are. They are charmingly grouped and have an unusually beneficial effect. The picturesque would be spoiled by the admission of a fourth. Goodbye.'
Then she ran away happily as she strutted around, hoping to be back home in a day or two. Jane was already so recovered that she intended to leave her room for a few hours that evening.
Chapter 45
Although it was now mid-December, no weather had prevented the young ladies from exercising reasonably regularly; and the next morning Emma had a charitable visit to a poor, sick family who lived just outside Highbury.
Your way to this detached cottage led down Vicarage Lane, an alley that led off at right angles from the wide, if irregular, main street of the village; and, as can be deduced from this, contain the blessed dwelling of Mr. Alton. First, some inferior dwellings were to be passed, and then about a quarter mile down the alley rose down the rectory, an old and not very good house, almost as close to the street as it could be. It had no situational advantage; but had been greatly embellished by the current owner; and as it was, the two friends couldn't possibly walk past it without slowing down and watching their eyes. Emma's remark was –
"There it is. There you go and your puzzle book one day." – Harriets was –
"Oh, what a cute house! - How beautiful! - There are the yellow curtains that Miss Nash admires so much."
"I don't often go this way now," Emma said, ?? as they moved on, "but then there will be an incentive, and I will gradually get to know all the hedges, gates, ponds and piles of this part of Highbury in detail."
Harriet, she noted, had never been to the rectory in her life, and her curiosity to see it was so great that Emma could only classify it as proof of love in the face of appearances and probabilities when Mr. Alton's eyesight was ready for a joke in her.
"I wish we could invent it," she said; "but I can't think of a tolerable excuse to go in; – no servant I want to ask his housekeeper about – no message from my father."
She thought about it, but she couldn't think of anything. So, after a few minutes of mutual silence, Harriet began anew:
"I'm so surprised, Miss Lodge, that you shouldn't or won't get married! as lovely as you are!" Emma
laughed and replied
,
"My charming manner, Harriet, is not enough to get me to get married; I have to find other people charming – at least another person. And not only am I not going to get married right now, but I have very little intention of ever getting married at all."
"Ah! – so you say; but I can't believe it."
"I have to meet someone who is very superior to everyone I've seen so far to be tempted; Alton-san, you know, (remembers) is out of the question, and I don't want to see such a person. I'd rather not be tempted. I can't really change for the better. When I get married, I have to expect to regret it."
"My goodness! – it's so strange to hear a woman talk like that!" –
"I don't have any of the usual incentives for women to get married. Of course, if I fell in love, it would be something else! but I was never in love; it is not my way or my nature; and I don't think I'll ever do that. And without love, I would certainly be a fool if I changed a situation like mine. I don't want happiness; I don't want employment; I don't want consistency: I think few married women are half as much mistress of their husband's house as I am of Hartfield; and never, never could I expect to be so truly loved and important; so always first and always right in the eyes of every man, as I am in the eyes of my father."
"But finally to be an old maiden like Miss Bates!"
"This is an impressive image that you can present, Harriet; and when I thought I should ever be like Miss Bates! so silly – so satisfied – so smiling – so pro-singing – so inconspicuous and unpretentious – and so inclined to tell everything about myself, I would get married tomorrow. But between us, I am convinced that there can never be a similarity, except in being unmarried."
"But you will still be an old maiden! and this is so terrible!"
"Never mind, Harriet, I'm not going to be a poor old maiden; and it is only poverty that makes celibacy contemptuous for a generous audience! A single woman with a very low income must be a ridiculous, unpleasant old maiden! the right sport of boys and girls, but a single woman with a lot of luck is always respectable and can be as reasonable and pleasant as any other body. And the distinction is not so much against the openness and common sense of the world as it seems at first; because a very low income tends to pull the mind together and sour the mood. Those who can hardly live and who inevitably live in a very small and generally very inferior society may well be illiberal and evil. However, this does not apply to Miss Bates; she is just too good-natured and too stupid to suit me; but in general, she is very much to the taste of all people, although single and although poor. Poverty certainly did not concern her: I really believe that if she had only one shilling in the world, she would very likely give away six pence of it; and no one is afraid of her: this is a great magic."
"Love me! but what should you do? how do you want to keep yourself busy when you're old?"
"When I know myself, Harriet, I am an active, busy mind with many independent resources; and I don't see why I should be missing more work at forty or fifty than at twenty-one. The woman's usual activities with hand and spirit will then be as open to me as they are now; or without important variation. If I draw less, I will read more; When I give up the music, I will turn to carpet work. And as for the objects of interest, the objects of affection, which in truth is the great point of inferiority, the lack of which is really the great evil that must be avoided if one does not marry, I will be very wealthy, with all the children of a sister whom I love so much, whom I must take care of. In all likelihood, there will be enough of them to provide all kinds of sensations that the diminishing life may need. There will be enough for every hope and fear; and while my attachment to no one can equal a parent's, it fits my ideas of comfort better than what is warmer and more blind. My nephews and nieces! – I will often have a niece with me."
"Do you know Miss Bates' niece? That means I know you must have seen them a hundred times – but do you know each other?"
"Oh! Yes; we always have to get to know each other when she comes to Highbury. By the way, that's almost enough to upset you with a niece. God forbid! at least that I should bore people half as much with all the hills as she does with Jane Saxon. You're already tired of the name Jane Saxon. Every letter from her is read forty times; her compliments to all her friends go in circles again and again; and if she just sends her aunt the pattern of a stomacher or knits a pair of garters for the grandmother, you don't hear anything else for a month. I wish Jane Saxon all the best; but it tires me to death."
They were now approaching the hut, and all idle issues were settled. Emma was very compassionate; and the needs of the poor were as secure by their personal attention and kindness, advice and patience as they were by their wallets. She understood her ways, could allow her ignorance and temptations, had no romantic expectations of extraordinary virtue from those for whom education had done so little; entered her difficulties with ready sympathy and always helped her with as much wisdom as benevolence. In the present case, it was disease and poverty together that visited her; and after staying there as long as she could give comfort or advice, she calmed the cottage with such a sense of the scene that made her say to Harriet as they walked
away,
"These are the sights, Harriet, to do something good. How insignificant they make everything else seem! — I now feel as if I could think of nothing but these poor creatures for the rest of the day; and yet, who can say how soon everything will disappear from my memory?"
"Very true," Harriet said. "Poor creatures! you can't think of anything else."
"And really, I don't think the impression will be over anytime soon," Emma said, ?? as she crossed the low hedge, and the swaying steps that finished the narrow, slippery path through the cottage garden and brought her back into the alley. "I don't think it will be like that," paused to look again at all the outer misery of the place and remember the even greater inside.
"Oh! Darling, no," said her companion.
They went on. The alley made a slight bend; and when this bend happened, Mr. Alton was immediately in sight; and so close that Emma only had time to keep saying
"Ah! Harriet, here comes a very sudden test of our stability in good thoughts. Well, (smiling) I hope you can admit that compassion, when it has brought effort and relief to those who suffer, has done everything really important. If we feel for the wretched, enough to do everything for them, the rest is empty compassion that only torments us."
Harriet could simply reply, "Oh! Darling, yes," before the Lord joined them. However, the hardships and sufferings of the poor family were the first topic of the meeting. He had wanted to visit her. He would now postpone his visit; but they had a very interesting conversation about what could and should be done. Mr. Alton then returned to accompany her.
"To coincide with such an assignment," Emma thought; "to meet in a charitable setting; this will bring a great increase in love on each side. I would not be surprised if it brought in the statement. It has to be if I wasn't here. I wish I was somewhere else."
Eager to separate from them as much as possible, she soon took possession of a narrow footpath slightly elevated on one side of the alley, leaving them together on the main road. But she hadn't been there for two minutes when she realized that Harriet's addiction and imitation habits were also raising her, and that, in short, they would both soon be after her. That would not work; she immediately stopped, under the pretext of having to change something about the lacing of her half-boot, and bent down to completely occupy the footpath, asking her to have the kindness to move on, and she would follow in half a minute. They did what they wanted; and when she thought it reasonable to be done with her boot, she had the comfort of further delaying her strength when she was overtaken by a child from the hut, she set off on command with her jug to fetch broth from Hartfield. Walking by this child's side, talking to him and questioning him was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural if he had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. with their jug to get broth from Hartfield. Walking by this child's side, talking to him and questioning him was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural if he had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. with their jug to get broth from Hartfield. Walking by this child's side, talking to him and questioning him was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural if he had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. Walking by this child's side, talking to him and questioning him was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural if he had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. Walking by this child's side, talking to him and questioning him was the most natural thing in the world, or would have been the most natural if he had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. or would have been most natural if she had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. or would have been most natural if she had acted without intention right now; and in this way, the others could still stay in front without having to wait for them. However, she involuntarily overtook them: the child's steps were fast and hers quite slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. the child's pace was fast and hers rather slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them. the child's pace was fast and hers rather slow; and she was all the more concerned about this because they were obviously in a conversation that interested her. Mr. Alton spoke vividly, Harriet listened with very pleased attention; and Emma, ?? who had sent the child on, began to think about how she could withdraw a little more when they both looked around and she was forced to join them.
Alton-san was still talking, was still busy with an interesting detail; and Emma experienced a certain disappointment when she realized that he was only telling his beautiful companion about yesterday's party at his friend Cole's and that she was talking about the Stilton cheese, the North Wiltshire, the butter, the celery, the beetroot and the whole dessert.
"Of course, that would soon have led to something better," was her comforting thought; "Everything is interesting between those who love; and everything serves as an introduction to what is close to the heart. I could have stayed away longer!«
They continued walking together until they faded within sight of the rectory, when a sudden decision to at least bring Harriet into the house caused her again to find something very offensive on her boot and fall back to fix it again. Then she briefly broke off the shoelace and cleverly threw it into a ditch, had to ask her immediately to stop, and admitted that she was unable to get herself back in order to be able to go home in bearable comfort.
"Part of my top is gone," she said, "and I don't know how to do that. I really am an extremely annoying companion for both of you, but I hope I am not often so poorly equipped. Mr. Alton, I have to ask for permission to stop by and ask your housekeeper for a piece of bow or string or anything else just to put on my boot."
Mr. Alton looked quite happy about this proposal; and nothing could exceed his vigilance and attention when he led them into his house and made an effort to make everything seem beneficial. The room they were taken to was the one he mainly occupied and looked forward; behind it was another, with whom it communicated immediately; the door between them was open, and Emma went inside with the housekeeper to get her help in the most convenient way. She had to leave the door leaning as she found it; but she was determined that Mr. Alton should close it. It was not closed, but it still remained leaning; but by engaging the housekeeper in an incessant conversation, she hoped to make it practical for him to choose his own theme in the next room. For ten minutes, she couldn't hear anything but herself. It could no longer be delayed. She then had to be done and appear.
The lovers stood together at one of the windows. It had a very favorable aspect; and for half a minute, Emma felt the glory of having made a successful plan. But it didn't work; he had not gotten down to business. He had been the most pleasant, the most delightful; he had told Harriet that he had seen them pass by and had deliberately followed them; other small gallantry and allusions had been omitted, but nothing serious.
"Careful, very careful," Emma thought; "He's progressing tariff by inch and won't risk anything until he believes himself to be sure."
But although not everything had yet been achieved by her ingenious device, she could not help but be flattered that it had been the opportunity for much present pleasure for both of them and had to lead them to the great event.
Chapter 46
He was not Mr. Cambridge, the former vicar of Monkford, however suspicious the appearance may be, but a captain Frederick Cambridge, his brother, who had been appointed commander as a result of the action off St. Domingo and not immediately hired, had come to Somersetshire in the summer of 1806; and without living parents, he found a home in Monkford for half a year. He was then a remarkably fine young man with a lot of intelligence, spirit and brilliance; and Anne, an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste and feeling. Half the attraction on both sides might have been enough, because he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anyone to love; but the encounter with such wasteful recommendations could not fail. They gradually got to know each other, and as they got to know each other, they fell in love quickly and deeply.
This was followed by a brief period of extraordinary bliss, and only a short one. Soon problems arose. When Sir Walter was approached without actually refusing his consent or saying that this should never be the case, he gave the whole thing the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence and a declared determination to do nothing for his daughter. He considered it a very humiliating alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more moderate and forgivable pride, took it as highly unhappy.
Anne Hightower, with all her demands on birth, beauty and intellect, to throw herself away at nineteen; Getting involved at the age of nineteen on an engagement to a young man who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hope of prosperity, but of the prospects of a highly insecure profession and no connections to even secure his further advancement in the profession, would indeed be a throw away, which she mourned! Anne Hightower, so young; so few know of being snatched away by a stranger without an alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of tormenting, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not be the case if this were prevented by fair friendly interference, any ideas of someone who almost had the love of a mother and the rights of a mother.
Captain Cambridge had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession; but freely spent what had come free had not realized anything. But he was confident that he would soon be rich: full of life and fervor, he knew that he would soon have a ship and soon be on a station that would lead to anything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so quiet. Such trust, strong in its own warmth and beguiling in the wit that often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it quite differently. His sanguine temperament and fearlessness had a very different effect on them. She saw it only as an exacerbation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to it. He was brilliant, he was stubborn. Lady Russell had little sense of wit, and anything that came close to unwiseness was a horror.
Such resistance, which evoked these feelings, was more than Anne could fight. As young and gentle as she was, it would have been possible to resist her father's ill will, though not tempered by a kind word or a kind look from her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not give her incessantly in vain advice with such consistency in her opinion and tender manner. She was persuaded to think the engagement was wrong: indiscreet, indecent, hardly successful and not deserved. But it wasn't just a selfish caution under which she acted to put an end to it. Had she not imagined that she would consult him, even more than her own, she would hardly have been able to give him up. The belief in prudence and self-denial, mainly for his benefit, was their greatest consolation, under the misery of a farewell, a final farewell; and every consolation was required, for she had to endure all the extra pain of opinions on his side, which were completely unconvinced and indomitable, and that he felt badly needed by such a forced renunciation. He had then left the country.
A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but Anne's suffering did not end with a few months. Their attachment and regret had long clouded any enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of flowering and joie de vivre had been their lasting effect.
More than seven years had passed since this little story of sad interest had reached its end; and time had softened much, perhaps almost all of his peculiar affection for him, but it had been too dependent on time alone; no assistance had been provided in the event of a change of location (except for a visit to Bath shortly after the break) or in the event of a novelty or expansion of the company. No one had ever come into the Kellynch circle who could bear a comparison with Frederick Cambridge as he was remembered. No second attachment, the only perfectly natural, happy and sufficient healing at her time of life, had been possible for the kind tone of her mind, the pampering of her taste within the narrow confines of the society around her. When she was about twenty-two, she had been asked by the young man to change her name, who not long later found a more willing spirit in her younger sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her rejection; for Charles Cumberland was the eldest son of a man whose land ownership and general importance in this land were second only to Sir Walter, and who had a good character and good appearance; and however Lady Russell may have asked for something more while Anne was nineteen, she would have been happy to see her at the age of twenty-two so respectably removed from the partisanship and injustice of her father's house and thus settle permanently near her. But in this case, Anne had left nothing to do; and although Lady Russell, as pleased as ever with her own discretion, never wished to undo the past, she now began to have the fear that borders on hopelessness, because Anne was tempted,
they did not know each other's opinion, neither their consistency nor their change, about the one main point of Anne's behavior, because the subject was never mentioned; but Anne, who was twenty-seven, thought very differently than she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for being led by her; but she felt that any young person who would turn to her in similar circumstances would ask for advice, he would never know of such a certain immediate misery, such an uncertain future benefit. She was convinced that despite all the drawbacks of disapproval at home and all the worries that accompanied his profession, all her likely fears, delays and disappointments, she should still have been a happier woman if she maintained the engagement than she had been when she sacrificed it; and that, she was firmly convinced that they had had the usual share, even more than the usual share, of all this anxiety and tension, without reference to the actual results of her case, which, as it happened, would have conferred earlier prosperity than would reasonably be calculated on. All his confident expectations, all his trust were justified. His genius and enthusiasm seemed to anticipate and command his successful path. He had gotten a job very soon after her engagement ended, and everything he told her would follow had happened. He had reached the other level of rank excellently and early on and must now have made a considerable fortune through successive captures. She had only naval lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt that he was rich; and in favor of his consistency,
How eloquent Anne Hightower could have been! how eloquent at least their desires were on the side of an early warm affection and a joyful confidence in the future against that overanxious caution that seems to offend the effort and distrust Providence! She had been forced to be careful in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural consequence of an unnatural beginning.
With all these circumstances, memories and feelings, she could not hear that Captain Cambridge's sister would probably live in Kellynch without a resurgence of previous pain; and some walks and sighs were necessary to dispel the excitement of the thought. She often persuaded herself that it was folly before she could harden her nerves enough not to feel the constant discussion about the Fields and their affairs as an evil. However, she was supported by this complete indifference and obvious unconsciousness that seemed to deny almost every memory of it among the only three of her own friends in the mystery of the past. She was able to live up to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honor all the better feelings of her calm; but the general air of oblivion among them was most important, whatever it arose; and in the event that Admiral Field would really take Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced again at the conviction, which had always been very grateful to her, that the past was known only to those three among her connections, of which, she believed, no syllable would ever be whispered, and in the confidence that under him the only brother, where he had lived, had received information about their short-lived engagement. This brother had long moved away from the countryside and since he was a reasonable man and also a single man at the time, she was very dependent on the fact that no human creature had heard of him. she rejoiced anew at the conviction, always most grateful to her, that the past was known only to the three of her relatives, of whom, she believed, a syllable would never be whispered, and at the trust that among his only his brother, with whom he had lived, had received knowledge of their short-lived engagement. This brother had long moved away from the countryside and since he was a reasonable man and also a single man at the time, she was very dependent on the fact that no human creature had heard of him. she rejoiced anew at the conviction, always most grateful to her, that the past was known only to the three of her relatives, of whom, she believed, a syllable would never be whispered, and at the trust that among his only his brother, with whom he had lived, had received knowledge of their short-lived engagement. This brother had long moved away from the countryside and since he was a reasonable man and also a single man at the time, she was very dependent on the fact that no human creature had heard of him. had not received any information about their short-lived engagement. This brother had long moved away from the countryside and since he was a reasonable man and also a single man at the time, she was very dependent on the fact that no human creature had heard of him. had not received any information about their short-lived engagement. This brother had long moved away from the countryside and since he was a reasonable man and also a single man at the time, she was very dependent on the fact that no human creature had heard of him.
The sister, Mrs. Field, had been outside England at the time and had accompanied her husband to a station abroad, and her own sister Mary had been in school during all of this; and by the pride of some and the tenderness of others never allowed to the slightest knowledge of it later.
With this support, she hoped that the acquaintance between her and the Fields, which must be anticipated with Lady Russell, who still lives in Kellynch, and Mary, who is stationed just three miles away, does not have to involve any particular awkwardness.
Chapter 47
Marianne's Keeper, as Margaret called him Warwick with more elegance than precision, visited the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Hargrove with more than courtesy; with a kindness that Sir John's account of him and her own gratitude evoked; and everything that happened during the visit assured him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection and domestic comfort of the family to which he had now been introduced by chance. Of her personal charms, he had not needed a second conversation to convince himself.
Miss Hargrove had a delicate complexion, regular facial features and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was even more beautiful. Her figure, although not as correct as that of her sister, was more striking, as she had the advantage of size; and her face was so beautiful that when she was called a beautiful girl in the general hymn of praise, the truth was less outraged than it usually is. Her skin was very brown, but due to her transparency, her complexion was unusually radiant; their facial features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her very dark eyes lay a life, a spirit, a desire that could hardly be seen without delight. Warwick's expression was first held back by the embarrassment that created the memory of his help. But when this passed, when their spirits were collected,
it was only necessary to mention some favorite pleasure to get them to talk. She could not remain silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor restraint in her discussion. They quickly discovered that their joy in dancing and music was reciprocal and that it arose from a general agreement of judgment in everything that concerned both. Encouraged by this to further examine his opinions, she went on to ask him about books; Their favorite authors were introduced and lingered with such delight that every young man of five and twenty years must actually have been insensitive in order not to immediately convert to the excellence of such works, as long as it had been so little noticed before. Their taste was strikingly similar. The same books, the same passages were idolized by everyone – or if any difference arose, if an objection arose, it lasted no longer than for the power of their arguments and the shine of their eyes to unfold. He accepted all their decisions, caught all their enthusiasm; and long before his visit was over, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.
"Well, Marianne," Eleanore said as soon as he left her, "for a morning, I think you did your job quite well. You have already sought Mr. Warwick's opinion on almost every important matter. You know what he thinks Cowper and Scott; You are sure that he appreciates their beauties as he should, and you have not received any assurance from his admiring Pope more than it should be. But how is your acquaintance to be supported for a long time, despite such an extraordinary haste on every topic? You will soon have exhausted every favorite topic. Another meeting will be enough to explain his views on picturesque beauty and second marriages, and then you have nothing more to ask.
"Eleanore," Marianne exclaimed, "is that fair? is that fair? are my ideas so sparse? But I understand what you mean. I was too comfortable, too happy, too open - place decency; I was open and sincere, where I should have been reserved, mindless, blunt and deceitful - if I had only talked about the weather and the roads, and if I had only made this accusation once in ten minutes, I would have been spared."
"My dear," said her mother, "you must not be evil to Eleanore – she was just joking. Marianne softened in a moment.
Warwick, for his part, gave every proof of his pleasure in her acquaintanceship, which could be provided by an obvious desire to improve it. He came to them every day. Inquiring about Marianne was initially his apology; but the encouragement of his reception, which became more kind every day, made such an apology superfluous before it had ceased to be possible through Marianne's perfect recovery. She was tied to the house for a few days; but imprisonment had never been less annoying. Warwick was a young man with good skills, quick imagination, lively mind and open, loving manners. He was created precisely to conquer Marianne's heart, because with all this he connected not only with a fascinating person, but also with a natural zeal of the spirit, now awakened and increased by her own example,
His company gradually became her most exquisite pleasure. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensitivity and spirit that Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs. Hargrove's estimation, he was as impeccable as in Marianne's; and Eleanore saw nothing to criticize in him but a tendency in which he closely resembled her sister and particularly pleased her to say too much what he thought at every opportunity, regardless of persons or circumstances. By hastily forming his opinion about other people and expressing his opinion, sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was busy, and by belittling the forms of worldly decency too easily, he showed a lack of caution that Eleanore could not condone, despite everything he and Marianne could say in his support.
Marianne now began to realize that the desperation that had gripped her at the age of sixteen and a half, ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection had been premature and unjustified. Warwick was all that her imagination had described as capable of fastening her in that unfortunate hour and in every brighter period; and his behavior declared his desires serious in this regard, as his abilities were strong.
Her mother, too, in whom not a single speculative thought of her marriage had been awakened, was led to hope and expect it by his prospect of riches before the end of a week; and to secretly congratulate themselves on having won two such sons-in-law as Edward and Warwick.
Colonel Bridgerton's fondness for Marianne, who had been discovered so early by his friends, only became clear to Eleanore when she stopped being noticed by them. Their attention and wit were directed to his happier rival; and the ridicule that the other had drawn before any bias arose was removed when his feelings really demanded the ridicule that was so rightly attached to sensitivity. Eleanore had to believe, albeit reluctantly, that the feelings that Mrs. Jennings had assigned to him for her own satisfaction were now actually aroused by her sister; and that, although a general similarity of disposition between the parties could convey Mr Warwick's affection, an equally striking contrast of character was not an obstacle to Colonel Bridgerton's respect. She saw it with concern; for what could a taciturn man of thirty-five hope as opposed to a very lively man of twenty-five? and since she could not even wish him success, she wished him indifference from the bottom of her heart. She liked him – despite his seriousness and restraint, she saw him as an interesting object. His manners, while serious, were mild; and his restraint seemed to be the result of a suppression of the spirits rather than some natural gloominess of temperament. Sir John had dropped references to previous injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief that he was an unhappy man, and she looked at him with respect and compassion. she saw in him an interesting object. His manners, while serious, were mild; and his restraint seemed to be the result of a suppression of the spirits rather than some natural gloominess of temperament. Sir John had dropped references to previous injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief that he was an unhappy man, and she looked at him with respect and compassion. she saw in him an interesting object. His manners, while serious, were mild; and his restraint seemed to be the result of a suppression of the spirits rather than some natural gloominess of temperament. Sir John had dropped references to previous injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief that he was an unhappy man, and she looked at him with respect and compassion.
Perhaps she felt sorry for and appreciated him all the more when he was insulted by Warwick and Marianne, who, out of prejudice against him because he was neither lively nor young, seemed determined to underestimate his merits.
"Bridgerton is exactly the kind of man," Warwick said one day when they talked to each other about him, "of which everyone speaks well and no one cares about him; that everyone likes to see, and no one thinks of talking to him. "
That's exactly what I think of him," Marianne shouted.
"But don't boast about it," said Eleanore, "for it is wrong for both of you. He is held in high esteem by the whole family in the park, and I never see him without making an effort to talk to him."
"That he is patronized by YOU," Warwick replied, "is certainly in his favor; but as far as the appreciation of others is concerned, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the humiliation of being recognized as a lady by such a woman Mideltown and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of everyone else?"
"But perhaps the abuse of people like you and Marianne will make up for the respect of Lady Mideltown and her mother. If their praise is blame, your blame can be praise, for they are no less critical than you are biased and unjust."
"Out of consideration for your protégé, you can even be cheeky."
"My protégé, as you call him, is a reasonable man, and the mind will always attract me. Yes, Marianne, even with a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a lot of the world, has been abroad, has read and has a thinking mind. I found him able to give me a lot of information about different topics, and he always answered my questions with the willingness of good parenting and good-naturedness."
"That means," Marianne shouted contemptuously, "he told you that in The East Indies the climate is hot and the mosquitoes are annoying."
"He would have told me, I don't doubt if I had done such research, but they were points I had been informed about before."
"Perhaps," Warwick said, "his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, golden mohren, and palanquins."
"I dare say that HIS observations have gone much further than your openness. But why shouldn't you like him?"
"I don't hate him. On the contrary, I consider him to be a very respectable man who has the good word of all and is not noticed by anyone; who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to spend, and two new coats every year."
"And to that," Marianne exclaimed, "that he has neither genius nor taste nor spirit. That his mind has no brilliance, his feelings no embers and his voice no expression."
"You decide so much about his imperfections," Eleanore replied, "and so much about the power of your own imagination that the praise I can give him is comparatively cold and bland. I can only pronounce him to be a reasonable man, well-behaved, well informed, of gentle speech and, I believe, with a kind heart."
"Miss Hargrove," Warwick shouted, "They are using me unkindly now. They try to disarm me with reason and convince me against my will. But that won't be enough... I have three undeniable reasons why I don't like Colonel Bridgerton: he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be beautiful, he found a flaw in the suspension of my snail, and I can't persuade him to buy my brown mare, but I tell you with satisfaction that I think his character is also impeccable, I am willing to confess it, and against an acknowledgement that must cause me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."
Chapter 48
When the ladies left after the diner, Elizabeth ran to her sister, and when she saw her well protected from the cold, she accompanied her to the salon, where she was greeted with many expressions of joy by her two friends; and Elizabeth had never seen them as pleasantly as they were during the hour that passed before the gentlemen appeared. Her conversational skills were considerable. They could accurately describe a conversation, tell an anecdote with humor, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; Miss Woodland's eyes were immediately on Drury, and she had something to say to him before he had taken many steps. He turned to Miss Mitchell with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also gave her a slight bow, saying he was 'very happy;' but Woodland's greeting remained diffuse and warm. He was full of joy and attention. The first half hour was spent piling up the fire so that she would not suffer from the change of room; and she went to the other side of the fireplace at his request to be further away from the door. Then he sat down next to her and hardly talked to anyone else. Elizabeth, who was at work in the opposite corner, saw everything with great joy.
When the tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the game table – but in vain. She had received private information that Drury-san did not want cards; and Mr. Hurst soon even found his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole society on this subject seemed to justify her. So Mr. Hurst had no choice but to stretch out on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Drury picked up a book; Miss Woodland did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, who was mainly busy playing with her bracelets and rings, occasionally interfered in her brother's conversation with Miss Mitchell.
Miss Woodland's attention was quite busy observing Mr. Drury's progress through HIS book than reading her own; and she was constantly either investigating or looking at his side. However, she could not win him over to any conversation; he just answered her question and read on. Finally, exhausted from trying to amuse herself about her own book, which she had chosen only because it was the second volume of his, she yawned loudly and said: "How pleasant it is to spend such an evening! I finally declare that there is no pleasure like reading! How much more likely you are to get tired of something than a book! If I have my own house, I will be unhappy if I don't have an excellent library.'
No one answered. Then she yawned again, threw her book aside, and let her eyes wander through the room in search of some entertainment; When she heard her brother Miss Mitchell mention a ball to him, she suddenly turned to him and said
"By the way, Charles, are you really serious about meditating on a dance in Netherfield? I would advise you, before you decide to consult the wishes of the party present; I'm very mistaken if there aren't some of us for whom a ball would be more of a punishment than a pleasure.'
"If you mean Drury," her brother shouted, "he can go to bed if he wants to before he starts – but as far as the ball is concerned, it's a pretty orderly thing; and as soon as Nicholl's white soup has cooked enough, I send my cards around.'
"I would love balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were played in a different way; but the usual procedure of such a meeting has something unbearably boring. It would certainly be much more sensible if conversation instead of dancing were the order of the day.'
'Much more rational, my dear Caroline, dare I say, but it wouldn't be nearly as much like a ball.'
Miss Woodland did not answer, and soon after she got up and walked around the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Drury, who was the target of everything, was still relentlessly diligent. In the desperation of her feelings, she decided to make another effort and said, turning
to Elizabeth,
"Miss Eliza Mitchell, let me persuade you to follow my example and turn around in the room. I assure you, it's very refreshing after sitting in a posture for so long.'
Elizabeth was surprised, but immediately agreed. Miss Woodland had no less success with the very purpose of her courtesy; Mr. Drury looked up. He was as alert to the novelty of attention in this neighborhood as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously slammed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined, noting that he could only imagine two motives why they had chosen to walk up and down the room together, with each of the motifs interfering when he joined them. "What could he mean? She really wanted to know what he meant?" – and asked Elizabeth if she could understand him at all?
"Not at all," was her reply; 'but rely on it, he wants to be strict with us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be not to ask for it.'
However, Miss Woodland was unable to disappoint Mr. Drury in anything and therefore insisted on demanding an explanation of his two motives.
"I don't have the slightest objection to explaining them," he said as soon as she let him speak. "Either you choose this way of spending the evening because you trust each other and have secret matters to discuss, or because you are aware that your character comes into its own when walking; in the first I would be completely in your way, and in the second I can admire you much better when I sit by the fire."
'Oh! shocking!' shouted Miss Woodland. "I've never heard anything so heinous. How are we to punish him for such a speech?'
"Nothing so easy if you just have the inclination to do so," Elizabeth said. "We can all plague and punish each other. Tease him – laugh at him. As familiar as you are, you need to know how to do it.'
"But in my honor, I don't do that. I assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me THAT. Tease serenity and presence of mind! No, no – I think he could challenge us there. And as far as laughter is concerned, we will not, please, expose ourselves by trying to laugh without a theme. Drury-san is allowed to hug each other."
'Lord. Drury is not laughing!' cried Elisabeth. "This is an unusual advantage, and I hope it will continue to be unusual, because it would be a great loss for ME to have many such acquaintances. I love to laugh.'
"Miss Woodland," he said, "has given me more recognition than it can be. The wisest and best people – no, the wisest and best of their deeds – can be ridiculed by a person whose first goal in life is a joke.'
"Sure," Elizabeth replied, "there are people like that, but I hope I don't belong to YOU. I hope I never mock what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies distract me, I confess, and I laugh about it whenever I can. But that's exactly what you have without, I suppose.'
"Maybe that's not possible for anyone. But it was the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses that often make a strong understanding ridiculous.'
'Like vanity and pride.'
"Yes, vanity is really a weakness. But pride – where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will always be subject to good regulation.'
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
"Your investigation of Mr. Drury is over, I suppose," Miss Woodland said. and please, what is the result?'
"I am absolutely convinced that Drury-san has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise."
"No," drury said, "I didn't make such a claim. I have enough mistakes, but they are, I hope, incomprehensible. I do not dare to vouch for my temperament. It is, I believe, too little indulgent – certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I can't forget the follies and vices of others as quickly as I should, nor their insults to myself. My feelings are not inflated every time I try to move them. My temperament would perhaps be described as resentful. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.'
'THIS is indeed a mistake!' cried Elisabeth. "Relentless resentment IS a shade in a character. But you chose your guilt well. I really can't laugh about it. You are safe from me.'
"I believe that in every predisposition there is a tendency to a certain evil – a natural deficiency that even the best education cannot overcome."
'And YOUR fault is to hate everyone.'
"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is to deliberately misunderstand them."
"Let's have some music," shouted Miss Woodland, tired of a conversation she had no part in. "Lois, don't you mind waking up Mr. Hurst?"
Her sister did not have the slightest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Drury did not regret it after a memory of a few moments. He began to feel the danger of paying too much attention to Elizabeth.
Chapter 49
Mr. Rushmore was at the door to receive his beautiful lady; and the whole society was received by him with due attention. In the salon, they were welcomed by their mother with the same warmth, and Miss Schmidt had the honor she could wish for with everyone. After the business of arriving was finished, it was necessary to eat first, and the doors were torn open to let them into the particular dining room through one or two intermediate rooms, where a composition was prepared with abundance and elegance. A lot was said and eaten a lot, and everything went well. Then the special topic of the day was considered. How would Mr. Dorset like to know how he would decide to do a tour of the site? Mr Rushmore mentioned his curriculum. Mr Dorset suggested that a carriage that could carry more than two would be more desirable.
Mrs. Rushmore suggested taking the chaise with her; but this was hardly taken up as an amendment: the young ladies did not smile and did not speak. Her next suggestion to show the house to those who had never been there before was more acceptable, because Miss Schmidt was pleased to be shown its greatness, and everyone was happy to do something.
The whole society rose accordingly and was led under Mrs. Rushmore's guidance through a series of rooms, all sublime and many large, and abundantly furnished in the taste of fifty years ago, with shiny floors, massive mahogany, rich damask, marble, gilding and carving, each beautiful in its own way. Pictures abound, and a few were good, but the greater part were family portraits, nothing more for anyone but Mrs. Rushmore, who had gone to great lengths to learn everything the housekeeper could teach, and now was almost as well qualified to show the house. On the present occasion, she turned mainly to Miss Dorset and Esther, but there was no comparison in the willingness of her attention; for Miss Dorset, who had seen dozens of large houses and had not taken care of any of them, had only the appearance of listening politely,
the location of the house excluded the possibility of a great view from each of the rooms; and while Esther and some of the others were looking after Mrs. Rushmore, Henry Dorset looked serious and shook his head to the windows. Each room on the west front looked across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue, immediately behind tall iron palisades and gates.
After visiting many more rooms than could be of any use other than contributing to the window tax and finding employment for housemaids, "we now come to the chapel, which we should actually do from above and look down; but since we are completely among friends, I will take you in this way if you would excuse me."
They entered. Esther's imagination had prepared her for something more sublime than a merely spacious, elongated room furnished for the purpose of devotion: with nothing more conspicuous or solemn than the abundance of mahogany and the crimson velvet pillows that appeared above the Sims of the family gallery above. "I'm disappointed," she said quietly to Edmund. "That's not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing terrible here, nothing melancholic, nothing great. There are no corridors, no arches, no inscriptions, no banners. No banners, cousin, blown by the night wind of the sky. No signs of a 'Scottish monarch sleeping downstairs'."
" You forget, Esther, how late it all was built, and for how limited purpose, compared to the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They were buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you have to look for the banners and the achievements."
"It was stupid of me not to think about all this; but I'm disappointed."
Mrs. Rushmore began their relationship. "This chapel, as you can see, was prepared at the time of James ii. As far as I know, the pews before that time were just panelling; and there is reason to believe that the panels and cushions of the pulpit and family seat were made only of purple fabric; but that's not entirely certain. It is a pretty chapel that used to be used constantly in the morning and evening. In it, prayers were always read by the house priest, in the memory of many; but the late Mr. Rushmore has stopped."
"Every generation has its improvements," Miss Dorset said to Edmund with a smile.
Mrs. Rushmore had gone to reassure Mr. Dorset of her lesson; and Edmund, Esther and Miss Dorset stayed together in a group.
"It's a pity," Esther exclaimed, "that the custom has stopped. It was a valuable part of earlier times. A chapel and a chaplain have so much character with a big house, with their own ideas of what such a household should be! A whole family that gathers regularly for prayer is fine!"
"Very nice," said Miss Dorset with a laugh. "It must do the heads of families a lot of good to force all the poor housemaids and lackeys to leave business and pleasure and say their prayer here twice a day, while they themselves invent excuses for staying away."
"That's hardly Esther's idea of a family reunion," Edmund said. "If the Lord and the Mistress do not participate themselves, the custom must do more harm than good."
"In any case, it is safer to leave people to their own devices when it comes to such issues. Everyone likes to go their own way – choose their own time and type of devotion. The obligation to be present, the formality, the restraint, the length of time – all in all, it is a huge thing, and what no one likes; and if the good people who used to knelt and gawked in this gallery could have foreseen that the time would ever come when men and women could lie in bed for another ten minutes when they woke up with headaches, without the risk of renewed probation because Chapel is missing, they would have jumped into the air with joy and envy. Can't you imagine the involuntary feelings with which the former beauties of the House of Rushmore repaired this chapel many times? That of the young Mrs. Eleanor and Mrs. Bridget – strengthened in apparent piety,
for a few moments she remained unanswered. Esther blushed and looked at Edmund, but was too angry to speak; and he needed a little memory before he could say, "Your vivid mind can hardly be serious, even on serious issues. They gave us an amusing sketch, and human nature cannot say that it was not so. We all sometimes have to feel the difficulty of organizing our thoughts as we could wish; but if you assume that it is a common thing, that is, a weakness that has become a habit through neglect, then what could one expect from the private devotion of such persons? Do you think the souls who have suffered, who wander around in a chapel, would be better gathered in a closet?"
" Yes, very likely. They would have at least two chances in their favor. There would be less to divert outside attention, and it wouldn't be tried for as long."
"The mind that does not fight against itself in one circumstance would find in the other objects that distract it, I believe; and the influence of the place and example can often evoke better feelings than those started with. However, I admit that the longer duration of the ministry is sometimes too hard for the mind. One wishes it were not so; but I haven't left Oxford long enough to forget what chapel prayers are."
As this passed and the rest of the society was scattered around the chapel, Julia drew Mr. Dorset's attention to her sister by saying, "Look at Mr. Rushmore and Mary standing side by side, just like the ceremony is being performed. Don't they quite have the air out of it?"
Mr. Dorset smiled his approval, stepped up to Mary and said in a voice she could only hear, "I don't want to see Miss Schmidt so close to the altar."
The lady startled and instinctively took a step or two, but recovered a moment later, seemed to laugh, and asked him in a not much louder tone: "If he would give them away?"
"I'm afraid I'm doing it very clumsily," was his answer with a meaningful expression.
Julia, who had just joined them, continued the joke.
"In my word, it's a real shame that it shouldn't happen directly if we just had a proper license, because here we are all, and nothing in the world could be more cozy and enjoyable." And she spoke and laughed about it with so little caution that she could understand Mr. Rushmore and his mother and exposed her sister to her lover's whispered gallantry, while Mrs. Rushmore spoke with appropriate smiles and dignity that it was a happiest event for her whenever it took place.
"If only Edmund were okay!" shouted Julia and ran to where he stood with Miss Dorset and Esther: "My dear Edmund, if you only had orders now, you could perform the ceremony directly. How unfortunate that you are not ordained; Mr. Rushmore and Maria are ready."
Miss Dorset's face when Julia spoke might have amused a disinterested observer. She looked almost horrified under the new idea she received. She felt sorry for Esther. "How shaken she will be at what she has just said," she said.
"Ordained!" said Miss Dorset; "What, do you want to become a clergyman?"
" Yes; I will take orders soon after my father returns – probably at Christmas."
Miss Dorset, who summoned up her courage and regained her face color, only replied, "If I had known this before, I would have spoken with more respect about the fabric," and turned the subject away.
The chapel was soon left to the silence and silence that reigned throughout the year with few interruptions. Miss Schmidt, dissatisfied with her sister, went ahead, and everyone seemed to feel like they had been there long enough.
The lower part of the house was now completely exposed, and Mrs. Rushmore, who never tired of the matter, would have gone to the main staircase and led her through all the upper rooms if her son had not intervened in doubt enough time. "Because if," he said with a self-evidentness that some clear heads do not always avoid, "we walk around the house for too long, we have no time for what to do outside. It's after two, and we'll eat at five."
Mrs. Rushmore submitted; and the question of surveying the terrain with the who and the how would probably become even more aroused, and Mrs. Norris began to arrange at which intersection of carriages and horses the most could be done when the young people met an outside door, temptingly open on a staircase that immediately led to peat and shrubs, and all the sweets of pleasure, as if by an impulse, a desire for air and freedom, all went out.
"Let's say we turn here for now," said Mrs. Rushmore, politely picking up the hint and following them. "Here are most of our plants, and here are the curious pheasants."
"Ask," said Mr. Dorset and looked around, "if we can't find something to deal with here before we move on? I see promising walls. Mr. Rushmore, shall we convene a council on this lawn?"
"James," Mrs. Rushmore said to her son, "I believe the wilderness will be new to the whole society. Miss Schmidts have never seen the wilderness."
No objection was raised, but for some time there seemed to be no inclination to move in any plan or distance. All were first attracted to the plants or the pheasants, and all dispersed in happy independence. Mr. Dorset was the first to advance to investigate the capabilities of this end of the house. The lawn, which was bordered on each side by a high wall, contained a bowling green behind the first planted area and behind the bowling green a long terrace path supported by iron palisades and a view over them into the peaks of the trees of the wilderness immediately adjacent. It was a good place for troubleshooting. Mr. Dorset was soon followed by Miss Schmidt and Mr. Rushmore; and when, after a short time, the others began to form groups, these three were found in bustling consultation on the terrace of Edmund, Miss Dorset and Esther, who seemed to unite just as naturally, and which they left and left after a brief participation in their regrets and difficulties. The remaining three, Mrs. Rushmore, Mrs. Norris and Julia, were still far behind; for Julia, whose cheerful star no longer prevailed, was forced to stay by Mrs. Rushmore's side and tie her impatient feet to this lady's slow step, while her aunt, after meeting with the housekeeper who had come out to eat the pheasant, lingered in gossip with her. Poor Julia, the only one of the nine who was not quite satisfied with her lot, was now in a state of complete penance and was as different from Juliet in the carriage box as one could imagine. The courtesy to which she had been brought up as a duty made it impossible for her to escape;
"This is unbearably hot," said Miss Dorset, as they turned off once on the terrace and approached the door in the middle a second time, which opened into the wilderness. "Should anyone object to being comfortable? Here is a nice grove, if you can only get in. What luck if the door should not be locked! but of course it is; because in these great places, gardeners are the only people who can go wherever they want."
However, the door turned out to be unlocked, and everyone agreed to walk through joyfully and leave the unmitigated glow of the day behind. A considerable staircase led them into the wilderness, which was a planted forest of about two acres, and although it was mainly felled from larch, laurel and beech and laid out with too much regularity, it was dark and shady and naturally beauty compared to the bowling green and terrace. They all felt the refreshment of it and could only walk and admire for some time. Finally, after a short break, Miss Dorset began with: "So you become a clergyman, Mr. Schmidt. It's more of a surprise for me."
"Why should it surprise you? They have to assume that I am destined for some profession and perhaps realize that I am neither a lawyer nor a soldier nor a sailor."
" Very true; but in short, it hadn't occurred to me. And you know that in general there is an uncle or a grandfather who leaves a fortune to the second son."
"A very commendable practice," Edmund said, "but not entirely universal. I'm one of the exceptions, and as one I have to do something for myself."
"But why do you want to become a clergyman? I thought, this is always the lot of the youngest, where many had to vote before him."
"Do you think the Church itself never voted?"
" Never is a black word. But yes, in the never of conversation, which doesn't mean very often, I think so. For what is to be done in the Church? Men love to be different, and in each of the other lines you can make distinctions, but not in the Church. A clergyman is nothing."
"The nothingness of conversation has its gradations, I hope, as does the never. A clergyman cannot be high in standing or fashionable. He is not allowed to lead mobs or put the bin in clothes. But I cannot call this situation anything that has responsibility for everything that is fundamental to humanity, individually or collectively, temporally and eternally, which has the guardianship of religion and morality and, consequently, of the customs that result from its influence. No one here can't name the office. If the man is so, he neglects his duty by renouncing its just meaning and leaving his place to show what he should not appear."
"They attach greater importance to the clergyman than has been heard so far or than I can quite understand. You don't see much of this influence and meaning in society, and how can you appropriate it when you see it so rarely? How can two sermons a week, even if you think they are worth listening to, provided that the preacher has the mind to prefer Blair's own, do all that you are talking about? regulate the behavior and manners of a large gathering for the rest of the week? You hardly see a clergyman from his pulpit."
"You're talking about London, I'm talking about the whole nation."
"The metropolis, I imagine, is a pretty fair example for the rest."
"Hopefully not because of the ratio of virtue to vice throughout the kingdom. We don't look for our best morals in big cities. It is not there that respectable people of all denominations can do the most good; and certainly the influence of the clergy is not felt most strongly there. A good preacher is persecuted and admired; but it is not only in good preaching that a good minister will be useful in his church and neighborhood, where the church and neighborhood have a size capable of knowing his private character and observing his general behavior, which is rarely the case in London. The clergy get lost there in the crowd of their parishioners. For the most part, they are only known as preachers. And as far as their influence in public is concerned, Miss Dorset must not misunderstand me, or I suppose I want to call them the arbitrators of good education, the regulators of nobility and courtesy, the masters of the ceremonies of life. The manners I am talking about could rather be called behaviour, perhaps the result of good principles; the effect, in short, of those teachings that are their duty to teach and recommend; and I believe it will be everywhere to find that the rest of the nation is what the clergy are or is not what it should be."
"Sure," Esther said with gentle seriousness.
"So," shouted Miss Dorset, "You've pretty much convinced Miss Price."
"I wish I could convince Miss Dorset too."
"I don't think you ever will," she said with a mischievous smile; "I am just as surprised now as I was at the beginning that you intend to take orders. You're really fit for something better. Come, change your mind. It's not too late. Go into law."
"Go into the law! With as much ease as I've been told, I'm going into this wilderness."
"Now you will say something about the law being the worst wilderness of both, but I'll get ahead of you; remember, I preceded you."
"You don't need to hurry if it's just to prevent me from saying a nob mot, because it's not the slightest joke in my nature. I am a very matter-of-fact, open person and can stumble around the limits of quick-wittedness for half an hour without meeting them.
A general silence succeeded. Everyone was thoughtful. Esther made the first interruption by saying, "I'm amazed that I should be tired of just walking around in this cute forest; but the next time we get to a seat, if you're not uncomfortable, I'd like to sit down for a little while."
"My dear Esther," Edmund exclaimed, immediately pulling her arm into his, "how thoughtless I have been! I hope you are not very tired. Perhaps," he turned to Miss Dorset, "my other companion can do me the honor of taking an arm."
"Thank you, but I'm not tired at all." However, she accepted it while she spoke, and the satisfaction of feeling such a connection for the first time made Esther forget a little. "You hardly touch me," he said. "You are of no use to me. What a difference in the weight of a woman's arm from that of a man! In Oxford, I've often gotten used to a man leaning against me for a street, and by comparison, you're just a fly."
"I'm really not tired, which I almost wonder about; because we must have walked at least a mile in this forest. Don't you think we have that?"
"Not half a mile," was his energetic response; because he was not yet so much in love to measure distances or to expect time with female licentiousness.
" Oh! you don't think about how much we wounded. We have taken such a very winding course, and the forest itself must be half a mile long in a straight line, because we have never seen its end since we left the first great path."
"But if you remember, before we left this first great path, we saw right to its end. We looked down the whole view and saw that she was locked by iron gates, and she couldn't have been longer than a furlong."
" Oh! I don't know anything about your furlongs, but I'm sure it's a very long forest, and that since we got in and out, we've been winding our way in and out; and that's why when I say we've walked a mile in it, I have to speak inside the compass."
"We've been here for exactly a quarter of an hour," Edmund said, pulling out his watch. "Do you think we run four miles an hour?"
" Oh! Don't attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I can't be dictated by a watch."
A few steps further they brought out at the end of the path they had spoken of; and in the background, well shaded and protected, and overlooking a ha-ha into the park, was a bench of comfortable size on which they all settled.
"I'm afraid you're very tired, Esther," Edmund said, watching her; "Why didn't you speak earlier? This will be a bad day for you if you are impregnated. Any kind of exercise tires her so quickly, Miss Dorset, except riding."
"So how disgusting of you to let me claim your horse the way I've been doing all last week! I am ashamed of you and of me, but it should never happen again."
"Their attention and consideration makes me more sensitive to my own neglect. Esther's interest seems to be in safer hands with you than with me."
"That she should be tired now, however, does not surprise me; for nothing in the service is as tiring as what we did this morning: seeing a big house, dawdling from one room to another, straining your eyes and attention, hearing what you don't understand, what you admire doesn't care. It's generally allowed to be the biggest boredom in the world, and Miss Price found it that way even though she didn't know it."
"I will be rested soon," Esther said; "Sitting in the shade on a beautiful day and looking at the greenery is the most complete refreshment."
After sitting for a while, Miss Dorset was back on her feet. "I have to move," she said; "Resting tires me out. I looked over the ha-ha until I was tired. I have to go and look through this iron gate at the same view without being able to see it so well.
Edmund also left the seat. "Well, Miss Dorset, if you look up the sidewalk, you'll make sure it can't be half a mile or half a mile long."
"It's a tremendous distance," she said; "I can see that at a glance."
He still argued with her, but in vain. She wouldn't calculate, she wouldn't compare. She would just smile and claim. The greatest possible degree of rational consistency could not have been more engaging, and they conversed with mutual satisfaction. Finally, it was agreed that they should try to determine the dimensions of the wood by going a little more over it. They would walk to one end, in the line they were in at the time – because there was a straight green path along the ground next to the ha-ha – and maybe turn a little in a different direction if it seemed likely to help and be back in a few minutes. Esther said she was rested and had also moved, but that had not been suffered. Edmund urged her to stay where she was with a seriousness she couldn't resist. and she was left on the bench to think with pleasure of her cousin's care, but with great regret that she was not stronger. She watched them until they were bent around the corner and listened until all the sounds from them were silenced.
Chapter 50
Mr. Alton must now be left to his own devices. It was no longer in Emma's power to monitor his happiness or speed up his actions. The coming of her sister's family was so imminent that it became her main interest first in anticipation and then in reality; and during the ten days of her stay in Hartfield, it was not to be expected – she herself did not expect it – that she could provide the lovers with anything other than occasional, accidental help. However, they could move forward quickly if they wanted to; they have to move forward somehow, whether they like it or not. She hardly wished for more leisure for her. There are people, the more you do for them, the less they do for themselves.
Mr. and Mrs. John Hill, who were absent from Surry longer than usual, were of course more exciting than the usual interest. Until that year, every long vacation since their marriage had been split between Hartfield and Donwell Abbey; but all the holidays of that autumn were dedicated to the children for bathing in the sea, and it had therefore been many months since they had been seen regularly by their Surry connections or even by Mr. Lodge, who could not be made to come all the way to London, even for the sake of poor Bella; and who was therefore now very nervous and anxious to pre-empt this too short visit.
He thought a lot about the evils of the journey for them and not a little about the fatigue of his own horses and his coachman, which were to bring a part of society on the last half of the way; but his warnings were unnecessary; the sixteen miles were happily mastered, and Mr. and Mrs. John Hill, their five children, and a competent number of nannies reached Hartfield in safety. The hustle and bustle and joy of such an arrival, which many with whom had to be greeted, welcomed, encouraged and dispersed and dealt with in various ways, created a noise and confusion that his nerves could not have endured for any other reason and could have endured much longer for it; but Hartfield's ways and her father's feelings were so respected by Mrs. John Hill that despite the maternal concern for the immediate pleasure of her little ones,
Mrs. John Hill was a pretty, elegant little woman with gentle, calm manners and a remarkably kind and loving nature; wrapped in her family; a devoted wife, a loving mother, and so tenderly bound to her father and sister that without these higher bonds, warmer love would have seemed impossible. She couldn't see a mistake in any of them. She was not a woman with strong understanding or speed; and with this resemblance to her father, she also inherited much of his constitution; was prone to her own health, overprotective with that of her children, had many fears and many nerves, and loved her own Mr. Wingfield in town as much as her father Mr. Perry could possibly be. They were also similar in a generally benevolent temperament and a strong habit of respecting every old acquaintance.
Mr. John Hill was a tall, gentleman-like and very clever man; Increasing in his profession, domestic and respectable in his private character; but with reserved manners that prevented him from being generally pleasant; and able to lose the humor at times. He was not an evil man, not so often unreasonably upset to deserve such a reproach; but his temperament was not his great perfection; and in fact, with such a adoring woman, it was hardly possible that any natural deficiencies in it should not increase. The extreme sweetness of her temperament had to hurt his. He had all the clarity and speed of mind she wanted, and he could sometimes behave unkindly or say something heavy.
With his beautiful sister-in-law, he was not a big favorite. Nothing about him escaped her. She quickly felt the small injuries to Bella that Bella herself never felt. Perhaps she would have overlooked more if his manners had been flattering to Bella's sister, but they were only those of a quiet, kind brother and friend, without praise and without blindness; but she could hardly have given a personal compliment, apart from the biggest mistake in her eyes that he sometimes made, the lack of respectful forbearance towards her father. There he did not always have the patience that one could have wished for. Mr. Lodge's idiosyncrasies and restlessness sometimes provoked him into a rational reproach or a sharp response that was equally inappropriate. It didn't happen often; for Mr. John Hill really had a great respect for his father-in-law and generally a strong sense of what he is entitled to; but it was too often for Emma's charity, especially since all the pain of anxiety was often bearable, even though the insult did not come. However, the beginning of each visit showed nothing but the most appropriate feelings, and one could hope that this would pass such a short time in immaculate cordiality. They hadn't sat long and composed when Mr. Lodge, with a melancholic shake of the head and a sigh, alerted his daughter to the sad change in Hartfield since she had last been there. although the crime did not come. However, the beginning of each visit showed nothing but the most appropriate feelings, and one could hope that this would pass such a short time in immaculate cordiality. They hadn't sat long and composed when Mr. Lodge, with a melancholic shake of the head and a sigh, alerted his daughter to the sad change in Hartfield since she had last been there. although the crime did not come. However, the beginning of each visit showed nothing but the most appropriate feelings, and one could hope that this would pass such a short time in immaculate cordiality. They hadn't sat long and composed when Mr. Lodge, with a melancholic shake of the head and a sigh, alerted his daughter to the sad change in Hartfield since she had last been there.
"Oh, my dear," he said, "poor Miss Taylor – it's a painful affair."
"Oh yes, sir," she shouted with readily compassion, "as you must miss her! And so does dear Emma! – What a terrible loss for both of you! – I have mourned for you so much. – I couldn't imagine how you could do without them. – It's really a sad change. But I hope she's pretty good, sir."
"Quite well, my dear – I hope – pretty good.
Mr John Hill here calmly asked Emma if there were any doubts about Randalls' air.
"Oh! no – not at all. I've never seen Mrs. Winstone better in my life – she's never looked so good. Dad just expresses his own regret."
"Much to the credit of both," was the beautiful answer.
"And do you see her quite often, sir?" asked Bella in the plaintive tone that suited her father.
Mr. Lodge hesitated. "Not nearly as often, my love, as I could wish."
"Oh! Dad, we've only missed her a whole day since her wedding. Either in the morning or in the evening of each day, with one exception, we have seen either Mr. Winstone or Mrs. Winstone and generally both, either in Randalls or here – and as you might imagine, Bella most often here. They are very, very friendly in their visits. Mr. Winstone is really as nice as she is. Dad, when you speak so melancholically, you give Bella a false idea of all of us. Everyone needs to be aware that Miss Taylor must be missed, but everyone should also be sure that Mr. and Mrs. Winstone are really preventing us from missing her to the extent that we ourselves expected – which is exactly the truth."
"As it should be," said Mr. John Hill, "and as I had hoped from your letters. Your desire to pay attention to you was beyond doubt, and his distant and sociable man makes it easy for him. I've always told you, my dear, that I had no idea that the change was as essential to Hartfield as you feared; and now you have Emma's account, I hope you will be satisfied."
"Well, of course," said Mr. Lodge – "yes, sure – I can't deny that Mrs. Winstone, poor Mrs. Winstone, comes to us quite often – but then – she has to leave again and again."
"It would be very hard for Mr. Winstone if she didn't, Dad. You forget poor Mr. Winstone."
"I really believe," John Hill said kindly, "that Mr. Winstone has a small claim. You and I, Emma, ?? will dare to take on the role of the poor man. Me as a husband and you, since you are not a wife, the man's demands will most likely hit us with equal force. As for Bella, she's been married long enough to see how convenient it is to put all the Mr. Winstones aside as much as possible."
"I, my love," shouted his wife, who only partially heard and understood. – "Are you talking about me? I am sure no one should or can be a greater advocate of marriage than I can be; and if it hadn't been for the misery she left Hartfield, I would never have considered Miss Taylor the happiest woman in the world; And as for Mr. Winstone, this excellent Mr. Winstone, I don't think there's anything he doesn't deserve. I think he's one of the best whims there's ever been. Apart from you and your brother, I don't know anyone like him in temperament. I will never forget that he raised Henry's kite for him on that very windy day last Easter – and since his special kindness in the last twelve-month September, when he wrote this note at twelve o'clock at night,
"Where is the young man?" said John Hill. "Was he here on that occasion – or not?"
"He hasn't been here yet," Emma replied. "There was a strong expectation that he would come soon after the wedding, but it ended in nothing; and I haven't heard any mention of him lately."
"But you should tell them about the letter, my dear," her father said. "He wrote a letter to poor Mrs. Winstone to congratulate her, and it was a very decent, pretty letter. She showed me. I thought it was really very well done by him. Whether it was his own idea, you know, you can't tell. He is still young, and his uncle maybe ..."
"My dear dad, he is twenty-three. You forget how time flies."
"Twenty-three! – is he really? – Well, I couldn't believe it – and he was only two years old when he lost his poor mother! Well, time actually flies! – and my memory is very bad. However, it was a very good, pretty letter that gave Mr. and Mrs. Winstone a lot of joy. I remember it was written from Weymouth and dated September 28 – and started with "My dear Madam", but I forgot how it went on; and it was signed 'FC Winstone Curcelle'. I remember that exactly."
"How very pleasant and appropriate of him!" cried the kind-hearted woman John Hill. "I have no doubt that he is an extremely amiable young man. But how sad it is that he does not live at home with his father! There is something so shocking about a child being taken away from their parents and their natural home! I could never understand how Winstone-san could break up with him. Give up your child! I really could never think well of someone who suggested something like that to someone else."
"I don't think anyone has ever given a good opinion of the Curcelles," Mr. John Hill remarked coolly. "But you don't have to imagine that Mr. Winstone felt what you would feel if you gave up on Henry or John. Mr. Winstone is more of a easy-going, cheerful man than a man with strong feelings; he takes things as he finds them and somehow enjoys them, which, I suspect, depends much more on what is called company for his comfort, that is, on the power of eating and drinking and playing whist with his neighbors five times a week than with family affection or anything, what the home gives."
What bordered on a reflection on Mr. Winstone didn't please Emma, and she almost felt like recording it; but she fought and let it pass. It would, if possible, keep the peace; and it was something honorable and valuable in the strong domestic habits, the generosity of the home for itself, which resulted in her brother's tendency to look down on the general speed of social traffic and those who cared. - It had a high claim to forbearance.
Chapter 51
The following conversation, which took place one morning between the two friends in the drinking hall, after an acquaintance of eight or nine days, is a proof of their very warm affection and of the tenderness, discretion, originality of thought, and literary taste that characterized the appropriateness of this bond.
They met by appointment; and since Bella had arrived almost five minutes before her friend, her first speech was natural: "My dearest creature, what made you come so late? I've been waiting for you at least at that age!"
"You have, indeed! I am very sorry; but I really thought I was in very good time. It's just one. I hope you haven't been here for long?"
"Oh! These ten ages at least. I'm sure I was here that half hour. But now let's go and sit at the other end of the room and have fun. I have a hundred things to tell you. First, I was so afraid that it would rain this morning just as I was about to leave; it looked very rainy, and that would have plunged me into agony! You know, I just saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window on Milsom Street – just like yours, just with coquettish ribbons instead of green; I longed for it very much. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing to yourself all morning? Did you continue with Udolpho?"
"Yes, I've been reading it since I woke up; and I have come to the black veil."
"Really? How disgusting! Oh! I wouldn't tell you what's behind the black veil for the world! Aren't you crazy to know?"
"Oh! Yes, quite; What can it be? But don't tell me – there's no way I would be told. I know it has to be a skeleton, I'm sure it's Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I'm thrilled with the book! I want to spend my whole life reading it. I assure you that if I hadn't met you, I wouldn't have gotten rid of it on earth."
"Dear creatures! How committed I am to you; and when you're done with Udolpho, we'll read Italian together; and I've made a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."
"You have, indeed! How happy I am! What are they all?"
"I will read their names to you directly; Here they are, in my wallet. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine and Horrid Mysteries. They will outlast us for some time."
"Yes, pretty good; but are they all terrible, are you sure they are all terrible?"
"Yes, for sure; because a special friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read each of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you were thrilled with her. She ties herself the sweetest cape imaginable. I find them as beautiful as an angel, and I am so angry with the men that they do not admire them! I scold them all incredibly for that."
"Scolded them! Do you scold them for not admiring them?"
"Yes, I do. There's nothing I wouldn't do for those who are really my friends. I have no idea about loving people halfway; it's not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our meetings this winter that I wouldn't dance with him if he annoyed me all night unless he allowed Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think we are incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. If I were to hear someone speak contemptuously about you now, I would immediately catch fire: but that's not likely at all, because you're exactly the kind of girl who is very popular with men."
"Oh dear!" shouted Katharina and dyed. "How can you say that?"
"I know you very well; They have so much liveliness, and that's exactly what Miss Andrews wants, because I have to admit, she has something amazingly bland about her. Oh! I have to tell you that yesterday, shortly after our separation, I saw a young man who looked at you so seriously – I'm sure he's in love with you." Catherine blushed and refused again. Bella laughed. "It's very true, to my honor, but I see what it's like; They are indifferent to the admiration of all but that of a lord who is said to be nameless. No, I can't blame you" – more seriously – "Your feelings are easy to understand. Where the heart really hangs, I know very well how little you can be happy about the attention of others. Everything is so bland, so uninteresting, which has nothing to do with the beloved object! I can fully understand your feelings."
"But you shouldn't tell me that I think so much of Alsina-san, because maybe I'll never see him again."
"Don't see you again! My dearest creature, don't talk about it. I'm sure you'd be unhappy if you thought that way!"
"No, I really shouldn't. I don't pretend to say that I wasn't very happy with him; but while I have Udolpho to read, I feel like no one can make me unhappy. Oh! The terrible black veil! My dear Bella, I'm sure Laurentina's skeleton must be behind it."
"It seems so strange to me that you should never have read Udolpho; but I suppose Mrs. Fenmore has something against novels."
"No, it doesn't. She herself often reads Sir Charles Grandison; but new books don't get in our way."
"Mr. Charles Grandison! This is an amazing horrible book, isn't it? I remember Miss Andrews couldn't survive the first volume."
"It's not like Udolpho at all; but I still find it very entertaining."
"Really! You surprise me; I thought it wasn't readable. But, my dearest Catherine, have you decided what you want to wear on your head tonight? I am determined to be dressed exactly like you in any case. The men sometimes notice that, you know."
"But it doesn't mean if they do," Catherine said very innocently.
"Meaning! Oh, heavens! I make it my rule not to care what they say. They are very often amazingly outrageous if you don't treat them with spirit and make them stay at a distance."
"Are they? Well, I've never seen that. They always behave very well to me."
"Oh! They give themselves such airs. They are the most imaginary creatures in the world and consider themselves so important! By the way, although I have thought about it a hundred times, I have always forgotten to ask you what your favorite stone is with a man. Do you like them dark or light the most?"
"I hardly know it. I never thought much about it. Something between the two, I think. Brown – not light and – and not very dark."
"Very good, Katharina. That's exactly what he is. I have not forgotten your description of Mr. Alsina – "a brown skin with dark eyes and quite dark hair". Well, my taste is different. I prefer bright eyes, and as far as the complexion is concerned – you know – I like a pale one better than any other. You must not betray me if you ever meet one of your acquaintances who applies to this description."
"Cheating on you! What do you think?"
"No, don't worry me. I think I said too much. Let's drop the topic."
Catherine obeyed somewhat astonished, and after remaining silent for a few moments, she was about to return to what interested her more than anything else in the world at the time, Laurentina's skeleton, when her friend prevented her from doing so by saying, "For God's sake! Let's move away from that end of the room. You know, there are two hideous young men who stared at me for half an hour. They really upset me. Let's go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."
They went to the book; and while Bella investigated the names, it was Catherine's job to observe the events of these alarming young men.
"You don't come along here, do you? I hope they are not so outrageous as to follow us. Please let me know if they are coming. I'm determined not to look up."
After a few moments, Catherine assured her with unartificial joy that she no longer needed to be restless, since the gentlemen had just left the drinking hall.
"And in which direction did they go?" bella said, hastily turning around. "One was a very good-looking young man."
"They went to the churchyard."
"Well, I'm incredibly glad I got rid of them! And now, what do you think about going to Edgar's Buildings with me and looking at my new hat? You said you wanted to see it."
Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "maybe we can overtake the two young men."
"Oh! Never mind. If we hurry, we'll pass them right away, and I can't wait to show you my hat."
"But if we wait just a few minutes, there's no danger of seeing them at all."
"I will not give them such a compliment, I assure you. I have no idea, men with such ?? To treat respect. That's the way to spoil them."
Catherine had no objection to such an argument; In order to demonstrate the independence of Miss Dorfman and her determination to humiliate the sex, they immediately set out as quickly as they could to pursue the two young men.
Chapter 52
Due to an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote to her mother the next morning to ask that the car be sent to them during the day. But Mrs. Mitchell, who had expected her daughters to stay in Netherfield until next Tuesday, which would end Jane's week, couldn't bring herself to receive her with pleasure beforehand. Her answer was therefore not favorable, at least not for Elizabeth's wishes, because she was impatient to come home. Mrs. Mitchell told them that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her transcript it was added that if Mr. Woodland and his sister urged her to stay longer, she might very well spare her. Elizabeth, however, was determined not to stay any longer, nor did she expect to be asked; and anxious,
the communication aroused many affected professions; and enough was said that they wished to stay at least until the next day to work on Jane; and until tomorrow their departure was postponed. Miss Woodland then regretted that she had proposed the delay, because her jealousy and aversion to one sister far exceeded her affection for the other.
The landlord heard with real sorrow that they were leaving so soon, and repeatedly tried to convince Miss Mitchell that it would not be safe for her – that she had not recovered enough; but Jane was firm where she thought she was right.
It was welcome news for Drury-san – Elizabeth had been to Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he would have liked – and Miss Woodland was rude to HER and more teasing than usual to herself. He wisely decided to pay special attention to the fact that he did not miss a sign of admiration NOW, nothing that could raise them in the hope of influencing his bliss; Reasonable that if such an idea has been implied, his behavior during the Last Day must have material weight in order to confirm or destroy it. He was determined to speak to her for barely ten words throughout Saturday, and even though they were alone for half an hour, he scrupulously stuck to his book and didn't even look at her.
On Sunday, after the morning service, the separation, which was so pleasant for almost everyone, took place. Miss Woodland's courtesy to Elizabeth eventually increased very quickly, as did her affection for Jane; and when they separated, she assured the latter that it would always be a pleasure for her to see her either in Longbourn or Netherfield, and she embraced them tenderly, then she even shook hands with the former. Elisabeth said goodbye to the whole of society in the most lively mood.
At home, they were not given a very warm welcome by their mother. Mrs. Mitchell wondered about their coming and thought it was very wrong that they made so much effort, and was sure that Jane would have caught a cold again. But her father, although he expressed his joy very laconically, was really happy to see her; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all gathered, had lost much of its liveliness and almost all its meaning due to the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
They found Mary, as usual, deeply immersed in the study of the basso continuo and human nature; and had some excerpts to admire and some new observations of flimsy morality. Catherine and Linda had information of a different kind for them. Since the previous Wednesday, much had been done and much had been said in the regiment; several of the officers had been eating at their uncle's house recently, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been suggested that Colonel Forster would marry.
Chapter 53
A quarter of an hour, twenty minutes passed, and Esther still thought of Edmund, Miss Dorset, and herself without anyone interrupting them. She began to wonder to be left alone for so long, listening with the anxious desire to hear her footsteps and her voices again. She listened, and finally she heard; she heard voices and approaching footsteps; but she had just convinced herself that they were not the ones she wanted when Miss Schmidt, Mr. Rushmore and Mr. Dorset left the same path she had taken and stood in front of her.
"Miss Price all alone" and "My dear Esther, how come that?" were the first greetings. She told her story. "Poor dear Esther," shouted her cousin, "how did they treat you badly! You should have stayed with us."
Then she sat down with a gentleman on each side, resumed the conversation she had previously engaged in, and discussed the possibility of improvements with a lot of liveliness. Nothing was fixed; but Henry Dorset was full of ideas and projects, and in general, everything he proposed was immediately approved, first by her and then by Mr. Rushmore, whose main task seemed to be to hear the others, and who hardly risked an original thought of himself beyond the wish that they had seen the apartment of his friend Smith.
After spending a few minutes in this way, Miss Schmidt, looking at the Iron Gate, expressed a desire to walk through it to the park so that her views and plans would be more comprehensive. It was exactly what everyone else wanted, it was the best, it was in Henry Dorset's opinion the only way to proceed with an advantage; and he saw directly a hill less than half a mile away, which would give them exactly the necessary command over the house. Therefore, they must go to this hill and through this gate; but the gate was locked. Mr. Rushmore wished he had brought the key; he was about to consider whether to bring the key; he was determined never to come without the key again; but the present evil has not yet eliminated this. They didn't get through; and when Miss Schmidt's inclination did not diminish at all, but ended with Mr. Rushmore bluntly declaring that he would go and get the key. Accordingly, he set off.
"It's undoubtedly the best thing we can do now as we are already so far from the house," Dorset-san said when he left.
"Yes, you can't do more than that. But now, sincerely, don't you find the place much worse than you expected?"
"No, indeed, quite differently. I find it better, greater, more complete in its style, although this style may not be the best. And to tell the truth," speaking a little more softly, "I don't think I'll ever see Sotherton again with as much joy as I do now. Another summer will hardly improve it for me."
After a moment of embarrassment, the lady replied, "You are too much of a man of the world not to see them through the eyes of the world. If other people think Sotherton has improved, I have no doubt you will.
"I'm afraid I'm not quite as cosmopolitan as it might do me good in some respects. My feelings are not quite as fleeting, nor my memory of the past under such easy control as one finds in world people."
This was followed by a brief silence. Miss Schmidt started anew. "You seem to have really enjoyed your ride here this morning. I was glad to see you entertained so well. She and Julia laughed all the time."
"Were we? Yes, I think we were; but I don't have the slightest memory of what. Oh! I think I told her some ridiculous stories about an old Irish groom of my uncle. Your sister loves to laugh."
"You think she's more carefree than me?"
"More amused," he replied; "Consequently, you know," smiling, "better company. I couldn't have hoped to entertain you with Irish anecdotes during a ten-mile drive."
"Of course, I think I'm as lively as Julia, but I have to think about more now."
"You undoubtedly have; and there are situations where a very good mood would mean insensitivity. However, their prospects are too fair to justify the lack of spirits. They have a very smiling scene in front of them."
"Do you mean literally or figuratively? Literally, I close. Yes, sure, the sun is shining and the park looks very cheerful. But unfortunately, this iron gate, this haha, gives me a sense of restraint and distress. 'I can't get out,' as the star said." As she spoke, and it was with expression, she went to the gate: he followed her. "Sir. Rushmore takes so long to get that key!"
"And on earth, you wouldn't come out without the key and without Mr. Rushmore's authority and protection, or I think you could walk around the edge of the gate here with my help with little difficulty; I think it could be done if you really wanted to be more at large and could allow yourself to think it's not forbidden.
"Forbidden! Nonsense! I can definitely get out of it that way, and I will. Mr. Rushmore will be right here, you know; we will not be out of sight."
"Or if we are, Miss Price will be kind enough to tell him that he will find us near this hill: the oak grove on the hill."
Esther, who thought all this was wrong, couldn't help but make an effort to prevent it. "You will hurt yourself, Miss Schmidt," she shouted; "You will certainly hurt yourself on these spines; you will tear your dress; They run the risk of slipping into the Haha. You'd better not leave."
Her cousin, on the other hand, was safe while these words were being spoken, and smiling with all the good mood of success, she said, "Thank you, my dear Esther, but me and my dress are alive and well and so good bye."
Esther was again left to her loneliness, and without any increase in pleasant feelings, because she felt sorry for almost everything she had seen and heard, she was amazed at Miss Schmidt and angry with Mr. Dorset. Taking a cumbersome path and, as it seemed to them, a very unreasonable direction to the hill, they were soon out of their sight; and for a few minutes she remained without sight or sound of any companion. She seemed to have the grove all to herself. She could almost have thought that Edmund and Miss Dorset had left it, but that it was impossible for Edmund to forget her so completely.
Again, she was torn by sudden steps from unpleasant ruminations: Someone came down the main path with quick steps. She was expecting Mr. Rushmore, but it was Julia who exclaimed hot and out of breath and with an expression of disappointment when she saw her, "Heyday! Where are the others? I thought Maria and Mr. Dorset were with you."
Esther explained.
"A nice trick, for my word! I can't see them anywhere," looks excitedly into the park. "But they can't be very far away, and I think I'm equal to Mary even without help."
"But, Julia, Mr. Rushmore will be right here with the key. Wait for Mr. Rushmore."
"Not me, indeed. I've had enough of the family for a morning. Oh, child, I only escaped his terrible mother at this moment. Such a repentance as I endured while you sat here so composed and so happy! It might have been just as good if you had been in my place, but you always know how to stay out of these scratches."
This was a highly unjust consideration, but Esther was able to allow it to pass and let it pass: Julia was upset, and her temperament was hasty; but she felt that it wouldn't last, so without paying attention, she just asked if she hadn't seen Mr. Rushmore.
"Yes, yes, we saw him. He was on a life-and-death journey and had just enough time to tell us his errand and where you all were."
"It's a pity that he has so much trouble in vain."
"This is Miss Maria's concern. I am not obliged to punish myself for their sins. I couldn't avoid the mother as long as my annoying aunt danced around with the housekeeper, but I can escape the son."
And she immediately climbed over the fence and walked away, without worrying about Esther's last question, if she had seen anything of Miss Dorset and Edmund. However, the kind of fear Esther was now sitting in to see Mr. Rushmore prevented her from thinking as much about her continued absence as she might have done. She felt that he had been very abused and was quite unhappy about having to share what had happened. He came to her within five minutes of Julia's departure; and although she made the most of the story, he was obviously offended and not dissatisfied to any ordinary degree. At first he hardly said anything; his looks only expressed his utter surprise and annoyance, and he went to the gate and stopped there, not knowing what to do.
"They wanted me to stay – my cousin Maria commissioned me to say that you would find her on this hill or nearby."
"I don't think I'll go any further," he said grumpily; "I don't see any of them. By the time I reach the hill, they may already be somewhere else. I have enough on foot."
And he sat down next to Esther with the darkest face.
"I'm very sorry," she said; "It's very unfortunate." And she longed to be able to say something more about the purpose.
After a while of silence: "I think they might as well have stayed for me," he said.
"Miss Schmidt thought you would follow her."
"I wouldn't have had to follow her if she had stayed."
This could not be denied, and Esther was silenced. After another pause, he continued: "Please, Miss Price, are you as great an admirer of this Mr. Dorset as some people? For my part, I can't see anything in him."
"I don't think he's handsome at all."
"Good looking! No one can call such a small man good-looking. He is not five feet nine. I shouldn't be surprised if he's no taller than five feet eight. I think he's a sick-looking guy. In my opinion, these Dorsets are not an encore at all. We did very well without them."
Esther escaped a small sigh, and she did not know how to contradict him.
"If I had had any trouble getting the key, there might have been an apology, but I left right the moment she said she wanted it."
"Nothing could be more accommodating than your behavior, I'm sure, and I dare say that you went as fast as you could; but it is a bit far, you know, from this point to the house, all the way into the house; and when people wait, they have a hard time, and every half minute seems like five to them."
He got up and went back to the gate and "wished he had had the key with him at the time." Esther thought he saw a sign of yielding in his standing, which encouraged her to try again, so she said, "Too bad you shouldn't join them. They expected to have a better view of the house from this part of the park and will think about how it could be improved; and nothing of the sort, you know, can be settled without you."
She was more successful in sending away than keeping a companion. Mr. Rushmore was being worked on. "Well," he said, "if you really think I should go better: it would be foolish to bring the key for free." And when he let himself out, he walked away without further ado.
Esther's thoughts were now entirely with the two who had left her so long ago, and she became quite impatient and decided to go in search of them. She followed her steps on the lower path and had just stepped into another one when Miss Dorset's voice and laughter once again aroused her ear; the sound approached, and a few more turns brought her in front of her. They had just returned from the park into the wilderness, to which an unfortified side gate had tempted them very shortly after they left them, and they had walked through part of the park into the very avenue Esther had hoped to finally reach all morning and had sat under one of the trees. That was their story. It was obvious that they had spent their time pleasantly and were unaware of the length of their absence. Esther's best consolation was to be assured that Edmund had wished very much for her and that he would certainly have come back to fetch her if she had not already been tired; but that wasn't quite enough to eliminate the pain of being left alone for a whole hour, even though he had only spoken of a few minutes, nor to banish the kind of curiosity she felt, to know what they had been talking about all along; and the result of it all was to their disappointment and depression as they prepared amicably to return to the house. nor to drive away the kind of curiosity she felt, to know what they had been talking about all along; and the result of it all was to their disappointment and depression as they prepared amicably to return to the house. nor to drive away the kind of curiosity she felt, to know what they had been talking about all along; and the result of it all was to their disappointment and depression as they prepared amicably to return to the house.
When they reached the foot of the steps to the terrace, Mrs. Rushmore and Mrs. Norris stood at the top at the end of an hour and a half after leaving the house, just ready for the wilderness. Mrs. Norris had been too busy to move faster. Whatever incidents may have occurred to intercept the joys of her nieces, she had found a morning full of pleasure; because the housekeeper had taken her to the dairy after many courtesies on the subject of pheasant, told her everything about her cows and gave her the receipt for a famous cream cheese; and since Julia had left her, she had been received by the gardener, with whom she had made a very satisfying acquaintance, for she had corrected him in relation to the illness of his grandson, convinced him that it was chills, and promised him a spell for it; and he in return
At this Rencontre they all returned to the house together to spend the time as best they could with sofas, chatter and quarterly reports until the others came back and dinner arrived. It was late when Miss Schmidt and the two gentlemen came in, and their foray seemed to have been no more than partially pleasant or had produced anything useful at all in terms of the subject of the day. By their own admission, they had all gone one after the other, and the crossing that had finally taken place seemed, according to Esther's observation, to have been as much too late to restore harmony as it had admittedly been to set anything change. When she looked at Julia and Mr. Rushmore, she felt that she wasn't the only dissatisfied breast among them. Lord.
Dinner was soon followed by tea and coffee, a drive of ten miles home did not allow a waste of time; and from the time they sat down at the table, it was a quick sequence of busy nothingness until the carriage was at the door and Mrs. Norris, after fidgeting around, got some pheasant eggs and a cream cheese from the housekeeper, and gave Mrs. Rushmore a plethora of polite speeches, was ready to lead the way. At the same moment, as he approached Julia, Mr. Dorset said, "I hope I won't lose my companion unless she's afraid of the evening air in such an exposed seat." The request had not been foreseen, but was received very kindly, and Julia's day would probably end almost as well as it had begun. Miss Schmidt had planned something else and was a little disappointed; but her conviction that she was truly the one who was preferred reassured her and enabled her to receive the farewell attention of Mr Rushmore as she should. He certainly preferred to hand her over to the carriage than to help her board the lodge, and his complacency seemed to be confirmed by the arrangement.
"Well, Esther, that was a beautiful day for you, at my word," Mrs. Norris said as they drove through the park. "From the beginning to the end nothing but pleasure! I'm sure you should be very attached to your Aunt Schmidt and me that you managed to let you go. You had a pretty good day for entertainment!"
Maria was just dissatisfied enough to say straight away, "I think you did yourself quite well, Ma'am. Your lap seems to be full of good things, and here is a basket with something between us that mercilessly pushed my elbow."
"My dear, it's just a beautiful little heath that this nice old gardener would let me take; but if it's in your way, I have it right in my lap. There, Esther, thou shalt carry the package for me; take good care of him: do not let him fall; It's a cream cheese, just like the excellent one we had at dinner. Nothing would satisfy this good old Mrs. Whitaker except that I take one of the cheeses. I stood out as long as I could until tears almost came to her eyes, and I knew it was exactly the kind my sister would be happy about. This Mrs. Whitaker is a treasure! She was quite shocked when I asked her if wine was allowed at the second table, and she turned away two maids for wearing white coats. Take care of the cheese, Esther. Now I can manage the other package and basket very well."
"What else have you spun?" said Maria, half pleased that Sotherton should be complimented.
"Sponge, my dear! There are nothing but four of these beautiful pheasant eggs that Mrs. Whitaker would impose on me: she would not accept any denial. She said it must amuse me so much because she knows that I live all alone, to have a few living beings of this kind; and so it will be for sure. I will ask the dairywoman to put her under the first free hen, and if they turn out well, I can take her to my own house and lend me a stable; and it will be a great pleasure for me in my lonely hours to take care of them. And if I'm lucky, let your mother get away with it."
It was a beautiful evening, mild and quiet, and the ride was as pleasant as the tranquility of nature could possibly make; but when Mrs. Norris stopped speaking, it was a very quiet urge for those inside. Their spirits were generally exhausted; and determining whether the day had brought the most joys or pains could occupy the meditations of almost everyone.
Chapter 54
When they first came to Devonshire, Mrs. Hargrove or her daughters could hardly have imagined that so many commitments would take up their time as they were about to offer, or that they would have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors that they would have little free time for serious occupation. But that's how it was. When Marianne was restored, the pleasure plans at home and abroad that Sir John had previously drawn up were put into practice. Then the private balls in the park began; and parties on the water were held and held as often as a rainy October allowed. Warwick was included in every meeting of this kind; and the lightness and familiarity that naturally accompanied these parties were precisely designed to give his acquaintance with the Hargroves an increasing intimacy,
Eleanore could not be surprised by their attachment. She just wished it was shown less openly; and once or twice she really dared to suggest to Marianne the appropriateness of self-control. But Marianne abhorred any obfuscation where no real shame could appear unreservedly; and to aim at the restraint of feelings that were not in themselves incomprehensible seemed to her not only as an unnecessary effort, but as a shameful submission of reason to everyday and false ideas. Warwick thought the same thing; and their behavior at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.
When he was present, she had no eyes for anyone else. Everything he did was right. Everything he said was wise. When her evenings in the park ended with cards, he cheated on himself and the rest of the party to give her a good hand. If dancing was the entertainment of the night, half the time they were partners; and when they were forced to break up for a few dances, they made sure to stand together and barely speak a word to anyone else. Such behavior, of course, made them highly ridiculous; but ridicule could not shame her and hardly seemed to provoke her.
Mrs. Hargrove responded to all her feelings with a warmth that left her no inclination to stop this excessive display of her feelings. For them, it was just the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and passionate spirit.
This was the time of happiness for Marianne. Her heart was attached to Warwick, and the affection for Norland she brought back from Sussex would probably be tempered more than she had previously thought possible by the charm his company gave to her current home.
Eleanore's luck was not so great. Her heart was not so much calmed, nor her satisfaction in her pleasures so pure. They offered her no companion who could make up for what she had left behind and teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Mideltown nor Mrs. Jennings could provide her with the conversation she missed; although the latter was an eternal speaker and had looked at her from the beginning with a kindness that ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already told Eleanore her own story three or four times; and if Eleanore's memory had grown up to her means of improvement, she might have known all the details of Mr. Jennings' last illness very early after her acquaintance and what he had told his wife a few minutes before his death. Lady Mideltown was more pleasant than her mother just because she was quieter. Eleanore needed little observation to realize that her restraint was just a calm way with which the mind had nothing to do. She was the same to her husband and mother as she was to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be sought nor desired. One day she had nothing to say that she hadn't said the day before. Their blandness was unchangeable, for even their spirit was always the same; and although she did not resist the parties arranged by her husband, provided that everything was held in style and her two oldest children visited her, she never seemed to enjoy it more than she might have experienced sitting at home – and so little did her presence contribute to the joy of others, even as she participated in her conversation,
In Colonel Bridgerton alone, among all her new acquaintances, Eleanore found a person who could claim respect for her abilities to some extent, arouse the interest of a friendship, or bring joy as a companion. Warwick was out of the question. Their admiration and respect, even their sisterly respect, was entirely his own; but he was a lover; his attention was entirely devoted to Marianne, and a far less pleasant man would generally have been more pleasing. Colonel Bridgerton, unfortunately, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in talking to Eleanore he found the greatest comfort in her sister's indifference.
Eleanore's compassion for him grew as she had reason to believe that he was already aware of the misery of disappointed love. This suspicion was given by a few words that happened to him one evening in the park when they sat together amicably while the others danced. His eyes were on Marianne, and after some silence he said with a faint smile, "Your sister, as far as I know, does not approve of second bonds."
"No," Eleanore replied, "their opinions are all romantic."
"Or rather, I think, she thinks it's impossible for them to exist."
"I think it does. But how she manages to do it without thinking about the character of her own father, who himself had two wives, I do not know. A few years, however, will solidify their opinion on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be easier to define and justify than they are now, from any body other than yourself."
"That will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so kind to the prejudices of a young mind that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."
"I can't agree with you," Eleanore said. "There are inconveniences associated with such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charm of the world's enthusiasm and ignorance cannot make up for. Their systems have an unfortunate tendency to undo decency, and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to to their greatest possible advantage."
After a short pause, he resumed the conversation by saying
"Doesn't your sister make any difference in her objections to a second bond? Or is she equally criminal in every body? be indifferent for the rest of their lives?"
"At my word, I am not familiar with the details of their principles. All I know is that I've never heard her admit that a second attachment is forgivable."
"That," he said, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of feelings – no, no, don't want it; because if the romantic refinements of a young mind have to give in, how often do they succeed? by such opinions that are only too ordinary and too dangerous!" I speak from experience.I once knew a lady who was very similar to her sister in temperament and spirit, who thought and judged like her, but who from a forced change – from a series of unfortunate circumstances" – Here he suddenly stopped; seemed to think that he had said too much, and his face gave rise to assumptions that might not have occurred to Eleanor otherwise. The lady would probably have passed by without suspicion if he had not convinced Miss Hargrove that what concerned her should not come over his lips. As it was, it took only a little imagination to combine his emotion with the tender memory of past contemplations. Eleanore did not try again. But Marianne would not have done so little in her place. The whole story would have been formed quickly under their active imagination; and all built in the most melancholic order of fatal love.
Chapter 55
"I hope my dear," Mr. Mitchell told his wife as they sat at breakfast the next morning, "that you ordered a good dinner today because I have reason to believe that our family celebration will be expanded."
"Who do you mean, my dear? I don't know of anyone coming, I'm sure unless Charlotte Lucas happens to pass by – and I hope MY dinners are good enough for her. I don't think she sees them often at home.'
'The person I'm talking about is a gentleman and a stranger.'
Mrs. Mitchell's eyes sparkled. "A lord and a stranger! It's Mr. Woodland, I'm sure! Well, I'm sure I'll be very happy to see Mr. Woodland. But – dear God! how unfortunate! Today there is not a bit of fish to get. Linda, my dear, ring the bell – I have to talk to Hill right away."
"It's NOT Mr. Woodland," her husband said. it's a person I've never seen in my whole life.'
This caused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and five daughters at the same time.
After enjoying her curiosity for some time, he
explained,
"About a month ago, I received this letter; and about two weeks ago, I responded to it because I thought it was a delicate case and required early attention. It's from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I'm dead, can expel you all from this house as soon as he wants."
'Oh! my dear," his wife exclaimed, "I can't bear to hear that. Please do not speak of this vile man. I think the hardest thing in the world is that your wealth is taken away from your own children; and I'm sure if I had been you, I would have tried to do something about it long ago.'
Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of a decision. They had tried many times before, but it was an issue where Mrs. Mitchell's mind could not reach, and she continued to rant bitterly about the cruelty of paying a estate in favor of a family of five daughters, a man no one cared about.
"It is certainly an extremely shameful affair," Mr. Mitchell said, "and nothing can free Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you listen to his letter, you may become a little softer because of his way of expressing yourself.'
'No, I am convinced that I will not; and I find it very outrageous of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why couldn't he continue arguing with you like his father did before him?'
'Why, indeed; he seems, as you will hear, to have had some childish scruples on this head."
'Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15 October.
'Dear Lord,-
"The disagreements that exist between you and my deceased venerable Father have always caused me much discomfort, and since I had the misfortune of losing him, I have often wished to heal the rupture; but for some time my own doubts held me back because I was afraid it might seem disrespectful to his memory if I got along well with someone with whom he had always liked to argue. – "So, Mrs. Mitchell .' – However, I have now decided, because after being ordained at Easter, I was fortunate to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose generosity and charity has preferred me to the precious rectory of this parish, where it will be my serious endeavour to: To humiliate me with grateful respect for your ladyship, and always be ready to perform those rites and ceremonies instituted by the Church of England. As a minister, I also feel obliged to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within my reach; and for these reasons, I flatter myself that my current advances are highly commendable and that the fact that I am the next in the aftermath of the Longbourn estate is kindly overlooked by you and will not lead you to reject the olive branch offered. I cannot help but be interested in being the means to hurt your kind daughters, and I apologize for that, as well as to assure you of my willingness to make every possible reparation to them – but this after this. If you don't mind taking me into your house,
"WILLIAM COLLINS."
"That's why we can expect this peace-making gentleman at four o'clock," Mr. Mitchell said as he folded up the letter. He seems to be an extremely conscientious and polite young man, at my word, and I have no doubt that he will prove to be a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine is so lenient as to let him come back to us."
"However, there's some sense in what he says about the girls, and if he's willing to make up for them, I'm not going to be the person who discourages him."
"Although it's difficult," Jane said, "guessing how he intends to give us the atonement he holds guilty for us is certainly in his favor."
Elizabeth was especially impressed by his extraordinary reverence for Lady Catherine and his kind intention to baptize, marry, and bury his parishioners whenever necessary.
"He must be a curiosity, I think," she said. "I can't recognize him. – There is something very inflated about his style. – And what does he mean by apologizing for being the next in the episode? – We cannot assume that he would help if he could. Could he be a reasonable man, sir?'
"No, my dear, I don't think so. I have high hopes of finding it quite the opposite. In his letter there is a mixture of subservience and complacency that promises good. I'm impatient to see him.'
"In terms of structure," Mary said, "the letter does not appear to be deficient. The idea of the olive branch may not be entirely new, but I think it's well expressed.'
For Catherine and Linda, neither the letter nor its author were of any interest in any way. It was next to impossible for their cousin to come in a scarlet coat, and it had now been a few weeks since they had enjoyed the company of a man of any other color. As for her mother, Mr. Collins' letter had removed much of her resentment, and she was preparing to see him with a serenity that amazed her husband and daughters.
Mr. Collins was on time for his time and was received with great courtesy by the whole family. Mr. Mitchell actually said little; but the ladies were ready to talk, and Mr. Collins did not seem to need encouragement or be inclined to remain silent himself. He was a tall, strong-looking young man of twenty-five years. His expression was serious and dignified, and his manners were very formal. He hadn't sat long when he congratulated Mrs. Mitchell on having such a beautiful family of daughters; said he had heard a lot about her beauty, but in this case fame fell short of the truth; and added that he did not doubt that she saw them all in time, which were disposed of in the marriage. This gallantry was not very much to the taste of some of his listeners; but Mrs. Mitchell, who argued without compliments, replied most readily.
"They are very friendly, I'm sure; and I wished with all my heart that it would prove so, otherwise they would be penniless enough. Things are so strangely regulated.'
"You may be alluding to the consequences of this property."
'Ah! Sir, I do indeed. It is a painful affair for my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I want to criticize YOU, because such things that I know are all coincidence in this world. You can't know how the estates will continue once they are pledged.'
"I am very sensitive, madam, what the plight of my beautiful cousins?? and could say a lot on this subject, but that I am careful to appear premature and hasty. But I can assure the young ladies that I am ready to admire them. That's all I'm going to say now; but perhaps if we know each other better– "
He was interrupted by an invitation to dinner; and the girls smiled at each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collins' admiration. The hall, the dining room and all its furniture were examined and praised; and his praise for everything would have touched Mrs. Mitchell's heart if it hadn't been for the humiliating assumption that he considered everything his own future property. The dinner was also highly admired; and he asked to know which of his beautiful cousins owed the excellence of his cuisine. But he was transferred there directly by Mrs. Mitchell, who assured him with some sharpness that they were very capable of keeping a good cook and that their daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He asked for forgiveness for disliking her. In a gentle tone, she did not explain herself offended at all;
Chapter 56
The day at Sotherton, with all its imperfections, granted Miss Schmidt much more pleasant feelings than those derived from the letters of Antigua, which soon reached Mansfield. It was much more pleasant to think of Henry Dorset than her father; and to think again about their father in England within a certain period of time, as these letters obliged them to do, was a highly unwelcome exercise.
November was the black month for his return. Sir Thomas wrote about it with as much determination as experience and concern could allow. His deal was so close that he justified accepting his passage in the September package, and he was consequently happy with the hope of being back with his beloved family in early November.
Mary was more pitiful than Julia; for the Father brought her a man, and the return of the friend seeking her happiness would unite her with the Beloved from whom she had chosen that her happiness should depend. It was a bleak prospect, and all she could do was throw a fog over it and hope she would see something else when the fog cleared. It would hardly be the beginning of November, there were mostly delays, a bad passage or something like that; that of preferring something of which anyone who closes his eyes while looking, or closes his mind while thinking, feels the comfort. It would probably be at least mid-November; In mid-November, three months were off. Three months spanned thirteen weeks. A lot can happen in thirteen weeks.
Sir Thomas would have been deeply offended by half the suspicion his daughters felt about his return, and would have found little solace in knowing the interest it aroused in another young lady's chest. Miss Dorset, as she went up with her brother to spend the evening at Mansfield Park, heard the good news; and although she seemed to have no worries about the matter except politeness and had vented all her feelings in a silent congratulation, she heard it with an attention that was not so easy to satisfy. Mrs. Norris gave the details of the letters, and the subject was dropped; but after the tea, when Miss Dorset stood at an open window with Edmund and Esther and looked at a scene in the twilight while Miss Schmidt, Mr. Rushmore and Henry Dorset were all busy with candles at the pianoforte, she suddenly revived it by turning to the group and saying, "How happy Mr. Rushmore looks! He thinks of November."
Edmund also looked around to Mr. Rushmore, but had nothing to say.
"Your father's return will be a very interesting event."
"Indeed, it will after such an absence; a not only long absence, but also so many dangers."
"It will also be the precursor of other interesting events: your sister's wedding and your acceptance of orders."
"Yes."
"Don't be offended," she said with a laugh, "but it reminds me of some of the ancient pagan heroes who, after performing great feats of heroism in a foreign land, offered sacrifices to the gods on their safe return."
"There is no victim in the case," Edmund replied with a serious smile and looked at the pianoforte again; "it's entirely her own work."
"Oh yes, I know it is. I was just having fun. She has done no more than any young woman would do; and I have no doubt that she is very happy. Of course, you don't understand my other victim."
"That I take orders, I assure you, is just as voluntary as Mary's marriage."
"It's fortunate that your inclination and your father's convenience match so well. I hear that you have a very good living here."
"What, you suppose, biased me?"
"But it certainly isn't," Esther exclaimed.
"Thank you for your good word, Esther, but it's more than I would assure myself. On the contrary, knowing that there was such a provision for me probably biased me. I also can't find it wrong that it should. There was no natural aversion to overcome, and I see no reason why a man should give up a worse clergyman when he knows he will have a competence early in life. I was in safe hands. I hope I didn't let myself be misjudged, and I'm sure my father was too conscientious to allow it. I have no doubt that I was biased, but I think it was blameless."
"It's the same thing," Esther said after a short hiatus, "as if an admiral's son were going to the Navy or a general's son was going into the army, and no one sees anything wrong with that. No one is surprised that they should prefer the line on which their friends can best serve them, or suspects that they mean it less seriously, as it seems."
"No, my dear Miss Price, and for good reasons. The profession, whether navy or army, is its own justification. It has everything in its favor: heroism, danger, hustle and bustle, fashion. Soldiers and sailors are always acceptable in society. No one can be surprised that men are soldiers and sailors."
"But the motives of a man who takes orders with the certainty of a promotion can be quite suspicious, do you think?" said Edmund. "To be justified in your eyes, he must do so in the most complete uncertainty of any destiny."
"What! accept orders without living! No; this is indeed madness; absolute madness."
"Should I ask you how to fill the Church if a man is not to take orders with or without maintenance? No; for you certainly wouldn't know what to say. But I must implore the clergyman to take advantage of your own reasoning. Since he cannot be influenced by those feelings that you consider high as a temptation and reward for the soldiers and sailors in their choice of profession, since heroism and noise and fashion are all against him, he should be less susceptible to his suspicion of sincerity or good intentions in his choice."
"Oh! no doubt he is very sincere in preferring a finished income to the effort to work for one; and has the best intention to do nothing for the rest of his days except to eat, drink and get fat. It is indeed inertia, Mr Schmidt. inertia and love of lightness; a lack of all praiseworthy ambition, a taste for good company, or a tendency to bother to be pleasant, which makes men clergy. A clergyman has nothing to do but be sloppy and selfish – he reads the newspaper, watches the weather, and argues with his wife. His assistant chaplain does all the work, and the matter of his own life is food."
"Undoubtedly, there are such clergy, but I don't think they are so common that they would justify Miss Dorset to consider them to be their general character. I suspect that in this comprehensive and (may I say) everyday rebuke, you are not judging by yourself, but by biased people whose opinions you are used to hearing. It is impossible that your own observation can have given you much knowledge about the clergy. You may have met very few of the group of men you so strongly condemn in person. You say what you were told at your uncle's table."
"I speak what seems to me to be a general opinion; and where an opinion is general, it is usually correct. Although I haven't seen much of the domestic life of clergy, it is seen by too many to leave a lack of information."
"Where a group of educated men, of whatever denomination, is indiscriminately condemned, there must be a lack of information or (smiling) of something else. Her uncle and his admiral brothers perhaps knew little about clergy except the clergy who, good or bad, always wished them away."
"Poor Wilhelm! The parish priest of Antwerp showed great kindness to him," was a tender apostrophe of Esther, very fitting to her own feelings, if not for the purpose of the conversation.
"I was so unwilling to accept my opinion of my uncle," said Miss Dorset, "that I can hardly accept – and since you push me so hard, I have to note that I am not completely without the means to see what clergy are, as I am currently a guest of my own brother Dr. Grant. And although Dr. Grant is very kind and accommodating to me, and although he is really a gentleman, and I dare say a good scholar and smart, and often gives good sermons and is very respectable, I see him as a sluggish, selfish nobvivant who has to consult his palate in everything; who does not lift a finger for the convenience of anyone; and who, moreover, if the cook makes a mistake, is upset with his excellent wife. To be honest, Henry and I were partly driven away tonight by a disappointment about a green goose that he couldn't survive. My poor sister had to stay and wear it."
"I am not surprised at your disapproval, at my word. It is a great temperament error, aggravated by a very flawed habit of licentiousness; and seeing your sister suffer from it must be extremely painful for feelings like yours. Esther, it's running against us. We can't try to defend Dr. Grant."
"No," Esther replied, "but we don't have to give up his profession for that; for whatever profession Dr. Grant had chosen, he would not have put in a good mood; and since he must have had many more people under his command either in the Navy or in the Army than he does now, I think he would have made more unhappy as a sailor or soldier than as a clergyman. Moreover, I cannot help but assume that whatever Dr. Grant would wish for, in a more active and secular profession, where he would have had less time and commitment – where he would have – would have been in greater danger of deteriorating, this knowledge of himself has escaped, at least the frequency of this knowledge, from which he could not possibly escape. as he is now. A man — a reasonable man like Dr. Grant — cannot have the habit of teaching others their duty every week, cannot go to church twice every Sunday and preach such very good sermons in as good a way as he does, without being the better one himself. It must make him think; and I have no doubt that he tries to restrain himself more often than if he had been anything but a clergyman."
"Of course, we cannot prove the opposite; but I wish you a better fate, Miss Price, than to be the wife of a man whose kindness depends on his own sermons; because although he may preach a good mood to himself every Sunday, it will be bad enough if he argues about green geese from Monday morning to Saturday evening."
"I think the man who could often argue with Esther," Edmund said affectionately, "must be unreachable for any sermon."
Esther continued to turn to the window; and Miss Dorset only had time to say kindly, "I think Miss Price was more used to earning praise than hearing it"; When she was seriously invited by the Miss Schmidts to rejoice, she stumbled upon the instrument, leaving behind Edmund, who looked after her in an ecstasy of admiration for all her many virtues, from her courteous manners to her light and graceful step.
"There's a good mood, I'm sure," he said now. "There goes a temperament that would never cause pain! How well she is doing! and how willingly she joins the inclination of others! joins them as soon as she is asked. Too bad," he added after a short reflection, "that she was in such hands!"
Esther agreed and had the pleasure of seeing him continue to stand by the window with her despite the expected joy; and that his eyes, like theirs, were soon focused on the scene outside, where everything that was solemn and soothing and lovely appeared in the glow of a cloudless night and in the contrast of the deep shadow of the forests. Esther expressed her feelings. "There is harmony here!" she said; "There is peace here! Here is what all painting and all music can leave behind and what poetry can only try to describe! Here's what can calm any worry and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out at such a night, I feel as if there can be neither malice nor suffering in the world; and there would certainly be less of both if you cared more about the majesty of nature,
"I like to hear your enthusiasm, Esther. It is a beautiful night, and it is very pitiful who has not been taught to feel like you to a certain extent; who, at least at a young age, did not get a taste for nature. They lose a lot."
"You taught me to think and feel on this subject, cousin."
"I had a very capable scholar. Arcturus looks very bright."
"Yes, and the bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia."
"For that we have to go on the pitch. Should you be afraid?"
"Not in the slightest. It's been a long time since we saw stars."
"Yes; I don't know how it happened." The joy began. "We'll stay until this is done, Esther," he said, turning his back on the window; and as it advanced, she had the humiliation of seeing him advance too, moving in gentle steps towards the instrument, and when it stopped, he was close to the singers, one of the most urgent, who asked to hear the joy again.
Esther sighed alone at the window until she was scolded by Mrs. Norris' threats to catch a cold.
Chapter 57
Mr. Hill was supposed to dine with them – rather against the inclination of Mr. Lodge, who did not like that someone should share Bella's first day with him. Emma's sense of justice, however, had decided; and aside from considering what each brother is entitled to, due to the late disagreements between Mr. Hill and her special pleasure in giving him the right invitation.
She hoped that maybe now they would become friends again. She thought it was time to reconcile. Makeup would indeed not be enough. She certainly hadn't been wrong, and he would never admit that he had done it. Concessions must be out of the question; but it was time to forget that they had ever quarreled; and she hoped that it would be more conducive to the restoration of friendship that she had one of the children with her when he came into the room – the youngest, a nice little girl, about eight months old, who was now visiting Hartfield for the first time, and very happy to be danced around in her aunt's arms. It helped; for although he began with serious looks and brief questions, he was soon made to speak of all this in the usual way and to take the child out of her arms with all the unceremoniment of perfect friendship. Emma felt that they were friends again;
"What a consolation that we think the same about our nephews and nieces. As far as men and women are concerned, our opinions are sometimes very different; but with regard to these children, I notice that we never contradict each other."
"If you were so guided by nature in your assessment of men and women, and in your dealings with them you were as less subject to the power of imagination and whimsy as you are when it comes to these children, perhaps we would always think the same."
"Of course – our discord must always result from the fact that I am in the wrong."
"Yes," he said with a smile – and for good reason. I was sixteen years old when you were born."
"So a material difference," she replied, "and without a doubt you were far superior to my judgment at this time of our lives; but doesn't the passing of twenty-one years bring our understanding a whole lot closer?"
"Yes – a good deal closer."
"But still not nearly enough to give me a chance to be right when we think differently."
"I still have an advantage for you through sixteen years of experience and because I am not a pretty young woman or a spoiled child. Come, my dear Emma, ?? let's be friends and don't talk about it anymore. Tell your aunt, little Emma, ?? that she should give you a better example than renewing old resentment, and that she is now, if she wasn't wrong before."
"This is true," she exclaimed – "very true. Little Emma, ?? grow up as a better woman than your aunt. Be infinitely smarter and not half as conceited. Well, Mr. Hill, one more word or two, and I'm done. As far as good intentions are concerned, we were both right, and I must say that on my side of the argument, no effect has yet been proven wrong. I just want to know that Mr. Martin is not very, very bitterly disappointed."
"That's all a man can be," was his short, complete answer.
"Ah! – I am really very sorry. Come, shake my hand."
This had just taken place with great cordiality when John Hill showed up and asked "How d'ye do, George?" and "John, how are you?" He managed to bury in true English style under a calm that seemed anything but indifference, the true connectedness that would have led both to do everything for the benefit of the other, if necessary.
The evening was quiet and sociable, as Mr. Lodge refused cards entirely for the sake of convenient conversation with his dear Bella, and the small company made two natural divisions; on the one hand, he and his daughter; on the other, the two Mr. Hills; her themes are completely different or mix very rarely – and Emma only occasionally interferes in one or the other.
The brothers talked about their own worries and aspirations, but mainly about those of the elder, whose temperament was by far the most communicative and who was always the greater orator. As a judge, he generally had a point of law to consult John on, or at least a strange anecdote to tell; and as a farmer who managed the home farm at Donwell, he had to say what each field had to bear the next year, and give all the local information that could inevitably be of interest to a brother whose house it had was equally the longest part of his life and whose ties were strong. The plan of a drain, the modification of a fence, the felling of a tree and the determination of each morning for wheat, beets or summer corn were entered into by John with as much equality as his cooler manners revealed possible;
While they were so comfortably busy, Mr. Lodge enjoyed a full river of happy regret and anxious affection for his daughter.
"My poor, dear Bella," he said, lovingly taking her hand and interrupting for a few moments her busy work for one of her five children – "How long has it been, how terribly long since you've been here! And how tired you must be after your trip! You have to go to bed early, my dear – and I recommend a little porridge before you go. My dear Emma, ?? let's say we all have a bit of oat mucus."
Emma could not suspect such a thing, as she knew that both Mr. Hills were as unconvinced by this article as she was – and only two basins were ordered. After another speech in praise of oat slime, with some wondering that it wasn't taken by everyone every night, he went on to say with serious thoughtfulness,
"It was an unpleasant affair, my dear, that you spend the fall in South End instead of coming here. I had never thought much of the sea air."
"Sir. Wingfield strongly recommended it, sir – otherwise we shouldn't have gone. He recommended it to all children, but especially because of the weakness in little Bella's throat – both sea air and bathing."
"Ah! my dear, but Perry had many doubts about whether the sea would do her good; and as far as I am concerned, I have long been completely convinced, although I may never have told you that the sea is of no use to anyone. I'm sure it almost killed me once."
"Come, come," Emma shouted, ?? who considered this an uncertain topic, "I have to ask you not to talk about the sea. It makes me jealous and miserable; – me, who I have never seen it! South End is forbidden, please. My dear Bella, I haven't heard you inquire about Mr. Perry yet; and he never forgets you."
"Oh! Good Mr. Perry – how is he doing, sir?"
"Well, pretty good; but not quite good. Poor Perry is gallant, and he doesn't have time to take care of himself – he tells me he doesn't have time to take care of himself – which is very sad – but he is always sought after all over the country. I suppose there is no man anywhere who practices like this. But then there is nowhere such a clever man."
"And Mrs. Perry and the children, how are they? are the children growing? I really appreciate Mr. Perry. I hope he calls soon. He will be so happy to see my little ones."
"I hope he will be here tomorrow, because I have one or two important questions to ask him about me. And, my dear, whenever he comes, you'd better let him look at little Bella's throat."
"Oh! My dear Sir, her throat is so much better that I hardly feel any discomfort about it. Either bathing has done her the greatest service, or it is due to an excellent rubbing of Mr. Wingfield, which we have been using intermittently since August."
"It's not very likely, my dear, that bathing would have helped her — and if I had known you wanted a rub, I would have talked to you —
"It seems to me you forgot Mrs. and Miss Bates," Emma said, ??" I haven't heard a single request for them."
"Oh! the good Bateses – I am very ashamed – but you mention them in most of your letters. I hope they are doing well. Good old Mrs. Bates – I will visit her tomorrow and take my children with me. – They are always happy to see my children. – And this excellent Miss Bates! – so thoroughly worthy people! – How are they, sir?"
"Well, pretty good, my dear, by and large. But poor Mrs. Bates had a bad cold about a month ago."
"How sorry I am! But colds have never been as common as they were this fall. Mr. Wingfield told me that he had never known her more generally or more violently – except when it was quite a flu."
"That has been the case quite often, my dear; but not to the extent you mention. Perry says colds have been very common, but not as severe as he has known them very often in November. Perry doesn't call it a sickly season."
"No, I don't know if Mr. Wingfield thinks it's very sickly, except ...
"Ah! My poor dear child, the truth is that it's always a sickly season in London. No one is healthy in London, no one can be. It's a terrible thing to have forced you to live there! so far away! – and the air so bad!"
"No, indeed – we are not in bad air at all. Our part of London is very superior to most others! - You must not confuse us with London in general, sir. The neighborhood of Brunswick Square is very different from almost everyone else. We are so very airy! I wouldn't be willing, I admit, to live in another part of the city; – there is hardly anyone else in which I could be satisfied to have my children: but we are so remarkably airy! Mr. Wingfield considers the proximity of Brunswick Square to be the most favorable in terms of ventilation."
"Ah! My dear, it's not like Hartfield. You make the most of it – but after being in Hartfield for a week, you're all different creatures; you don't look the same. Now I can't say that I think you all look good right now."
"I'm sorry to hear you say that, sir; but I assure you, apart from those little nervous headaches and palpitations that I'm not completely free of anywhere, I'm doing quite well myself; and if the children were a little pale before they went to bed, it was only because they were a little more tired than usual, from the journey and the happiness of coming. I hope you think better about their appearance tomorrow; because I assure you, Mr. Wingfield told me that he doesn't think he's ever sent us away completely in such a good case. At least I trust you don't think Mr. Hill looks sick." She turned her eyes to her husband with loving care.
"Mediocre, my dear; I can't compliment you. I think Mr. John Hill looks anything but good."
"What is going on, sir? Have you spoken to me?" cried Mr. John Hill, hearing his own name.
"I'm sorry, my dear, that my dad thinks you don't look good – but I hope that's just because you're a little tired. However, I could have wished, as you know, that you had seen Mr. Wingfield before you left home."
"My dear Bella," he exclaimed hastily, "please don't worry about my appearance. Settle for treating and coddling yourself and the children, and let me see how I want."
"I didn't quite understand what you were saying to your brother," Emma shouted, ?"?" about your friend Mr Graham's intention to have a bailiff from Scotland to take care of his new estate. What will it answer? Won't the old prejudice be too strong?"
And she spoke in this way so long and successfully that when she was forced to turn her attention back to her father and sister, she heard nothing worse than Bella's friendly question about Jane Saxon; and Jane Saxon, although she was generally not a big favorite with her, she was very happy at that moment to help with the praise.
"This sweet, gracious Jane Saxon!" said Mrs. John Hill. – "It's been so long since I've seen them, except every now and then for a moment by chance in the city! What luck it must be for her good old grandmother and excellent aunt when she comes to visit her! I always regret very much, because of dear Emma, that she can no longer be in Highbury; but now that their daughter is married, Colonel and Mrs. Campbell will probably not be able to separate from her. She would be such an adorable companion for Emma."
Mr. Lodge agreed with everything, but added,
"Our little friend Harriet Smith is also such a pretty young person. You'll like Harriet. Emma couldn't have a better companion than Harriet."
"I'm very happy to hear that – but all you know is that Jane Saxon is so accomplished and superior! – and exactly at Emma's age."
This topic was discussed very happily, and others were successful from a similar moment and passed with similar harmony; but the evening did not close without a little excitement. The oat slime came and provided a lot to say – much praise and many comments – undoubted decision of its holiness for any constitution and quite strict Philippics on the many houses where it was never found tolerable – but unfortunately among the failures that the daughter had to cite as an example were the youngest and therefore most prominent of her own cook in South End, a young woman who was employed for the time and had never understood what she meant by a basin of beautiful, smooth food porridge, thin but not too thin. As often as she had wished and ordered it, she had never been able to get anything bearable. Here was a dangerous opening.
"Ah!" said Mr. Lodge, shaking his head and fixing her with tender concern. – The ejaculation in Emma's ear expressed: "Ah! there is no end to the sad consequences of your visit to the South End. It must not be talked about." And for a little while she hoped that he wouldn't talk about it and that a quiet rumination would be enough to get him back to enjoying his own smooth oatmeal. After a break of a few minutes, however, he began with:
"I will always be very sorry that you went to the sea this autumn instead of coming here."
"But why should you be sorry, sir? – I assure you, it has done the children very well."
"And besides, if you have to go to the sea, it would have been better not to go to South End. South End is an unhealthy place. Perry was surprised to hear that you had South End in your sights."
"I know a lot of people think that way, but it's actually quite a mistake, sir. and Mr Wingfield says it is a complete mistake to assume that the place is unhealthy; and I'm sure you can rely on him, because he understands the nature of the air thoroughly, and his own brother and family have been there repeatedly."
"You should have gone to Cromer, my dear, if you went somewhere. – Perry was once in Cromer for a week, and he considers it the best of all places to swim in the sea. A beautiful open sea, he says, and very pure air. And as far as I know, you would have had an accommodation there very far away from the sea – a quarter mile away – very comfortable. You should have consulted Perry."
"But, my dear Sir, the difference of the journey; – just think about how big it would have been. – A hundred miles maybe instead of forty."
"Ah! My dear, as Perry says, when it comes to health, nothing else should be considered; and if you're to travel, you don't have much choice between forty and a hundred miles. - Better not to move at all, better to stay completely in London than to drive forty miles to get into a worse air. That's exactly what Perry said. It seemed to him to be a very ill-considered measure."
Emma's attempts to stop her father had been in vain; and when he had reached such a point as this, she could not be surprised that her brother-in-law broke out.
"Sir. Perry," he said with very strong displeasure, "would do well to keep his opinion until it is asked. Why doesn't he mind wondering about what I'm doing? – that I take my family with me to one or the other stretch of coast? ... Perry – I don't want his instructions any more than I want his drugs." He took a break – and a moment later became cooler, adding with only sarcastic dryness: "If Mr. Perry can tell me how to transport a woman and five children over a distance of one hundred and thirty miles without greater cost or inconvenience than a distance At forty years old, I would be just as willing to prefer Cromer South End, how he could do it himself."
"That's right, that's right," Mr. Hill shouted with willing intervention – "very true. That is indeed a consideration. – But John, what I told you about my idea to move the path to Langham, to turn it more to the right so that it does not cut through the local meadows, I can not imagine any difficulties. I wouldn't try if the people of Highbury were uncomfortable, but if you remember exactly the current line of the path... However, the only way to prove it will be to turn back to our cards. I will hopefully see you at the abbey tomorrow morning, and then we will look at them and you will tell me your opinion."
Mr. Lodge was quite excited by such harsh reflections on his friend Perry, to whom he had actually attributed, albeit unconsciously, many of his own feelings and expressions; but the reassuring attentions of his daughters gradually eliminated the present evil, and the immediate vigilance of one brother and better memories of the other prevented any renewal.
Chapter 58
Half a minute led them through the pump yard to the archway opposite the Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Anyone familiar with Bath may remember the difficulty of crossing Cheap Street at this point; It is, in fact, a street of such an outrageous nature, so unfortunately connected to the great streets of London and Oxford and the city's most important inn, that not a day goes by when ladies' parties, however important their shops, are looking for pastries, hat goods or even (as in the present case) of young men are not on one side or the other of carriages, Riders or carts held. Bella had felt and lamented this evil at least three times a day since her stay in Bath; and it was her destiny to feel and lament it again, because just as she approached the Union Passage,
"Oh, those heinous gigs!" Bella said and looked up. "How I detest them." But this aversion, though so justified, was short-lived, because she looked again and shouted, "Glorious! Mr. Fenmore and my brother!"
"Good heavens! This is James!" was said at the same moment by Catherine; and when it attracted the attention of the young men, the horse was immediately stopped with a ferocity that almost threw it on its hips, and now that the servant had jumped up, the masters jumped out, and the equipage was handed over to him.
Catherine, for whom this meeting was completely unexpected, received her brother with the most vivid pleasure; and he, who was a very kind character and sincerely attached to her, in turn gave every proof of the same satisfaction to which he could have leisure, while the shining eyes of Miss Dorfman incessantly challenged his notification; and she was quickly paid for his devourings, with a mixture of joy and embarrassment that Could have told Catherine that her brother thought she was quite a friend if she had been more experienced in developing the feelings of others and less simply immersed in her own as pretty as she could.
John Dorfman, who had meanwhile given orders over the horses, soon joined them, and from him she received directly the compensation to which she was entitled; for while lightly and carelessly touching Bella's hand, he gave her a whole scratch and half a short bow. He was a stocky young man of medium size who, with his inconspicuous face and graceful figure, seemed afraid of being too handsome if he did not wear the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman when he was not comfortable, where he should be polite and outrageous, where he should be light. He pulled out his watch: "What do you think, how long do we run it from Tetbury, Miss Fenmore?"
"I don't know the distance." Her brother told her it was twenty-three miles.
"Three and twenty!" shouted Dorfmann. "Five and twenty if it's an inch." Fenmore protested, pleading for the authority of roadbooks, innkeepers and milestones; but his friend ignored them all; he had a safer test of removal. "I know it has to be twenty-five," he said, "until we're done with it. It is now half one; we were driving out of the inn in Tetbury when the city clock struck eleven; and I challenge every man in England to let my horse run less than ten miles per hour in the harness; that makes it exactly twenty-five."
"You lost an hour," Fenmore said; "It was only ten o'clock when we came from Tetbury."
"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, with my soul! I counted every blow. This brother would make me lose my mind, Miss Fenmore; look only at my horse; Have you ever seen an animal in your life that is so designed for speed?" (The servant had just gotten into the car and drove off.) "So true blood! Three and a half hours actually come to only twenty-three miles! Look at this creature and consider it possible if you can."
"He looks very hot to be sure."
"Hot! He hadn't turned a hair until we got to Walcot Church; but look at his forehand; look at his loins; just see how he moves; This horse can travel no less than ten miles per hour: tie his legs together and he will get ahead. What do you think of my appearance, Miss Fenmore? A neat one, isn't it? Well hung; built in the city; I haven't had it in a month. It was built for a man from Christchurch, a friend of mine, a very good guy; he ran it for a few weeks until I think it was convenient to be done with it. Coincidentally, I was looking for something so easy, even though I had also decided quite firmly on a curriculum; but I met him by chance on Magdalen Bridge when he went to Oxford last semester: "Ah! Dorfman," he said, "do you happen to want a little thing like this? It's unique in its kind, but I'm damn tired of it. ' 'Oh! D-," I said; 'I am your husband; what do you ask?' And how much do you think he did, Miss Fenmore?"
"I'm sure I can't guess it at all."
"Ornate hanging, you see; seat, trunk, sword box, splash guard, lamps, silver strips, everything you see is complete; the ironwork as good as new, or better. He demanded fifty guineas; I finished directly with him, threw the money, and the carriage was mine."
"And I'm sure," Catherine said, "I know so little about things like this that I can't judge whether it was cheap or expensive."
"Neither one nor the other; I might have gotten it for less, dare I say; but I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash."
"That was very good-natured of you," Catherine said very satisfied.
"Oh! D——when you have the opportunity to do something good for a friend, I hate being pathetic."
Now an examination of the intended movements of the young women took place; and after they found out where they were going, it was decided that the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings and make Mrs. Dorfman her appearance. James and Bella went ahead; and so pleased was she with her lot, so satisfied she tried to give him a pleasant walk, which brought her the double recommendation to be her brother's boyfriend and her boyfriend's brother, so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings but they overtook and overtook the two abusive young men in Milsom Street, she was so far from attracting her attention that she only looked back at them three times.
John Dorfman, of course, stayed with Catherine and after a few minutes of silence resumed the conversation about his performance. "However, you will find, Miss Fenmore, that some people would consider it a cheap thing, because I might have sold it for ten more guineas the next day; Jackson from Oriel immediately offers me sixty; Fenmore was with me at the time."
"Yes," said Fenmore, who overheard this; "but you forget that your horse was there."
"My horse! Oh, d—— it! I wouldn't sell my horse for a hundred. Do you like an open carriage, Miss Fenmore?"
"Yes very much; I hardly ever have the opportunity to be in one; but I particularly like it."
"I'm glad about it; I will drive you out every day in mine."
"Thank you," Catherine said somewhat sadly, because she doubted the appropriateness of accepting such an offer.
"I'll drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow."
"Thank you; but doesn't your horse want rest?"
"Rest! He has covered only twenty-three miles today; all nonsense; nothing ruins horses as much as rest; nothing kills them so quickly. No, no; While I'm here, I'm going to move for an average of four hours every day."
"Will you really!" said Catherine very seriously. "That's forty miles a day."
"Forty! Yes, fifty, which interests me. Well, I'm going to drive you to Lansdown tomorrow; Mind you, I'm engaged."
"How glorious that will be!" cried Bella and turned around. "My dearest Catherine, I envy you very much; but I'm afraid, brother, you won't have room for a third."
"Actually a third! No, no; I didn't come to Bath to drive my sisters around; that would be a good joke, faith! Fenmore has to take care of you."
This led to a dialogue of courtesy between the other two; but Catherine heard neither the details nor the result. Her companion's speech now sank from her hitherto lively tone to nothing more than a short, decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman she met; and Catherine, having listened and agreed for as long as possible, with all the courtesy and reverence of the youthful female spirit, feared risking her own opinion as opposed to that of a self-confident man, especially when it came to her beauty concerning her own gender, finally dared to change the subject with a question that had long been close to her heart; it was, "Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr. Dorfman?"
"Udolfo! Oh God! Not me; I never read novels; I still have work to do."
Catherine humbly and shamefully wanted to apologize for her question, but he prevented her from doing so by saying, "Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; no reasonably decent film has been released since Tom Jones, except For The Monk; I read this the other day; but as for everyone else, they are the stupidest things in creation."
"I think you must like Udolpho if you were reading it; it's so very interesting."
"I don't think so! No, if I read any, it should belong to Mrs. Radcliffe; her novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature in them."
"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe," Catherine said with some hesitation for fear of humiliating him.
"Not sure; was it? Yes, I remember, that's how it was; I thought of this other stupid book, written by this woman about whom so much fuss is made, who married the French emigrant."
"I suppose you mean Camilla?"
"Yes, this is the book; such unnatural stuff! As an old man playing seesaw, I picked up the first volume once and looked at it, but I soon realized that it wasn't enough; yes, I guessed what kind of stuff it must be before I saw it: when I heard that she had married an emigrant, I was sure that I would never make it."
"I've never read it."
"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the most horrible nonsense imaginable; there is nothing in the world in it than an old man playing seesaw and learning Latin; on my soul there is no such thing."
This criticism, the legitimacy of which poor Catherine had unfortunately lost, brought her to the door of Mrs. Dorfman's apartment, and the feelings of the astute and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way to the feelings of the dutiful and loving son when she met Mrs. Dorfman, whom she had seen from above, in the corridor. "Oh, Mother! How are you?" he said and gave her a warm handshake. "Where did you get the quiz of a hat? This makes you look like an old witch. Here are Fenmore and I to stay with you for a few days, so you have to look for some good beds somewhere nearby." And this speech seemed to satisfy all the heartfelt desires of the Mother, for she received him with the most joyful and jubilant affection. He then gave his two younger sisters an equal part of his fraternal tenderness,
these manners did not please Catherine; but he was James' friend and Bella's brother; and her judgment was further bought by Bella assuring her that John thought she was the most charming girl in the world when they retired to see the new hat, and that John engaged her before saying goodbye that night to dance with him. Had she been older or more vain, such attacks might have had little effect; but where youth and shyness are united, it takes an unusual persistence of reason to resist the attraction of being called the most adorable girl in the world and thus being engaged as a partner at an early age; and the consequence was that when the two Fenmores, after sitting with the Dorfmans for an hour, set out to go to Mr. Allens together, and James, when the door behind them was closed, said, "Well, Catherine, how do you like my friend Dorfman?" Instead of answering what she probably would have done if there had been no friendship and flattery in the case: "I don't like him at all," she replied directly, "I like him very much; he seems to be very pleasant."
"He is such a good-natured fellow as he has never lived before; a bit of rattling; but this will recommend him to your gender, I believe: and how do you like the rest of the family?"
"In fact, very, very much: Bella in particular."
"I am very pleased to hear you say this; she is exactly the kind of young woman I could wish you were attached to; she has so much common sense and is so thoroughly unartificial and kind; I always wanted you to know them; and she seems to like you a lot. She said the highest things in your praise that might be possible; and even you, Catherine, lovingly taking her hand, can be "proud" of the praise of such a girl as Miss Dorfman.
"In fact, I am," she replied; "I love them extraordinarily and am glad that you like them too. You hardly mentioned anything about her when you wrote to me after your visit there."
"Because I thought I should see you soon. I hope you will be together a lot while you are in Bath. She is a very kind girl; such a superior understanding! How much the whole family loves them; she is obviously the general favourite; and how much does it have to be admired in a place like this – right?"
"Yes, very much so, I imagine; Mr. She thinks everyone is the prettiest girl in Bath."
"I dare say he does; and I don't know a man who can judge beauty better than Mr. Allen. I don't need to ask you if you are happy here, my dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Bella Dorfman, it would be impossible for you to be different; and the Allens, I'm sure, are very kind to you?"
"Yes, very nice; I have never been so happy; and now you have come, it becomes more glorious than ever; how nice of you that you intentionally came so far to see me."
James took this tribute of gratitude and qualified his conscience to accept it as well, saying with complete sincerity, "Indeed, Catherine, I love you very much."
Inquiries and communications about brothers and sisters, the situation of some, the growth of the rest and other family matters were now exchanged between them and continued with only a slight deviation from James' side in praise of Miss Dorfman until they reached Pulteney Street, where he met with great kindness from Mr. and Mrs. Everyone was welcomed, invited by the former to dine with them, and asked by the latter to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and front compartment. A preliminary commitment in Edgar's buildings prevented him from accepting a friend's invitation and forced him to hurry as soon as he had satisfied the other's demands. When the time when the two parties met in the Oktagon Hall was set up correctly, Catherine then became aware of the luxury of a sublime, restless,
Chapter 59
On the morning dedicated to admiral and Mrs. Field's visit to Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady Russell and avoid them. until it was all over; when she found it most natural to regret that she had missed the opportunity to see her.
This meeting of the two parties proved to be highly satisfying and decided the whole thing at once. Each lady used to be sympathetic to an agreement and therefore saw in the other nothing but good manners; and as for the gentlemen, there was such a warm cheerfulness on the part of the admiral, such an open, trusting generosity, sir Walter, who also received assurances from Mr that he was known to the admiral by report as a prime example of good breeding.
The house and grounds and furniture were approved, the fields were approved, conditions, time, everything and every body was right; and Mr Shepherd's employees were put to work without there being a single preliminary difference that had to be altered from all the "This contract shows".
Sir Walter declared without hesitation that the admiral was the best-looking sailor he had ever met, and even went so far as to say that if his own husband had had the hairstyle, he would not have to be ashamed to be seen everywhere with him; and the admiral remarked with sympathetic warmth to his wife as they drove back through the park: "I thought we would soon come to an agreement, my dear, despite everything they told us in Taunton. The Baronet will never determine that The Thames is burning, but there seems to be no harm to it." – mutual compliments that would have been valued at about the same level.
The fields were to be owned by Michaeli; and since Sir Walter proposed to move to Bath during the previous month, no time could be wasted to make all the dependent arrangements.
Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would be neither useful nor significant in choosing the house they wanted to secure, was very reluctant to take her away so quickly and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind until she could take her to Bath herself after Christmas; but since she had her own appointments that had to take her away from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wanted, and Anne feared the possible heat of September in all the white glow of Bath and mourned having to give up all that so sweet and so sadly influenced by the autumn months in the countryside, didn't think she wanted to stay all in all. It would be the most right and wise, and therefore must entail the least suffering, to go with others.
However, something happened to give her another duty. Mary, who was often a little uncomfortable and always thought a lot about her own complaints and always had the habit of demanding Anne when something was going on, was unpleasant; and since she foresaw that she would not have a healthy day throughout the autumn, she begged or rather challenged her, for it was hardly a request to come to Uppercross Cottage and keep her company as long as she wanted it instead of going to Bath.
"I can't possibly do without Anne," was Mary's argument; and Elizabeth's answer was, "Then I'm sure Anne had better stay, because no one will want her in Bath."
To be claimed as good, albeit in an inappropriate style, is at least better than not being rejected well at all; and Anne, who was glad to have thought of something useful, glad that something was marked as a duty, and certainly did not regret having the scene of it in the countryside and in her own dear country, willingly agreed to stay.
This invitation from Mary removed all of Lady Russell's difficulties, and it was therefore soon decided that Anne should not go to Bath until Lady Russell took her, and that the entire time in between should be divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge.
So far everything was fine; but Lady Russell was almost shocked by the mistake in one part of the Kellynch Hall plan when it came upon her, namely that Mrs. Clay was engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth as an extremely important and valuable assistant, the latter in all the shops before her. Lady Russell deeply regretted that such a measure should have been taken at all, wondered, saddened and feared; and the insult it contained to Anne, because Mrs. Clay was of such great use while Anne could not do anything, was a very annoying affair.
Anne herself was hardened against such insults; but she felt the recklessness of the arrangement as clearly as Lady Russell. With a lot of silent observation and a knowledge that she often wished for less, of her father's character, she was aware that the most serious consequences for his family from intimacy were more than possible. She did not believe that her father currently had such an idea. Mrs. Clay had freckles, a protruding tooth, and a clumsy wrist, about which he constantly made sharp remarks in her absence; but she was young, and certainly handsome, and possessed, in a sharp mind and diligent, pleasant manners, infinitely more dangerous powers of attraction than any merely personal could have been. Anne was so impressed by the degree of her dangerousness that she could not apologize for making it perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who would be so much more pitiful than herself in the event of such a setback, she thought, should never have reason to accuse her of not giving a warning.
She spoke and seemed to be just insulting. Elizabeth could not imagine how such an absurd suspicion could come to her, and replied indignantly that each party knew her situation well.
You'd think you'd never heard my father talk about your personal misfortune, even though I know you have to do it fifty times. This tooth from her and these freckles. Freckles don't disgust me as much as they do him. I have known a face that has not been materially distorted by some, but he detests it. You must have heard him notice Mrs. Clay's freckles."
"There is hardly a personal deficiency," Anne replied, "with which one could not gradually reconcile oneself by a pleasant behavior."
"I think very differently," Elizabeth replied briefly; "A pleasant behavior can highlight beautiful facial features, but never change simple ones. However, since I am much more at stake on this point than anyone else, I think it is quite unnecessary for you to advise me."
Anne was done; glad it was over, and not absolutely hopeless to do good. Elizabeth, although she resented the suspicion, could be made aware of it.
The last task of the four carriage horses was to move Sir Walter, Miss Hightower and Mrs Clay to Bath. The company left in a very good mood; Sir Walter prepared herself with condescending bows for all the tormented tenants and housekeepers who might have had a hint to show themselves, and Anne at the same time went up to the lodge in a kind of desolate calm, where she was to spend the first week.
Her girlfriend was not in a better mood than herself. Lady Russell felt this break-up of the family extraordinarily. Her honesty was as dear to her as her own, and daily intercourse had become precious out of habit. It was painful to look at their abandoned lands, and even worse, to foresee the new hands into which they would fall; and in order to escape the loneliness and melancholy of such a changed village and not to be in the way when Admiral and Mrs. Field arrived, she had decided to start her own absence from home when she had to give up Anne. Accordingly, their move was carried out together, and Anne was dropped off at Uppercross Cottage in the first leg of Lady Russell's journey.
Uppercross was a medium-sized village that a few years ago had been kept entirely in the old English style and contained only two houses whose appearance was superior to that of the freisassen and workers; the manor house of the lord of the manor with its high walls, large gates and old trees, massive and not modernized, and the compact, narrow rectory, surrounded by its own well-kept garden, with a vine and a pear tree grown around its wings; but after the marriage of the young squire, it had received the improvement of a farmhouse, which was elevated to a cottage for its residence, and Uppercross Cottage with its porch, the French windows and other beauties would almost certainly arrive at the eye of the traveler as the more consistent and considerable aspect and the premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile away.
Anne had often stayed here. She knew the ways of Uppercross as well as Kellynch's. The two families met so consistently, so habited to walk in and out of each other's house around the clock, that it was quite surprising for them to find Mary alone; but since she was alone, her discomfort and upset was almost a matter of course. Although better equipped than her older sister, Mary had neither Anne's understanding nor temperament. While she was healthy and happy and took care of her appropriately, she was in a great good mood and excellent mood; but every malaise sank them completely. She had no resources for loneliness; and since she inherited a considerable part of Hightower's self-aggrandizement, she was very inclined to add to any other suffering the feeling of being neglected and abused. Personally, she was inferior to both sisters and had, even in her prime, only the dignity of being "a fine girl". She now lay on the faded sofa of the pretty little salon, whose once elegant furniture had gradually become shabby under the influence of four summers and two children; and when Anne showed up, she greeted her with ...
"So, you've finally come! I started to think that I should never see you. I'm so sick that I can barely speak. I haven't seen a creature all morning!"
"I'm sorry to find you uncomfortable," Anne replied. "You sent me such a good report from you on Thursday!"
"Yes, I made the most of it; I always do: but at that time I was anything but well; and I think I've never been as sick in my life as I was this morning: very unfit left alone, I'm sure. Suppose I was suddenly grabbed in a terrible way and couldn't ring the bell! So Lady Russell wouldn't come out. I don't think she's been to this house three times this summer."
Anne said what belonged to herself and inquired about her husband. "Oh! Charles is out shooting. I haven't seen him since seven o'clock. He would leave even though I told him how sick I was. He told him not to stay outside for long, but he never came back, and now it's almost one. I assure you, I have not seen a human soul this whole long morning."
"You had your little boys with you?"
"Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unwieldy that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles doesn't mind a word I say, and Walter gets just as bad."
"Well, now you're going to feel better soon," Anne replied happily. "You know that I always heal you when I come. How are your neighbors in the Big House?"
"I can't give you any information about that. I didn't see any of them today, except Mr. Cumberland, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse, and even though I told him how sick I was, none of them were around me. Miss Cumberlands probably didn't like it, I suppose, and they never got out of the way."
"You may see them before the morning is over. It's early."
"I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh way too much for me. Oh! Anne, I feel so bad!
"My dear Mary, remember what a pleasant report you sent me of yourself! You wrote in the most cheerful way, saying that you were perfectly healthy and in no hurry with me; and since this is the case, you have to consider my wish to stay with Lady Russell until the end: and apart from what I felt for her, I was really so busy, had so much to do that I couldn't have left Kellynch very comfortably earlier.
"My goodness! what can you possibly do?"
"A lot of things, I assure you. More than I can remember in a moment; but I can tell you a lot. I made a copy of my father's catalogue of books and pictures. I was in the garden several times with Mackenzie and tried to understand and make him understand which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell. I had to organize all my own little worries, share books and music, and repack all my bags because I didn't understand what was intended in terms of the wagons: and one thing I had to do, Mary, of a more difficult nature: go to almost every house in the parish, as a kind of farewell. I was told they wanted it. But all these things took a lot of time."
"Well!" and after a pause of a moment: "But you never asked me a word about our dinner at the pools yesterday."
"Did you leave then? I didn't do any research because I came to the conclusion that you must have been forced to give up the party."
"Oh yes! I left. Yesterday I was doing very well, until this morning nothing had happened to me. It would have been strange if I hadn't left."
"I'm very glad you're doing well, and I hope you had a pleasant party."
"Nothing special. You always know in advance what dinner will be and who will be there; and it is so uncomfortable not to have your own carriage. Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland took me and we were so crowded! They are both so big and take up so much space, and Mr. Cumberland is always sitting in front. So there I was, crammed together in the back seat with Grace and Lois, and I think it's very likely that's what my illness today is due to."
A little more perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on Anne's side almost brought about a healing on Mary's side. She was soon able to sit upright on the sofa and began to hope that she could leave it until dinner. Then she forgot to think about it, was at the other end of the room and embellished a bouquet of flowers; then she ate her cold meat; and then she was healthy enough to suggest a little walk.
"Where should we go?" she said when they were done. "I suppose you won't like to stop by the Big House before visiting you?"
"I don't have the slightest objection to that," Anne replied. "I would never think of standing at such a ceremony with people I know as well as Mrs and Miss Cumberlands."
"Oh! but they should visit you as soon as possible. They should feel what you are entitled to as my sister. However, we might as well go and sit down with them for a while, and when we're done with it, we can enjoy our walk."
Anne had always considered such a style of interaction to be highly unwise; but she had stopped trying to control it because she believed that although there was constant offense on both sides, no family could do without it now. Accordingly, they went to the Great House to sit for the full half hour in the old-fashioned square salon with a small carpet and shiny floor, to which the current daughters of the house gradually gave by a wing the appropriate atmosphere of confusion -forte and a harp, flower stands and small tables set up in all directions. Oh! could have seen the originals of the portraits before the paneling, the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin, what was going on, had they been aware of such a overthrow of all order and cleanliness! The portraits themselves seemed to stare in amazement.
The Cumberlands, like their homes, were in a state of change, perhaps improvement. Father and mother were in the old English style, the young people in the new one. Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland were very nice people; friendly and hospitable, poorly educated and not elegant at all. Their children had more modern ways of thinking and manners. There was a large family; but the only two adults, except Charles, were Grace and Lois, young ladies of nineteen and twenty years old who had brought all the usual feats from the school in Exeter and now lived like thousands of other young ladies to be fashionable, happy and cheerful. Her clothes had all the advantages, her faces were quite pretty, her mood extraordinarily good, her behavior unbiased and pleasant; They were important at home and favourites abroad. Anne always considered them some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, since we were all saved from wishing for the possibility of exchange by a pleasant sense of superiority, she would not have given up her own, more elegant and cultivated mind for all her pleasures; and envied her for nothing but this seemingly perfect, good understanding and agreement, for this good-humoured mutual affection of which she herself had not known so little from any of her sisters.
They were received with great cordiality. On the part of the Great House family, there seemed to be nothing wrong, which in general, as Anne well knew, was the least to blame. The half hour was pleasant enough chatting; and she was not at all surprised that in the end the two Miss Cumberlands joined their hiking group at Mary's special invitation.
Chapter 60
When Eleanore and Marianne walked together the next morning, the latter shared a news with her sister that, despite what she knew before of Marianne's unwiseness and thoughtlessness, surprised her with her extravagant statement of both. Marianne told her with great pleasure that Warwick had given her a horse, one that he himself had bred on his estate in Somersetshire and which was designed to carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep a horse, that if she changed her decision in favor of this gift, she had to buy another one for the servant and keep a servant to ride on it and finally build a stable to receive it, she had accepted the gift without hesitation and enthusiastically told her sister about it.
"He intends to send his stableman to Somersetshire immediately," she added, "and when it arrives, we will ride every day. They will share with me some of these depths."
Least of all, she wanted to wake up from such a dream of happiness to understand all the unfortunate truths that accompanied the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them. As for an additional servant, the cost would be a trifle; Mom, she was sure, would never mind; and every horse would do for HIM; maybe he always gets one in the park; As far as a stable is concerned, the mere shed would suffice. Eleanore then dared to doubt the appropriateness of receiving such a gift from a man who gave her so ?? little or at least so late was known. That was too much.
"You're wrong, Eleanore," she said heartily, "assuming I know very little about Warwick. I haven't known him for long, but I know him much better than any other creature in the world. except you and mom. Not the time or the opportunity should decide on the intimacy, - it is the plant alone. Seven years would not be enough to introduce some people to each other, and seven days is more than enough for others. I should hold I was guilty of greater inadequacy when I accepted a horse from my brother than from Warwick. I know very little about John, even though we have been living together for years; but warwick has long formed my judgment."
Eleanore thought it wiser not to touch this point anymore. She knew her sister's temperament. Resistance to such a sensitive issue would only bind them all the more to their own opinions. But by appealing to her affection for her mother, depicting the inconveniences that this indulgent mother had to inflict on herself if she (which would probably be the case) agreed to this increase in settlement, Marianne was soon subjugated; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such unwise kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Warwick the next time she saw him that she had to refuse.
She was faithful to her word; and when Warwick auditioned at the cottage the same day, Eleanore heard her disgrace to him in a low voice that she was forced to refrain from accepting his gift. The reasons for this change were at the same time related, and they were such that they made further requests on his part impossible. However, his concern was very obvious; and after expressing it with seriousness, he added in the same low voice, "But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, even though you can't use it now. I will only keep it until you can claim it. If you leave Barton to start your own facility in a more permanent home, Queen Mab will receive you.
All this was overheard by Miss Hargrove; and in the whole sentence, in his way of pronouncing him, and in the fact that he addressed her sister only by her first name, she immediately saw such a determined intimacy, such a direct meaning, which marked a perfect correspondence between them. From that moment on, she no longer doubted her engagement; and believing in it created no surprise other than that she or one of her friends was to be abandoned by such open minds to discover it by chance.
Margaret told her something the next day that put this matter in an even clearer light. Warwick had spent the previous evening with them, and Margaret, since she had been left in the salon only with him and Marianne for some time, had the opportunity for observations, which she shared with her eldest sister with a very important face when they were next by themselves.
"Oh Eleonore!" she shouted. "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Warwick very soon."
"That's what you said," Eleanore replied, "almost every day since they first met in High-Church Down; and I don't think they had known each other for a week when you were sure that Marianne was wearing his picture around her neck; but it turned out to be just the miniature of our great-uncle."
"But that is indeed something completely different. I'm sure they'll get married very soon, because he has a strand of hair from her."
"Take care of yourself, Margaret. Maybe it's just the hair of some great uncle of HIS."
"But Eleanore, it actually belongs to Marianne. I'm almost sure it is, because I saw how he might have cut it off, and he seemed to ask her for something, and soon he took her scissors and cut off a long curl from her hair, because everything had fallen over her back, and he kissed her and folded her into a piece of white paper and put it in his wallet."
For such details, which were given on such an authority, Eleanore could not withhold their recognition; nor was she inclined to do so, for the circumstance was completely consistent with what she herself had heard and seen.
Margaret's wisdom was not always shown to her sister so satisfactorily. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening in the park to give the name of the young man who was Eleanore's special favorite, which had long made her very curious, Margaret replied by looking at her sister and saying, "I'm not allowed to say, may I, Eleanore?"
This, of course, made everyone laugh; and Eleanore also tried to laugh. But the effort hurt. She was convinced that Margaret had settled on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a constant joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt sincerely with her; but she did more harm than good to the cause by turning very red and angrily saying
to Margaret,
"Remember whatever your assumptions may be, you have no right to repeat them."
"I never had any guesses about it," Margaret replied; "It was you who told me about it yourself."
This increased the cheerfulness of society, and Margaret was eagerly urged to say something else.
"Oh! Please, Miss Margaret, let us know everything," Mrs. Jennings said. "What is the name of the Lord?"
"I'm not allowed to say it, Ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I also know where he is."
"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; in his own home in Norland to be sure.
"No, it's not THAT. He has no profession at all."
"Margaret," Marianne said with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of its own, and that there is no such person."
"Well, he's recently dead, Marianne, because I'm sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F."
Eleanore was very grateful to Lady Mideltown for noticing at that moment "that it was raining very heavily," although she believed that the interruption stemmed less from any attention to her than from the great aversion of her ladyhood to all these inelegant themes of ridicule such as delighted her husband and mother. However, the idea she had begun was immediately pursued by Colonel Bridgerton, who was attentive to the feelings of others at every opportunity; and much has been said by both on the subject of rain. Warwick opened the pianoforte and asked Marianne to sit down at it; and so, in the midst of the various efforts of various people to leave the subject, it fell to the ground. But Eleanore did not recover so easily from the horror into which it had thrown her.
That evening, a group was assembled to visit the following day a very nice shop about twelve miles from Barton, which belonged to a brother-in-law of Colonel Bridgerton, without whose interest it could not be seen as the owner at the time abroad, had given strict orders to this head. The facilities were declared very beautiful, and Sir John, who praised them particularly warmly, was perhaps allowed to be an acceptable judge, for he had formed groups that visited them at least twice every summer in the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which a large part of the entertainment of the morning was; Cold supplies should be taken, open wagons should only be used and everything should be run in the usual way of a full pleasure society.
To a few in society, given the time of year and the fact that it had rained every day for the past fourteen days, it seemed like a rather bold undertaking – and Mrs. Hargrove, who already had a cold, was persuaded by Eleanore to stay at home here.
Chapter 61
During dinner, Mr. Mitchell barely spoke; but when the servants had withdrawn, he thought it was time to talk to his guest, and therefore began a theme in which he expected him to shine, noting that he seemed to be very happy with his patron. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his desires and consideration for his comfort seemed very remarkable. Mr Mitchell could not have voted better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The theme elevated him to more than usual solemnity, and with a most important aspect he protested that "he had never in his life experienced such behavior in a person of rank – such kindness and condescension as he himself had experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve both of the speeches he had already had the honor of preaching to her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had only had him picked up the Saturday before to fill up her quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was considered proud by many people he knew, but HE had never seen anything but kindness in her. She had always spoken to him as she did to any other gentleman; she did not raise the slightest objection to him joining the society of the neighborhood, nor that he occasionally left the community for a week or two to visit his relatives. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as possible, provided he decided with discretion; and had once visited him in his humble rectory, where she had fully approved all the changes he had made,
"This is all very decent and polite, I'm sure of that," said Mrs. Mitchell, "and I dare say that she is a very pleasant woman. Too bad that great ladies in general are no longer like them. Does she live near you, sir?"
"The garden where my humble residence stands is separated only by an alley from Rosings Park, the residence of your ladyhood."
"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Does she have a family?"
"She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and very extensive fortune."
'Ah!' said Mrs. Mitchell, shaking her head, "then she's better off than many girls. And what kind of young lady is she? Does it look good?'
"She is indeed an extremely charming young lady. Lady Catherine herself says that in terms of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the most beautiful of her sex, because in her features there is what distinguishes the young lady of noble birth. Unfortunately, she has a sickly constitution that has prevented her from making progress in many achievements that she could not have missed otherwise, as the lady who supervised her upbringing and still lives with them tells me. But she is completely gracious and often condescends to drive past my humble dwelling in her little Phaeton and her ponies."
"Was it introduced? I don't remember her name among the ladies at court.'
'Their indifferent state of health unfortunately prevents them from being in the city; and in this way, as I said to Lady Catherine one day, the British court is deprived of its most radiant decorations. Her ladyhood seemed satisfied with the idea; and you can imagine that at every opportunity I am happy to give these small, delicate compliments that are always acceptable to ladies. I have noticed to Lady Catherine more than once that her charming daughter seems to have been born a Duchess and that the highest rank, instead of giving her meaning, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things that please your ladyship, and it's a kind of attention that I feel particularly obligated to pay.'
"You judge very correctly," said Mr. Mitchell, "and you are pleased that you have the talent to flatter with sensitivity. May I ask whether these gratifying attentions spring from the impulse of the moment or are the result of previous studies?'
"They arise mainly from what passes at the time, and although I sometimes amuse myself by suggesting and arranging such small elegant compliments that can be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always want to give them as undefeated a coat of paint as possible."
Mr. Mitchell's expectations were fully met. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the greatest pleasure, while maintaining the most determined serenity of the face and, except for an occasional glance at Elizabeth, not needing a partner for his pleasure.
At tea time, however, the dose was sufficient, and Mr. Mitchell was happy to lead his guest back to the salon, and when the tea was over, he was happy to invite him to read to the ladies. Mr Collins readily agreed and a book was produced; but when he saw it (for everything indicated that it came from a circulation library), he drove back, and asking for forgiveness, he protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Linda called. Other books were produced, and after some thought, he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Linda was amazed when he opened the tape, and before reading three pages with very monotonous solemnity, she interrupted it with:
"You know, Mom, that my uncle Phillips talks about rejecting Richard; and if it does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me herself on Saturday. I'm going to Meryton tomorrow to hear more about it and ask when Mr. Denny will come back from town."
Linda was told by her two oldest sisters to keep her mouth shut; but Mr. Collins, very offended, put his book aside and said
"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested in serious books, even though they were written only for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for certainly nothing can benefit them as much as teaching. But I will no longer harass my young cousin."
Then he turned to Mr. Mitchell and offered himself as an opponent in backgammon. Mr. Mitchell accepted the challenge and noticed that he acted very wisely by leaving the girls to their own insignificant pleasures. Mrs. Mitchell and her daughters most politely apologized for Linda's interruption and promised that it would not happen again if he resumed his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he would not have ill will toward his young cousin and should never take her behavior as an insult, sat down with Mr. Mitchell at another table and prepared for backgammon.
Chapter 62
Sir Thomas was to return in November, and his eldest son had a duty to call him home earlier. The approach of September brought messages from Mr. Schmidt, first in a letter to the gamekeeper and then in a letter to Edmund; and at the end of August he himself arrived to be cheerful, pleasant and chivalrous again, depending on the opportunity or Miss Dorset demanded; to talk about races and Weymouth and parties and friends that she might have listened to with some interest six weeks earlier, and to give her overall, through the power of an actual comparison, the fullest conviction that she prefers his younger brother.
It was very annoying, and she felt sorry from the bottom of her heart; but so it was; and far from marrying the elder, she did not want to attract him even beyond what the simplest claims of conscious beauty required: his prolonged absence from Mansfield, without anything but pleasure in mind and his own will to counsel, it was perfectly clear that he did not care; and his indifference was so much more than surpassed by her own that she did not believe that she could accept him if he were now the owner of Mansfield Park, the complete Sir Thomas he was to be with time.
The season and duties that brought Mr Schmidt back to Mansfield took Mr Dorset to Norfolk. Everingham could not do without him at the beginning of September. He went to Miss Schmidt for fourteen days – fourteen days so dull that they should both have been on guard, and even made Julia, in her jealousy of her sister, admit the absolute need to distrust his attention and wish him not to return; and fourteen days of enough leisure, in the breaks of shooting and sleeping, to have convinced the Lord that he should stay away longer, if he were more accustomed to examining his own motives and thinking about what his forbearance is idle vanity; but, thoughtless and selfish of prosperity and bad example, he would not look beyond the present moment. The sisters, beautiful, smart, and encouraging, were a conversation to his saturated mind; and since he found nothing in Norfolk that would be equivalent to the social pleasures of Mansfield, he gladly returned there at the appointed time and was just as happy to be welcomed there by those with whom he wanted to continue playing.
Maria, with only Mr. Rushmore, who took care of her, and condemned to the repeated details of his daily sport, good or bad, his bragging about his dogs, his jealousy of his neighbors, his doubts about her qualifications and his zeal for poachers, topics that without talent on the one hand or attachment on the other hand will not find a way to female feelings, Mr. Dorset had been sorely missed; and Julia, unmarried and unemployed, had the right to miss him much more. Each sister considered herself the favorite. Julia may be justified by the hints of Mrs. Grant, who was inclined to comply with her wish, and Mary by the hints of Mr. Dorset himself. Everything returned to the same channel as before his absence; His manners are so lively and pleasant to everyone that he does not lose ground with either of them,
Esther was the only one of the group who did not like anything; but since that day in Sotherton, she could not see Mr. Dorset with any of her sisters without observation and rarely without astonishment or reproach; and if her confidence in her own judgment had been equal to her exercise in every other respect, if she had been sure to see clearly and to judge sincerely, she would probably have made some important communications to her usual confidant. But so she dared only one hint, and the clue was lost. "I'm quite surprised," she said, "that Dorset-san is coming back so soon after being here for a full seven weeks so long ago; because I had understood that he loved change and movement so much that I thought that something would happen once he was gone, which would lead him somewhere else.
"It's to his honor," was Edmund's answer; "and I dare say that it gives pleasure to his sister. She doesn't like his unsteady habits."
"What a favourite. he's with my cousins!"
"Yes, his manners towards women are such that you have to please him. I think Mrs. Grant suspects him of a fondness for Julia; I've never seen many signs of it, but I wish it were. He has no flaws, but what would eliminate a serious attachment."
"If Miss Schmidt wasn't engaged," Esther said cautiously, "sometimes I could almost think he admires her more than Julia."
"Which may suggest that he likes Julia best than you, Esther, may be aware of; because I think it often happens that a man, before he has completely decided, distinguishes the sister or close friend of the woman he is really thinking of more than the woman herself. Dorset has too much sense to stay here when he is in any danger from Mary; and I'm not afraid for her at all after she's so proven that her feelings aren't strong."
Esther suspected that she must have been wrong and wanted to think differently in the future; but with all the submission to Edmund and all the help of the matching looks and hints she occasionally noticed in some of the others, which seemed to say that Julia was Mr. Dorset's choice, she didn't always know what to think. She was initiated one evening into her Aunt Norris' hopes on the subject, as well as her feelings and mrs. Rushmore's feelings on a point that bore a certain resemblance, and couldn't help but wonder while listening; and she would have been glad not to have to listen, for it was while all the other young people were dancing, and she was most reluctant to sit by the fire among the ladies of decency, longing for the re-entry of her older cousin, on whom all her own hopes for a partner depended. It was Esther's first ball, but without the preparation or splendor of the first ball of many a young lady, as one only thought of the afternoon, which was built on the late purchase of a violin player in the servants' hall and the possibility of raising five couples, with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Schmidt, who was just coming to visit. However, Esther had been very happy with four dances, and she was quite saddened to lose even a quarter of an hour. While she waited and wished, soon looking at the dancers and soon at the door, this dialogue between the two ladies mentioned above was forced on her – built on the late acquisition of a violin player in the servants' hall and the possibility, with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Schmidt, who was just visiting, raise five pairs. However, Esther had been very happy with four dances, and she was quite saddened to lose even a quarter of an hour. While she waited and wished, soon looking at the dancers and soon at the door, this dialogue between the two ladies mentioned above was forced on her – built on the late acquisition of a violin player in the servants' hall and the possibility, with the help of Mrs. Grant and a new intimate friend of Mr. Schmidt, who was just visiting, raise five pairs. However, Esther had been very happy with four dances, and she was quite saddened to lose even a quarter of an hour. While she waited and wished, soon looking at the dancers and soon at the door, this dialogue between the two ladies mentioned above was forced on her –
"I think Ma'am," said Mrs. Norris, her eyes on Mr. Rushmore and Maria, who were partners for the second time, "we will now see some happy faces again."
"Yes, Ma'am, indeed," replied the other with a handsome grin, "it will be a certain satisfaction to watch now, and I think it was quite a pity that they should have separated. Teens should be excused in their situation by following the usual forms. I'm surprised my son didn't suggest it."
"I dare say he did, Ma'am. Mr. Rushmore is never careless. But dear Mary has such a strict sense of decency, so much of that true tenderness rarely found these days, Mrs. Rushmore – this desire to avoid the special! Dear Ma'am, just look at her face at this moment; how different from the last two dances!"
Miss Schmidt actually looked happy, her eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she spoke with great liveliness, for Julia and her partner, Mr. Dorset, were close to her; They were all together in one group. Esther couldn't remember what she had looked like before, because she had danced with Edmund herself and hadn't thought of her.
Mrs. Norris continued, "It's very delightful to see Ma'am, young people really happy, so well dressed and so great! I can only think of the joy of dear Sir Thomas. And what do you, Ma'am, say about the chance of another match? Mr. Rushmore has led by example, and things like that are very appealing."
Mrs. Rushmore, who saw nothing but her son, was quite perplexed.
"The couple upstairs, Ma'am. Don't you see any symptoms there?"
"Oh dear! Miss Julia and Mr Dorset. Yes, indeed, a very pretty couple. What is his property?"
"Four thousand a year."
"Very good. If you don't have more, you have to be satisfied with what you have. Four thousand a year is a pretty fortune, and he seems to be a very posh, consistent young man, so I hope Miss Julia will be very happy."
"It's not a fixed thing yet, Ma'am. We only talk about it among friends. But I have little doubt that it will be so. He gets extremely picky in his attentions."
Esther couldn't keep listening. The listening and amazement was interrupted for a while, because Mr. Schmidt was back in the room; and although she thought it would be a great honor to be asked by him to do so, she thought it had to happen. He approached her small circle; but instead of asking her to dance, he moved a chair near her and told her about the current condition of a sick horse and the opinion of the horse servant from whom he had just separated. Esther felt that it should not be, and immediately felt in her modesty that she had expected it unreasonably. When he talked about his horse, he took a newspaper off the table, looked over it and said lazily, "If you want to dance, Esther, I'll get up with you." With more than equal courtesy, the offer was rejected; she didn't want to dance. "I'm happy about that," he said, in a much more exploratory tone and threw the newspaper down again, "because I'm dead tired. I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." and throw away the newspaper again, "because I am dead tired. I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." and throw away the newspaper again, "because I am dead tired. I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." "Because I'm dead tired. I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." "Because I'm dead tired. I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." I just wonder how the good people can hold out for so long. They all had to be in love to enjoy themselves in such stupidity; and that's how they are, I think. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." I like. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." I like. If you look at them, you might see that they are so many lovers – all except Yates and Mrs. Grant – and among us said she, the poor woman, must want a lover as much as any of them. She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs." She must lead a desperate boring life with the doctor," he made a mischievous face when he spoke to the chair of the latter, which turned out to be close to his elbow, making an instant change of expression and subject necessary when Esther had to laugh despite everything. "A strange affair in America, Dr. Grant! What is your opinion? I always come to you to find out what I have to think of public affairs."
"My dear Tom," his aunt shouted soon after, "since you don't dance, I dare say that you won't mind accompanying us in a rubber; shall thou shalt?" Then she left her seat and came to him to push through the proposal, whispering, "We want to make a table for Mrs. Rushmore, you know. Her mother is very worried about this, but can hardly take time to sit down because of her pony. Now you and I and Dr. Grant will just suffice; and even though we only play for half crowns, you can bet with him for half a guinea."
"I would be very happy," he replied loudly and jumped up eagerly, "it would give me the greatest joy; but that I will dance at this moment." Come, Esther, take her hand, "do not dawdle any longer, otherwise the dance will be over."
Esther was very willing to go on, although it was impossible for her to feel much gratitude to her cousin or, as he certainly did, to distinguish between another person's selfishness and his own.
"A rather modest request, at my word," he exclaimed indignantly as they walked away. "To want to nail me to a card table for the next two hours, with herself and Dr. Grant, who are always arguing, and this annoying old woman who understands no more about Whist than about algebra. I wish my good aunt was a little less busy! And to ask me that too! without further ado, in front of all, to leave me no way to refuse. That's what I don't like the most. It excites me more than anything else to seem to be asked, to have a choice and at the same time to be addressed in such a way that you are forced to do exactly whatever it may be! If I hadn't fortunately thought of getting up with you, I wouldn't have come out. It is far too bad. But if my aunt has a desire in her head, nothing can stop her."
Chapter 63
There could hardly be a happier creature in the world than Mrs. John Hill on this brief visit to Hartfield, where she walked around with her five children among her old acquaintances every morning and talked to her father and sister every night about what she had done. She had nothing else to wish for than that the days did not pass so quickly. It was a delightful visit; perfect as it was far too short.
In general, their evenings were less busy with friends than their mornings; but a complete dinner appointment, and also outside the house, was unavoidable, but at Christmas. Mr. Winstone would not deny it; one day they all have to dine at Randall's; - even Mr. Lodge was persuaded to consider it a possible thing instead of preferring a division of the party.
As they should all be conveyed, he would have made an effort if he had been able to, but since his son and daughter's carriage and horses were actually in Hartfield, he could not ask more than a simple question on the subject; there was little doubt; Emma didn't spend much time convincing him that they could also find room for Harriet in one of the carriages.
Harriet, Mr. Alton and Mr. Hill, their own special group, were the only people invited to meet them; - the hours should be early, as well as the number small; The habits and inclination of Mr. Lodge, who are consulted on every matter.
The evening before this big event (because it was a very big event that Mr. Lodge was to have dinner on December 24th) Harriet had spent in Hartfield, and she had gone home so unwell with a cold that without her own serious desire to be cared for by Mrs. Goddard, Emma could not have allowed her to to leave the house. Emma visited her the next day and found her fate already signed in relation to Randalls. She had a very high fever and had a severe sore throat: Mrs. Goddard was full of care and affection, Mr. Perry was on everyone's lips, and Harriet herself was too sick and depressed to resist the authority that excluded her from this delightful engagement and could not speak without many tears about her loss.
Emma sat with her for as long as she could to assist her with Mrs. Goddard's inevitable absences and lift her spirits by explaining how much Alton-san would be depressed if he knew her condition; and finally left them bearably comfortable, in the sweet dependence on his, having a most desolate visit, and on the fact that they all miss her very much. She was not yet many meters away from Mrs. Goddard's door when she was hit by Mr. Alton himself, who was obviously approaching it, and as they slowly continued together in conversation about the sick man, of whom he allegedly had a considerable illness, he had wanted to inquire whether he could bring a report about her to Hartfield – they were caught up by Mr. John Hill, who returned with his two oldest boys from the daily visit to Donwell, whose healthy, beaming faces betrayed all the benefits of a national run, and seemed to ensure a quick handling of the mutton roast and rice pudding for which they rushed home. They joined the society and moved on together. Emma only described the nature of her friend's complaints: "A very severely inflamed throat, with a lot of heat around her, a fast, low pulse, &c. and she regretted having learned from Mrs. Goddard that Harriet was prone to very bad sore throats and had often worried her with it." Mr. Alton looked very disturbed on this occasion when he exclaimed: Goddard that Harriet was prone to very bad sore throats and had often worried her with it." Mr. Alton looked very disturbed on this occasion when he exclaimed: Goddard that Harriet was prone to very bad sore throats and had often worried her with it." Mr. Alton looked very disturbed on this occasion when he exclaimed,
"Sore throat! – I hope not contagious. I hope not of a lazy contagious variety. Did Perry see them? In fact, you should take care of both yourself and your friend. Let me ask you not to take any risks. Why doesn't Perry see her?"
Emma?? who herself was not frightened at all, calmed this excess of concern through assurances of Mrs. Goddard's experience and care; But since there was still a certain discomfort that she didn't want to talk away, that she would rather feed and support than not do, she soon added – as if it were a completely different topic:
"It's so cold, so very cold – and looks and feels so much like snow, that I should really try not to go out today if it went to another place or with a different party – and to dissuade my father from taking risks; but since he has decided and even doesn't seem to feel the cold, I don't want to get involved as I know it would be such a big disappointment for Mr. and Mrs. Winstone. But on my word, Mr. Alton, in your case, of course, I should apologize. You seem a little hoarse to me, and when you consider what the voice and the hardships will bring tomorrow, I think it's the usual wisdom to stay home tonight and take care of you."
Mr. Alton looked like he didn't know exactly what to answer; what exactly was the case; for although he was very pleased with the kind care of such a beautiful lady and did not want to resist any advice from her, he did not really have the slightest inclination to give up the visit – but Emma, ?? Too eager and preoccupied in their own past ideas and views to hear him impartially or to see him with a clear vision, was very pleased with his murmuring confirmation that it was "very cold, certainly very cold," and went on, glad to have pulled him out of Randall's and secured the authority to inquire about Harriet at any hour of the evening.
"You're quite right," she said, "we'll apologize to Mr. and Mrs. Winstone."
But no sooner had she spoken when she found that her brother politely offered a seat in his carriage when the weather was Mr. Alton's only objection, and Mr. Alton actually accepted the offer with much prompt satisfaction. It was a completed matter; Mr. Alton was to go, and never had his wide, pretty face expressed more joy than at that moment; His smile had never been stronger and his eyes more radiant than the next time he looked at them.
"Well," she said to herself, "this is most strange! – After getting rid of him so well, I decided to go into company and leave Harriet sick! – Really very strange! – But there is, I believe, in many men, especially single men, such an inclination – such a passion for eating out – a dinner date so high in the class of their pleasures, their occupation, their dignity, almost their duties that she gives in to everything – and that must be the case with Mr. Alton; undoubtedly an extremely valuable, amiable, pleasant young man who is very much in love with Harriet; Nevertheless, he can not refuse an invitation, he must go out to eat wherever he is asked. What a strange thing is love! he sees harriet as quick-witted, but he won't dine for her alone."
Soon after, Mr. Alton calmed her down, and she couldn't help but make him feel like there was a lot of feeling in his way of calling Harriet goodbye; in the tone of his voice as he assured her that he should stop by Mrs. Goddard's to hear news about her beautiful friend, the last thing before he prepared for the happiness of seeing her again if he hoped to give a better account; and he sighed and smiled at himself in a way that left the balance of approval very much in his favor.
After a few minutes of absolute silence between them, John Hill began –
"I have never seen a man in my life who was as anxious to be pleasant as Mr. Alton. It's real work for him when it comes to ladies. In men, he can be rational and unartificial, but when he's dealing with ladies, everything works."
"Sir. Alton's manners are not perfect," Emma replied; "but where you want to please, you should overlook, and you overlook a lot. Where a man with only moderate powers gives his best, he will have an advantage over negligent superiority. Mr. Alton is in such a perfect good mood and good will as one can only appreciate."
"Yes," Mr. John Hill finally said with some cunning, "he seems to be very benevolent to you."
"Me!" she replied with a smile of amazement, "Imagine I was Mr. Alton's object?"
"Such an idea has gone through my head, I admit, Emma; and if it's never occurred to you, you might as well consider it now."
"Sir. Alton is in love with me! – What an idea!"
"I'm not saying it's like that; but you will do well to consider whether it is so or not and regulate your behavior accordingly. I find your manners towards him encouraging. I speak as a friend, Emma. You'd better look around and make sure what you're doing and what you intend to do."
"Thank you; but I assure you that you are very wrong. Mr. Alton and I are very good friends, nothing more." and she went on to amuse herself about the mistakes that often arise from a partial knowledge of the circumstances, about the mistakes that people with high standards of judgment fall into again and again; and not very satisfied with her brother, because he imagined that she was blind and ignorant and in need of advice. That's all he said.
Mr. Lodge had committed himself so firmly to the visit that, despite the increasing cold, he didn't seem to think of shying away from him, and eventually set off on time with his eldest daughter in his own car with less obvious awareness of the weather than any of the others; too full of the wonder of his own walking and the pleasure it would bring in Randalls to see it was cold, and too well wrapped up to feel it. However, the cold was severe; and when the second chariot was in motion, a few snowflakes found their way down, and the sky seemed so cluttered that it only needed a milder air to create a very white world in a very short time.
Emma soon realized that her companion was not in the best of moods. The preparation and the trip abroad with such ?? Weather with the sacrifice of his children after eating were evils, at least unpleasant, which Mr. John Hill did not like at all; he did not expect anything during the visit that could be worth the purchase at all; and he spent the whole trip to the rectory expressing his dissatisfaction.
"A man," he said, "must have a very good opinion of himself when he asks people to leave their own fire pit and face such a day to see him. He must consider himself a very pleasant companion; I couldn't do such a thing. It is the greatest absurdity - at this moment it is actually snowing! - The folly of not allowing people to feel comfortable at home - and the folly of not letting people stay at home comfortably when they can! If we had to go out on such an evening for reasons of duty or business, what a hardship we would find it; – and here we are, probably with slightly thinner clothes than usual, voluntarily, without apology, advancing, despite the voice of nature, which tells man in everything that is given to his view or feelings, that he himself should stay at home and keep everything under protection that he can; – here we set out to spend five boring hours in another man's house without saying or hearing anything that was not said and heard yesterday and perhaps will not be said and heard again tomorrow. Go there in gloomy weather, probably come back in worse weather; – four horses and four servants taken out for nothing but to bring five idle, trembling creatures into colder rooms and worse company than they could have had at home."
Emma was unable to give the satisfied approval he undoubtedly used to receive to emulate the "very true, my love" that must normally have been administered by his travel companion; but she was determined enough not to give an answer at all. She could not submit, she was afraid of being quarrelsome; their heroism only extended to silence. She let him talk, adjusted the glasses and wrapped herself without opening her lips.
They arrived, the carriage turned, the step was lowered, and Mr. Alton, radiant, black and smiling, was immediately with them. Emma thought with pleasure of a change of theme. Mr Alton was all commitment and cheerfulness; He was actually so cheerful in his politeness that she began to believe that he must have received a different account of Harriet than what she had achieved. She had sent while getting dressed, and the answer had been, "Pretty much the same – no better."
"My account of Mrs. Goddard," she finally said, "was not as pleasant as I had hoped – 'no better' was my answer."
His face immediately became longer; and his voice was the voice of feelings when he answered.
"Oh! no – I'm sorry to find out – I just wanted to tell you that when I called Mrs. Goddard, which I did the very last thing before I got dressed again, I was told that Miss Smith was no better, better, rather worse. Very saddened and worried – I had convinced myself that she had to be better off after she had been given such a liqueur in the morning, as I knew."
Emma smiled and replied, "My visit was useful for the nervous part of her complaint, I hope; but not even I can conjure up a sore throat; it is really a severe cold. Mr. Perry was with her, as you've probably heard."
"Yes – I imagined – that is, I didn't –
"He got used to these complaints, and I hope tomorrow morning will bring us both a more pleasant testimony. But it is impossible not to feel discomfort. Such a sad loss for our party today!"
"Terrible! – Just like that, indeed. – She will be missed at any moment."
That was very appropriate; the sigh that accompanied him was truly assessable; but it should have taken longer. Emma was quite dismayed when, just half a minute later, he began to talk about other things, with a voice of the greatest zeal and pleasure.
"What an excellent remedy," he said, "the use of a sheepskin for carriages. How comfortable they make themselves; – impossible to freeze with such precautions. The inventions of modern times have indeed made a gentleman's carriage perfect. You are fenced and protected from the weather in such a way that no breeze can penetrate without permission. The weather becomes absolutely inconsequential. It's a very cold afternoon – but in this car we don't know anything about it. – Ha! snows a little, I see."
"Yes," said John Hill, "and I think we're going to have a lot of it."
"Christmas weather," Mr. Alton remarked. "Pretty seasonal; and extremely happy we can imagine that it didn't start yesterday, and prevent today's party, which it could very likely have done, because Mr. Lodge would hardly have dared if there had been a lot of snow on the ground; but now it is irrelevant. This is indeed the right time of year for friendly meetings. At Christmas, everyone invites their friends to join them, and people don't even think about the worst weather. I was once snowed in at a friend's house for a week. Nothing could be more pleasant. I only went for one night and couldn't get away in seven nights until that day."
Mr. John Hill looked like he didn't understand the pleasure, but just said coolly,
"I can't wish to be snowed in Randalls for a week."
Another time Emma might have been amused, but she was now too amazed by Mr. Alton's mood to have had other feelings. Harriet seemed to be completely forgotten in anticipation of a pleasant party.
"We are sure of excellent fire," he continued, "and all in the greatest comfort. Charming people, Mr. and Mrs. Winstone; Mrs. Winstone is indeed much to praise, and he is exactly what is appreciated, so hospitable and so society-loving; – it will be a small party, but where small parties are chosen, they are perhaps the most pleasant of all. Mr. Winstone's dining room seats no more than ten comfortably; and I, for my part, would rather fall below two in such circumstances than exceed two. I think you will agree with me (with a soft face turning to Emma) I think I will certainly have your approval, although Mr. Hill may not be able to fully respond to our feelings since he is used to the big parties of London."
"I don't know about the big parties in London, sir – I never eat with anyone."
"Indeed! (in a tone of wonder and pity) I had no idea that the law had been such a great slavery. Well, sir, the time must come when you will be paid for all this, where you will have little work and a lot of joy."
"My first joy," John Hill replied, as they walked through the gate, "will be to find me safe again in Hartfield."
Chapter 64
Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross to learn that moving from one group of people to another, although only three miles away, often entails a complete change in conversations, opinions and ideas. She had never been there without being impressed or wishing that other high towers could have their advantage in seeing how unknown or unconsidered there were the matters that were treated at Kellynch Hall as having been treated as of such general publicity and pervasive interest; nevertheless, with all this experience, she believed that she now had to submit to the feeling that another lesson in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle had become necessary for her; for certainly, since she came, with a heart full of the subject that had occupied both houses in Kellynch for many weeks, she had expected a little more curiosity and sympathy than she found in the separate but very similar remark of Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland: "Well, Miss Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and in which ?? Part of Bath, in your opinion, they will settle down?" and this without waiting long for an answer; or in the addition of the young ladies: "I hope we will be in Bath in winter; but remember, Dad, when we leave, we must be in a good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!" or in Mary's anxious addition, from-- "By my word, I'll be pretty wealthy from it if you've all left to be happy in Bath!" and in which?? Part of Bath, do you think they will settle down?" without waiting long for an answer; or in the addition of the young ladies: "I hope we will be in Bath in winter; but remember, Dad, when we leave, we have to be in a good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us! if you all left to be happy in Bath!" and in which ?? Part of Bath, do you think they will settle down?" without waiting long for an answer; or in the addition of the young ladies: "I hope we will be in Bath in winter; but remember, Dad, when we leave, we have to be in a good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us! if you all left to be happy in Bath!"
She could only decide to avoid such self-deception in the future, and think with increased gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having such a truly compassionate friend as Lady Russell.
The Mr. Cumberlands had their own game to guard and destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to keep them busy, and the females were busy with all the other common subjects such as housekeeping, neighbors, clothing, dancing, and music. She recognized it as very fitting that each small social community should dictate its own discourse topics; and hoped to soon become a not unworthy member of those into whom she was now transplanted. Given the prospect of spending at least two months in Uppercross, it was very important to her to dress her imagination, memory and all her ideas in as much Uppercross as possible.
She was not afraid of those two months. Mary was not as repulsive and unwizard as Elizabeth, no matter how inaccessible to all influence from her; Also among the other components of the cottage there was nothing that would be detrimental to comfort. She was always friendly with her brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her almost as much and respected her much more than her mother, she had an object of interest, entertainment and soothing effort.
Charles Cumberland was polite and pleasant; he was undoubtedly superior to his wife in intellect and temperament, but not in powers, conversations or grace to make the past, since they were interconnected, a dangerous contemplation at all; although Anne could believe at the same time as Lady Russell that a more equal game would have greatly improved him; and that a truly understanding woman would have given more meaning to his character and more usefulness, reason and elegance to his habits and aspirations. So he did with great zeal nothing but sport; and his time was otherwise wasted, with no use of books or anything else. He had a very good mood that never seemed to be very touched by his wife's occasional lowliness, her irrationality sometimes bore to Anne's admiration, and on the whole Although there was very often a small disagreement (in which she sometimes had more part than she wanted, and was addressed by both sides), they could pass as a happy couple. For lack of more money and a strong preference for a nice gift from his father, they were always in complete agreement; but here, as with most subjects, he had the superiority, because although Mary found it very unfortunate that such a gift was not given, he always fought for his father to have many other uses for his money and the right to spend it he liked.
As for dealing with their children, his theory was much better than his wife's and his practice was not so bad. "I could master it very well if Mary didn't intervene," Anne often heard him say and had quite a lot of confidence in it; but when she heard Mary's accusation: "Karl spoils the children so that I can't put them in any order," she never had the slightest temptation to say, "Very true."
One of the most unpleasant circumstances of her stay there was that she was treated with too much trust by all parties and was too much in the secret of each house's complaints. Since she was known to have had some influence on her sister, she was constantly asked or at least given hints to do so beyond what was feasible. "I wish you could convince Mary not to always imagine herself sick," was the language of Charles; and in an unhappy mood, Mary said, "I think if Charles saw me die, he wouldn't think there was something wrong with me. I'm sure Anne, if you wanted to, you could convince him that I'm really very sick – much worse than I've ever owned."
Mary's explanation was, "I hate sending the kids to the Big House, even though her grandmother always wants to see them, because she spoils and pampers them so much and gives them so much trash and sweet stuff that they're sure to come back sick and upset for the rest of the day." And Mrs. Cumberland took the first opportunity to be alone with Anne to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I can't help but wish Mrs. Charles had a little of your method with these children. With you they are completely different creatures! But sure, in general they are so spoiled! Too bad you can't stand in your sister's way of leading her. They are such beautiful, healthy children as they have ever been seen, poor little loves!, without bias, but Mrs. Charles no longer knows how to be treated – thank God, how annoying they are sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it keeps me from seeing her with us as often as I should. I don't think Mrs. Charles is entirely pleased that I don't invite her more often; but you know it's very bad to have children with one that you have to control at any moment; "don't do this" and "don't do that"; or that you can only stay in bearable order by more cake than good for them."
She also had this message from Mary. "Mrs. Cumberland considers all her servants so reliable that it would be high treason to question this; but I'm sure without exaggeration that their top maid and laundry girl, instead of being in their shop, fool around the village all day. I meet them everywhere I go, and I explain I never go to my nursery twice without seeing anything of them. If Jemima were not the most trustworthy, enduring creature in the world, it would be enough to pamper her; for she tells me they always seduce them to go for a walk with them." And on Mrs. Cumberland's side it said: "I make it my rule never to interfere in my daughter-in-law's affairs, because I know that is not possible; but I will tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to fix things that I don't have a very good opinion of Mrs. Charles' nanny: I hear strange stories from her; she is always on guard; and to my knowledge I can say that she is such a well-dressed lady that she is enough to ruin all the servants she gets too close to. Mrs. Charles swears by her, I know; but I give you only this hint, that thou may be on guard; because if you see something unusual, you don't have to be afraid to mention it."
Again, it was Mary's complaint that Mrs. Cumberland was very inclined not to give her the priority she deserved when dining with other families in the Great House; and she saw no reason why she should be considered so much at home to lose her place. And one day, when Anne was just walking with the Cumberlands, one of them, after speaking of rank, people of rank and rank, said, "I have no scruples about noticing to you how nonsensical some people are about their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are with it; but I wish someone could give Mary a hint that it would be much better if she wasn't so persistent, especially if she didn't always force herself to take the place of mom, no one doubts her right to take precedence over mom, but she would be better off not always insisting on it. It's not that mom cares the least, but I know it's noticed by a lot of people."
How was Anne supposed to fix all these things? She could do little more than listen patiently, soften every complaint, and apologize to each other; give them all the hints of forbearance necessary between such close neighbors, and make the broadest those hints that were intended for the benefit of their sister.
Incidentally, their visit began and went very well. Her own mood improved through changes of location and theme by being three miles from Kellynch; Mary's complaints subsided when they had a constant companion, and her daily dealings with the other family, which could be interrupted by this, were more of an advantage as there was no superior affection, trust, or employment in the cottage. It was certainly carried almost as far as possible, for they met every morning and hardly ever spent an evening apart; but she believed they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland's respectable forms in the usual places or without the talking, laughing and singing of their daughters.
She played much better than the two Miss Cumberlands, but since she had no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no loving parents to sit next to and rejoice, her performance received little attention, just out of courtesy, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. She knew that she only enjoyed herself while playing; but this was not a new sensation. With the exception of a short period of her life, she had experienced happiness, heard or been encouraged by a fair appreciation or genuine taste since the loss of her dear mother, since the age of fourteen. In music, she was used to feeling alone in the world; and the loving fondness of Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland for the performance of their own daughters and their complete indifference to the performance of any other person gave her much more joy for their sake,
the party in the Great House was sometimes topped up by other company. The neighborhood wasn't big, but the Cumberlands were visited by everyone and had more dinner parties and more visitors, more invited visitors, and randomly than any other family. They were more popular.
The girls were eager to dance; and the evenings occasionally ended in an unintentional little ball. Just a walk from Uppercross lived a family of cousins?? in less affluent circumstances who depended on the Cumberlands for all their pleasures: they came at any time and helped with everything where they played or danced everywhere; and Anne, who preferred the office of musician to a more active post, played them country dances for hours; a kindness that always took note of Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland's musical abilities more than anything else and often led to this compliment: "Well done, Miss Anne! Really very well done! God bless me! your flying around!"
So the first three weeks passed. Michaeli came; and now Anne's heart must be back in Kellynch. A beloved home left to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves and views that begin to have different eyes and other limbs! She couldn't think of much else on September 29; and she had this compassionate touch from Mary in the evening, who, when she had the opportunity to write down the day of the month, exclaimed, "My goodness, isn't this the day the Fields were to come to Kellynch? I'm glad I did not think about it beforehand. How deep does that make me!"
The Field's took possession with true naval alertness and were to be visited. Mary regretted the need for herself. "No one knew how much she was going to suffer. But it wasn't easy until she persuaded Charles to drive her over an early day, and was in a very lively, pleasant state of imaginary excitement when she returned. Anne had been genuinely happy that she couldn't walk. However, she wished to see the fields and was glad to be inside when the visit was reciprocated. They came: the landlord was not at home, but the two sisters were together; and when it happened that Mrs. Field fell on Anne's share while the admiral sat next to Mary and made himself very pleasant by his good-humored message of her little boys,
Mrs. Field, although neither tall nor fat, had an angular, straight and powerful shape that gave meaning to her person. She had shiny dark eyes, good teeth and overall a pleasant face; although her reddened and weather-tanned face color, which was due to her being at sea almost as much as her husband, made her look like she had lived in the world a few years longer than her real thirty-eight. Their manners were open, easy-going and determined, like one who has no mistrust of herself and no doubts about what to do; however, without any approach to rudeness and without any lack of good humor. In fact, Anne admitted to her that she was very considerate of herself in everything Kellynch was concerned, and she rejoiced: especially since in the very first half minute, even at the moment of the performance, she had convinced herself that there was not the slightest symptom of any knowledge or suspicion on Mrs. Field's side, to highlight any bias. She was very gentle to that head and therefore full of strength and courage until she was electrified for a moment by Mrs. Field's sudden saying: "
I think it was you and not your sister that my brother had met when he was in this country."
Anne hoped that she had survived the age of blushing; but she certainly didn't have the age of emotions.
"Maybe you haven't heard he's married?" Added Mrs. Field.
She could now answer as she should; and rejoiced to feel when Mrs. Field's next words explained that it was Mr. Cambridge that she was talking about, that she had not said anything that could not be done for one of the two brothers. She immediately felt how reasonable it was for Mrs. Field to think and speak of Edward and not Frederick; and with shame at her own forgetfulness, she devoted herself with reasonable interest to knowing the present condition of her former neighbor.
The rest was quiet; until, just as they were leaving, she heard
the admiral say to Mary,
"We are expecting a brother of Mrs. Field here soon; I dare say that you know him by name."
He was interrupted by the zealous attacks of the little boys, who clung to him like an old friend and declared that he should not leave; and since she was too busy with suggestions to carry them away in his coat pockets, etc., to have a moment to finish or remember what he had started, Anne had to convince herself, as best she could, that the same brother had to do it or be eligible. However, she could not be so sure that she would not be anxious to hear if anything had been said on the subject in the other house where the Fields had previously called.
The people of the Great House should spend the evening of that day in the cottage; and since it was now too late in the year to make such visits on foot, one began to listen to the carriage, when the youngest Miss Cumberland came in evening for herself, was the first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be offended when Lois got it right, saying that she only came on foot to leave more room for the harp that brought the cart in.
And when she looked through his letters and things, she realized that it was, and is completely sure that this must be exactly the man, and her head is completely full of it and of poor Richard! So we have to be as cheerful as possible so that she doesn't dwell on such dark things."
The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were that the Cumberlands had had the misfortune of a very annoying, hopeless son; and the happiness of losing him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and uncontrollable on land; that he had been cared for very little by his family at all times, even though he had earned so much; rarely heard and hardly regretted when the news of his death abroad two years ago had reached Uppercross.
Although his sisters now did everything for him by calling him "poor Richard," he had actually been nothing better than a stubborn, callous, unprofitable Dick Cumberland who had never done anything he was entitled to more than the abbreviation of his name, alive or dead.
He had been at sea for several years and had spent six months aboard Captain Frederick Cambridge's frigate, the Laconia, in the course of those moves to which all sea cadets are obliged, and especially those sea cadets that every captain wants to get rid of; and from the Laconia, under the influence of his captain, he had written the only two letters that his father and mother had ever received from him during his entire absence; that is, the only two disinterested letters; everything else had been mere requests for money.
In every letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet they were so unaccustomed to taking care of such things, so inattentive and indifferent to the names of men or ships that it had hardly made an impression at the time; and that Mrs. Cumberland should have suddenly been struck that day by a memory of the name Cambridge in connection with her son seemed to be one of those extraordinary flashes of inspiration that sometimes occurs.
She had gone to her letters and had found everything as she suspected; and the re-reading of these letters after such a long time, after their poor son had gone forever and forgotten all the strength of his mistakes, had greatly touched her mood and plunged her into greater grief for him than she had ever known the first news of his death. Mr Cumberland was also affected to a lesser extent; and when they reached the cottage, they apparently lacked first a new hearing on the subject and then all the relief that cheerful companions could give them.
To hear how they talked so much about Captain Cambridge, repeated his name so many times, puzzled over the past few years and finally realized that it turned out, probably even, to be the same Captain Cambridge they had met once or twice after their return from Clifton – a very fine young man – but they could not say, whether it was seven or eight years ago was a new kind of test for Anne's nerves. However, she found it to be one she had to get used to. Since he was actually expected in the country, she has to teach herself to be insensitive on such points. And it seemed not only that he was expected, and quickly, but the Cumberlands, in their heartfelt gratitude for the kindness he had shown to poor Dick, and their very high respect for his character, which was shaped by poor Dick.
The decision to do so helped shape the comfort of her evening.
Chapter 65
Your planned trip to Whitwell turned out very differently than Eleanore had expected. She was prepared to be soaked, tired and frightened; but the event was even more unfortunate, because they did not leave at all.
At ten o'clock the whole society was gathered in the park where they were to have breakfast. The morning was quite favorable, although it had rained all night as the clouds then scattered across the sky and the sun appeared frequently. They were all in the best mood and in a good mood, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be different.
While they were sitting at breakfast, the letters were brought in. Among other things, one was for Colonel Bridgerton – he took it, looked in the direction, changed color and immediately left the room.
"What's wrong with Bridgerton?" said Mr. John.
No one could tell.
"I hope he doesn't have bad news," Lady Mideltown said. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Bridgerton leave my breakfast table so suddenly."
After about five minutes, he returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I hope," Ms. Jennings said as soon as he entered the room.
"None at all, Ma'am, thank you."
"Was it from Avignon? I hope it's not to say that your sister is worse off."
"No, Ma'am. It came from the city and is just a business letter."
"But how did the hand upset you so much when it was just a business letter? Come, come, that is not possible, Colonel;
"My dear Madam," said Lady Mideltown, "remember what you say."
"Maybe to tell you that your cousin Esther is married?" said Ms. Jennings, without caring about her daughter's reprimand.
"No, it really isn't."
"Well, then I know who it's from, Colonel. And I hope she's doing well."
"Who do you mean, Ma'am?" he said, dying a little.
"Oh! They know who I mean."
"I am especially sorry, Ma'am," he said, addressing Lady Mideltown, "that I should receive this letter today as it is business and requires my immediate presence in town."
"In the city!" shouted Mrs. Jennings. "What can you do in the city at this time of year?"
"My own loss is great," he continued, "because I am forced to leave such a pleasant company; but I am all the more concerned because I fear that my presence is necessary to gain your entry into Whitwell."
What a blow it was for all of them!
"But if you write a message to the housekeeper, Mr. Bridgerton," Marianne said eagerly, "won't that be enough?"
He shook his head.
"We have to go," said Sir John. "It must not be postponed when we are so close. You can't go to town until tomorrow, Bridgerton, that's all."
"I wish it could be done so easily. But it's not in my power to delay my trip by a day!"
"If only you told us what you have to do," Mrs. Jennings said, "we can see if it can be postponed or not."
"You wouldn't be six hours later," Warwick said, "if you were to postpone your trip until we return."
"I can't afford to lose ONE hour." —
Eleanore then heard Warwick say to Marianne in a low voice, "There are some people who can't stand a party of pleasure. Bridgerton is one of them. He was afraid to catch a cold, dare I say, and invented this trick to get out I would put down fifty guineas that the letter was written by him."
"I have no doubt about that," Marianne replied.
"There is no reason to persuade you to change your mind, Bridgerton, I know from time immemorial," Sir John said, "once you are determined to do something. But I hope you'll change your mind two Miss Careys come from Newton, the three Miss Hargroves have come up from the cottage, and Mr. Warwick got up two hours before his usual time to deliberately drive to Whitwell.
Colonel Bridgerton reiterated his regret for disappointing the party; but at the same time declared inevitable.
"Well, when are you coming back?"
"I hope we will see you in Barton," your ladyship added, "as soon as you can leave the city comfortably; and we have to move the party to Whitwell until you come back."
"They are very accommodating. But it is so uncertain when I will have it in my power to return that I do not dare to advocate for it at all."
"Oh! he must and should come back," cried Sir John. "If he's not here by the end of the week, I'll follow him up."
"Ay, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and maybe you'll find out what he has to do."
"I don't want to get involved in other men's worries. I suppose he's ashamed of it."
Colonel Bridgerton's horses were announced.
"You don't go to town on horseback, do you?" Sir John added.
"No. Only to Honiton. I'll go to the post office."
"Now that you are determined to leave, I wish you a good trip. But you should change your mind."
"I assure you that it is not in my power."
Then he said goodbye to the whole of society.
"Isn't there a chance I'll see you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Hargrove?"
"I'm afraid none at all."
"Then I'll have to say goodbye to you longer than I want."
He just bowed to Marianne and said nothing.
"Come, Colonel," Mrs. Jennings said, "before you leave, let us know what you're up to."
He wished her a good morning and, accompanied by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations that had previously held back politeness are now generally breaking out; and everyone kept agreeing on how provocative it was to be so disappointed.
"But I can imagine what's on his mind," Mrs. Jennings said excitedly.
"Can you, Ma'am?" said almost every body.
"Yes, it's about Miss Williams, I'm sure."
"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.
"What! Don't you know who Miss Williams is? I'm sure you've heard of her before. She is a relative of the colonel, my dear, a very close relative of the young ladies." Then, in a quieter voice, she said to Eleanore, "She is his biological daughter."
"Indeed!"
"Oh, yes; and much like she can stare at him. I dare say that the Colonel will leave her entire fortune."
When Sir John returned, he most warmly joined the general regret of such an unfortunate event; concluding, however, by observing that since they were all together, they had to do something to be happy; and after some deliberation, it was agreed that while happiness could only be enjoyed in Whitwell, one could gain a tolerable serenity by driving through the country. Then the wagons were ordered; Warwick's was the first, and Marianne never looked happier when she walked in. He drove very quickly through the park, and soon they were out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen until their return, which happened only after the return of all the others. They both seemed thrilled with their ride; but only said in general that they stayed in the alleys while the others walked on the hills.
It was agreed that there should be a dance in the evening and that everyone should be very cheerful throughout the day. A few more Careys came for dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down at the table of almost twenty, which Sir John watched with great satisfaction. Warwick took his usual place between the two older Miss Hargrove. Mrs. Jennings sat to the right of Eleanore; and they hadn't sat for long when she leaned behind her and Warwick and said to Marianne, loud enough that they could both hear it, "I found out you despite all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning. Marianne
blushed and replied very hastily, "Where, please?" –
"Didn't you know," Warwick said, "that we had been in my curriculum?"
"Yes, yes, Mr. Frechheit, I know that very well, and I really wanted to find out WHERE you have been. – I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It's a very big one, I know, and when I come to visit you, hopefully you'll have it redecorated because it wanted it a lot when I was there six years ago."
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Eleanore noted that in her determination to know where they had been, she had actually caused her own wife to inquire with Mr. Warwick's groom; and that she had been informed in this way that they had gone to Allenham and spent a considerable amount of time walking around the garden and walking around the house.
Eleanore could hardly believe this, as it seemed very unlikely that Warwick or Marianne would suggest entering the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne did not have the slightest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining room, Eleanore asked her about it; and her surprise was great when she found that every circumstance told by Mrs. Jennings was completely true. Marianne was quite angry with her because she doubted it.
"Why should you imagine, Eleanore, that we didn't go there or that we didn't see the house? Isn't that what you've often wished for?"
"Yes, Marianne, but I wouldn't leave as long as Mrs. Smith is there, and with no companion other than Mr. Warwick."
"However, Mr. Warwick is the only person who can have the right to show this house; and since he was riding in an open carriage, it was impossible to have another companion. I've never had a more pleasant morning in my life."
"I'm afraid," Eleanore replied, "that the pleasantness of an occupation doesn't always prove its decency."
"On the contrary, nothing can be stronger proof of this, Eleanore; because if I had really acted improperly, I should have been aware of it at the time, because we always know when we act wrongly, and with such conviction I could not have had pleasure.
"But, my dear Marianne, since it has already exposed you to some very outrageous remarks, are you not now beginning to doubt the discretion of your own behavior?"
"If Mrs. Jennings' outrageous remarks are to be evidence of inappropriate behavior, we all insult every moment of our lives. I don't appreciate her criticism any more than I should praise her. I'm not reasonable to have done anything wrong with walking across Mrs. Smith's property or touring her house. They will one day belong to Mr. Warwick, and ..."
"If one day they were yours, Marianne, you would have no justification for what you have done."
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly satisfying for them; and after ten minutes of serious reflection, she came back to her sister and said in a very good mood, "Maybe, Eleanore, it WAS quite ill-considered of me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Warwick wanted it very special It is a lovely house, I assure you.— Upstairs there is a remarkably pretty living room, of pleasant size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful room and has windows on two sides: on one side you look over the bocce court behind the house to a beautiful hanging forest, on the other on the church and the village and behind it on these beautiful bold hills that we have admired so many times, I did not see it to the advantage,
had Eleanore been able to listen to her without interruption by the others, she would have described every room of the house with equal joy.
Chapter 66
Mr Collins was not a reasonable man, and the lack of nature had been little supported by education or society; he spent most of his life under the guidance of an uneducated and miserly father; and although he belonged to one of the universities, he had only met the necessary deadlines without making any useful acquaintance. The subservience in which his father had raised him had originally given him a great humility; but this has now been counteracted much by the overconfidence of a weak head who lived in seclusion, and the resulting feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A happy coincidence had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when Hunsford's apartment was vacant; and the respect he felt for her high rank, and his reverence for her as his patroness,
Since he now had a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and when he sought reconciliation with the Longbourn family, he had a woman in mind, as he intended to choose one of the daughters when he found her as handsome and gracious as they were represented by general accounts. This was his plan of reparation – atonement – for the inheritance of her father's estate; and he considered it an excellent, full of electability and suitability, and in turn excessively generous and altruistic.
His plan did not change when he saw her. The beautiful face of Miss Mitchell confirmed his views, and established all his strictest ideas of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening, SHE was his firm choice. The next morning, however, made a change; for in a quarter of an hour of Tete-a-Tete with Mrs. Mitchell before breakfast, a conversation arose that began with his rectory and of course led to the confession of his hopes that in Longbourn a lover could be found by her, in the midst of a very pleasing smile and general encouragement, a warning against the very Jane he had committed himself to. "As for her YOUNGER DAUGHTERS, she couldn't take it upon herself to say — she couldn't answer positively — but she DIDN't KNOW anything about bias; her ELDEST daughter, she only has to mention – she felt obliged to suggest that
Mr. Collins only had to switch from Jane to Elizabeth – and it was soon done – finished while Mrs. Mitchell stokeed the fire. Elizabeth, of birth and beauty right next to Jane, followed her of course.
Mrs. Mitchell appreciated the hint and trusted that she could soon marry two daughters; and the man she couldn't speak of yesterday was now high in her favor.
Linda's intention to go to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them at the request of Mr. Mitchell, who was very anxious to get rid of him and have his library to himself; mr Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally busy with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Mitchell without interruption about his house and garden in Hunsford. Such acts greatly upset Mr Mitchell. Leisure and peace had always been safe for him in his library; and although he was willing, as he told Elizabeth, to encounter folly and imagination in every other room of the house, he was accustomed to being free of them there; his courtesy invited Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, who was actually much better suited for a hiker than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his big book and leave.
In inflated nothingness on his side and bourgeois approvals on that of his cousins ?? their time passed until they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones could then no longer be won by him. Their eyes immediately wandered to the street in search of the officers, and no less than a very chic hood or a really new muslin in a shop window could call them back.
But the attention of every lady was soon attracted by a young man they had never seen before, of very gentle, masculine appearance, who walked with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny, because of whose return from London Linda came to inquire, and he bowed as they walked by. Everyone was impressed by the stranger's air, everyone wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Linda, determined to find out if possible, walked across the street under the pretext of wanting something in a shop across the street, and luckily had just reached the sidewalk when the two gentlemen who turned around had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny approached her directly and asked her for permission to introduce his friend Mr. Waterhouse, who had returned from town with him the day before, and he was happy to announce that he had accepted an assignment in their corps. That was exactly as it should be; because the young man only wanted regiments to make him very charming. His appearance was very much in his favor; he had the best part of the beauty, a fine face, a good figure and a very pleasant address. The performance was followed on his side by a cheerful willingness to talk, a willingness that was at the same time completely correct and modest; and the whole company was still standing there, chatting very pleasantly with each other when the sound of horses caught their attention and you could see Drury and Woodland riding down the street. After distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen approached them directly and started with the usual courtesies. Woodland was the main speaker and Miss Mitchell the main object. He was on his way to Longbourn at the time, he said, to inquire about her. Lord. Drury confirmed it with a bow and was about to decide not to turn his eyes to Elizabeth when they were suddenly stopped by the sight of the stranger and Elizabeth happened to see the faces of both when they looked at each other, that was all amazement at the effect of the meeting. Both changed color, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Waterhouse touched his hat after a few moments – a greeting that Mr. Drury just wanted to reciprocate. What significance could that have? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to know it for too long. Both changed color, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Waterhouse touched his hat after a few moments – a greeting that Mr. Drury just wanted to reciprocate. What significance could that have? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to know it for too long. Both changed color, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Waterhouse touched his hat after a few moments – a greeting that Mr. Drury just wanted to reciprocate. What significance could that have? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to know it for too long.
In another minute, Mr. Woodland said goodbye, but without realizing what was going on, and rode on with his friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Waterhouse walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Phillip's house and then, despite Miss Linda's urgent plea to come in, and even despite Mrs. Phillips' vomiting, bowed to the living room window and loudly accepted the invitation.
Mrs. Phillips was always happy to see her nieces; and the two elders were especially welcome after her recent absence, and she eagerly expressed her surprise at her sudden return home, of which, since her own carriage had not picked her up, she would not have known if she had not seen Mr. Jones' shopboy on the street, who had told her that they should no longer send droughts to Netherfield, because the Miss Mitchells left when Jane asserted her courtesy to Mr. Collins. She received him with her very best courtesy, which he replied all the more, apologizing for his penetration, without prior acquaintance with her, but this he flattered himself could be justified by his relationship with the young ladies who made him known to her. Mrs. Phillips was quite impressed by such an excess of good parenting; but their contemplation of one stranger was soon ended by exclamations and questions about the other; of which she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, namely that Mr. Denny had brought him from London and that he should have a job as a lieutenant in the county. She had been watching him for the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and if Mr. Waterhouse had appeared, Kitty and Linda would certainly have continued the occupation, but unfortunately no one came by now except a few window officers who have become 'stupid, unpleasant fellows' compared to the stranger. Some of them were to have dinner with the Phillips the next day, and their aunt promised to get her husband to visit Mr. Waterhouse and also to give him an invitation if the family from Longbourn came in the evening. This was agreed, and Mrs. Phillips protested that they would have a nice, cozy, loud lottery ticket game and then a small hot dinner. The prospect of such joys was very encouraging, and they separated in a good mood. Mr. Collins repeated his apology as he left the room, assuring him with unchanging courtesy that they were completely unnecessary. The prospect of such joys was very encouraging, and they separated in a good mood. Mr. Collins repeated his apology as he left the room, assuring him with unchanging courtesy that they were completely unnecessary. The prospect of such joys was very encouraging, and they separated in a good mood. Mr. Collins repeated his apology as he left the room, assuring him with unchanging courtesy that they were completely unnecessary.
As they walked home, Elizabeth told Jane what she had seen as she walked between the two gentlemen; but although Jane would have defended one or both if they seemed to be in the wrong, she could not explain such behavior better than her sister.
Mr. Collins made Mrs. Mitchell very happy on his return by admiring Mrs. Phillips' manners and courtesy. He asserted that he had never seen a more elegant woman besides Lady Catherine and her daughter; for she had not only received him with the utmost courtesy, but even demonstratively included him in her invitation for the next evening, although she had previously been completely unknown to her. Something, he thought, could be attributed to his connection to them, but still, he had never received so much attention in his entire life.
Chapter 67
A certain change of face was necessary for each gentleman when they went to Mrs. Winstone's salon; Alton has to compensate for his joyful looks and Mr. John Hill has to dispel his bad mood. Mr. Alton had to smile less and Mr. John Hill more to make her suitable for the place. – Only Emma could be as nature demanded and be as happy as she was. It was a real pleasure for them to be with the Winstones. Mr. Winstone was a great favorite, and there was no being in the world with whom she spoke as unreservedly as with his wife; not to anyone to whom she told with such conviction to be heard and understood, to always be interesting and always understandable, the small matters, orders, confusions and joys of her father and herself. She couldn't tell anything about Hartfield, in which Mrs. Winstone had no vivid concern; and half an hour of uninterrupted communication of all those little things on which the daily happiness of private life depends was one of the first satisfactions of everyone.
That was a pleasure that perhaps the visit of the whole day would not offer, which certainly did not belong to the current half hour; but just the sight of Mrs. Winstone, her smile, her touch, her voice were grateful to Emma, and she decided to think as little as possible of Mr. Alton's oddities or anything else unpleasant and to enjoy all pleasure to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had gone through pretty well before her arrival. Mr. Lodge had sat safely enough long enough to tell the backstory, apart from the whole prequel to his own and Bella's coming and Emma's coming, and was actually just at the end of his satisfaction that James was to come and see his daughter when the others appeared, and Mrs. Winstone, who had been almost entirely consumed by her attention to him, was able to turn away and greet her dear Emma.
Emma's plan to forget Mr. Alton for a while was quite regrettable when she realized that he was close to her when they had taken all their seats. The difficulty was great to drive his strange callousness towards Harriet out of her memory, while he not only sat next to her, but constantly imposed his happy face on her and addressed her diligently at every opportunity. Instead of forgetting him, his behavior was such that she could not avoid the inner suggestion: "Can it really be as my brother imagined it? could it be that this man begins to transfer his affection from Harriet to me? – Absurd and unbearable!" – And yet he would be so anxious that she would be completely warm if she were so interested in her father and so delighted his wife Winstone; and eventually began to admire her drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge that it looked horribly like a would-be lover, and went to some lengths with her to preserve her good manners. For her own sake, she could not be rude; and for Harriet's, she was even extremely polite in the hope that everything would be fine; but it was an effort; especially since something was going on among the rest of us, in the most overwhelming time of Mr. Alton's nonsense, which she particularly wanted to listen to. She heard enough to know that Mr. Winstone gave some information about his son; she heard the words "my son" and "Frank" and "my son" repeated several times; and, very strongly suspected by some other semi-syllables, that he announced an early visit from his son; but before she could calm Mr. Alton,
Well, despite Emma's resolution to never get married, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr. Frank Curcelle, that always interested her. She had often thought – especially since his father's marriage to Miss Taylor – that if she were to get married, he would be just the right man for her in age, character and condition. He seemed to belong to her through this connection between the families. She couldn't help but assume it was a match that everyone who knew her had to think about. She was very convinced that Mr. and Mrs. Winstone really thought of it; and although she did not want to be tempted by him or anyone else to give up a situation that she believed was filling up more good than she could change, she was very curious to see him, determined to find him pleasant,
with such sentiments the courtesies of Mr. Alton were terribly outdated; but she had the comfort of appearing very polite while being very upset – and thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly pass without conveying the same information or the content of it again from the candid Mr. Winstone. – That's how it turned out; – because when he was happily dismissed by Mr. Alton and put to dinner by Mr. Winstone, he took advantage of the very first break in the worries of hospitality, the very first leisure from the mutton back, to say to her,
"We want only two more to be exactly the right number. I'd love to see two more here – your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son – and then I'd say we were pretty complete. I don't think you heard me tell the others in the salon that we were expecting Frank. I received a letter from him this morning and he will be with us in two weeks."
Emma spoke with a very reasonable level of pleasure; and fully agreed with his suggestion that Mr. Frank Curcelle and Miss Smith would make their party complete.
"He had wanted to come to us since September," Mr. Winstone continued: every letter was full of them; but he cannot command his own time. He has to please those who must be satisfied, and who (among us said) can sometimes only be satisfied by quite a lot of sacrifices. But now I have no doubt that I will see him here around the second week of January."
"What a great pleasure it will be for you! and Mrs. Winstone is so eager to meet him that she must be almost as happy as you are."
"Yes, it would be, but she believes there will be another shift. She doesn't depend on his coming as much as I do, but she doesn't know the parties as well as I do. The case, you see, is – (but this is completely among us: I didn't mention a syllable of it in the other room. There are secrets in all families, you know) – The case is that a group of friends is invited to pay a visit to Enscombe in January; and the coming of Frank depends on them being postponed. If they are not deterred, he can not move. But I know they will do it because it is a family that particularly rejects a certain lady in Enscombe of some significance: and although it is considered necessary to invite them every two or three years, they are always put off when it comes to the matter. I have not the slightest doubt about the matter.
"I am sorry that there should be something like doubt in this case," Emma replied; "But I'm ready to be on your side, Winstone-san. If you believe that he will come, I will believe it too; for you know Enscombe."
"Yes – I have a certain right to this knowledge; although I have never been to the place in my life. – She is a strange woman! – But I never allow myself to speak badly of her because of Franks; because I think she loves him very much. I used to think she wasn't able to like a body other than herself, but she was always kind to him (in her own way – she allowed little whims and whims and expected everything to be the way she wanted it to be). And it is, in my opinion, no small merit for him that he was able to arouse such affection; for although I would not say it to anyone else, she has no more heart than a stone for people in general; and a devilish temperament."
Emma liked the topic so much that she started Mrs. Winstone very soon after they entered the salon: she wished her a lot of joy – but noticed that she knew that the first meeting must be quite disturbing. Mrs. Winstone agreed; but added that she should be very happy to be sure to suffer the fear of a first meeting at the time we are talking about: "For I cannot rely on his coming. I can't be as confident as Mr. Winstone. I am very afraid that everything will end in nothingness. Mr. Winstone, dare I say, told you exactly how things stand?"
"Yes – it seems to depend on nothing but the bad mood. by Mrs. Curcelle, what I imagine to be the safest thing in the world."
"My Emma!" replied Mrs. Winstone with a smile, "what is the certainty of whims?" Then turned to Bella, who was not present before – "You must know, my dear Mrs. Hill, that in my opinion we are by no means so sure to see Mr. Frank Curcelle as his father thinks. It depends entirely on the mood and pleasure of his aunt; in short, on their temperament. To them – my two daughters – may I tell the truth. Mrs. Curcelle rules in Enscombe and is a very strangely minded woman; and his coming now depends on whether she is willing to spare him."
"Oh, Mrs. Curcelle; Everyone knows Mrs. Curcelle," Bella replied, "and I'm sure I never think of this poor young man without the greatest compassion. Constantly living with a bad-tempered person must be terrible. Fortunately, we never knew anything about it; but it must be a life full of misery. What a blessing she never had children! Poor creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!"
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Winstone. Then she should have heard more: Mrs. Winstone would speak to her, with a certain impartiality that she would not risk towards Bella; and she really believed that she would hardly try to hide from her something related to that of the Curcelle, apart from those views about the young man of which her own imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But that's all there was to say now. Mr. Lodge soon followed them into the salon. Sitting for a long time after dinner was a captivity he couldn't stand. Neither wine nor conversations were anything to him; and he liked to move in with those with whom he always felt comfortable.
However, while talking to Bella, Emma found an opportunity to say,
"And so you don't think this visit from your son is safe. I am sorry. The introduction must be unpleasant whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better."
"Yes; and each delay makes you more afraid of other delays. Even if this family, the Braithwaites, are deterred, I am still afraid that an excuse could be found to disappoint us. I can't imagine any reluctance on his side; but I'm sure there's a big desire among the Curcelles to keep it to themselves. There is jealousy. They are even jealous of his respect for his father. In short, I don't feel dependent on his coming, and I wish Winstone-san was less optimistic."
"He should come," Emma said. If he could only stay a few days, he should come; and it's hard to imagine that a young man doesn't have the power to do so much. A young woman, when she falls into bad hands, can be teased and kept away from those she wants to be with; but you can't understand that a young man is held back in such a way that he can't spend a week with his father if he likes it."
"You should be in Enscombe and know the customs of the family before deciding what to do," Mrs. Winstone replied. "One should perhaps exercise the same caution when judging the behavior of a single individual in a family; but Enscombe, I believe, must certainly not be judged by general rules: it is so very unreasonable; and everything gives way to her."
"But she loves the nephew so much, he's such a big darling. Well, in my conception of Mrs. Curcelle, it would be most natural that although she does not make a sacrifice for the comfort of the husband to whom she owes everything while exerting incessant whims towards him, she should often be ruled by the nephew, to whom she owes nothing at all."
"My dearest Emma, ?? Don't pretend to understand a bad one with your sweet temperament or make rules for it: you have to let it take its course. I have no doubt that he had considerable influence at times; but it may be completely impossible for him to know beforehand when it will be."
Emma listened and then coolly said, "I'm not satisfied if he doesn't come."
"He may have great influence on some points," Mrs. Winstone continued, "and very little on others: and among those to whom it is out of his reach, it is all too likely that this very circumstance exists from his departure from them to visit us."
Chapter 68
Despite Udolpho and the seamstress, however, the group from Pulteney Street reached the Upper Rooms in time. The Dorfmans and James Fenmore were only two minutes ahead of them; and Bella, after going through the usual ceremony of meeting her friend with the most smiling and loving hurry, admiring the set of her dress and envying the curls of her hair, they followed their companions, arm in arm, whispering into the ballroom with each other whenever a thought came up, replacing many ideas with a handshake or a loving smile.
The dance began a few minutes after they took their seats; and James, who had been engaged for as long as his sister, urged Bella very much to get up; but John had gone to the game room to talk to a friend, and nothing, she explained, should cause her to join the set before her dear Catherine could join him. "I assure you," she said, "I would not get up without your dear sister; because if I did, we would surely be separated all evening." Catherine accepted this kindness with gratitude and they continued for another three minutes when Bella, who had spoken to James on her other side, turned back to his sister and whispered, "My dear creature, I am afraid I have to leave you, your brother is so incredibly impatient to start; I know you won't mind if I leave, and I dare say john will be right back, and then you can easily find me." Catherine, though a little disappointed, had too much good-naturedness to resist, and when the others got up, Bella had just enough time to squeeze her friend's hand and say, "Goodbye, my dear," before rushing away. Since the younger Miss Dorfman also danced, Catherine was granted the grace of Mrs. Dorfman and Mrs. Dorfman. Left to all those between whom she now remained. She couldn't help but be annoyed by Mr. Dorfman's non-appearance, because not only did she long to dance, but she was also aware that since the true dignity of her situation could not be recognized, she shared with the dozens of other young ladies still sitting in all the discrediting of wanting a partner. To have fallen out of favor in the eyes of the world to carry the appearance of shame, while her heart is completely pure, her actions completely innocent, and the misconduct of another is the true source of her humiliation, is one of the circumstances that are especially part of the heroine's life, and her steadfastness underneath especially honors her character. Catherine also had steadfastness; she suffered, but no murmur came over her lips.
From this state of humiliation, she was awakened to a more pleasant feeling at the end of ten minutes, when she saw not Mr. Dorfman, but Mr. Alsina within three yards of the place where they were sitting; he seemed to be moving in this direction, but he did not see her, and therefore the smile and redness that his sudden reappearance in Catherine caused passed without tarnishing her heroic significance. He looked as handsome and lively as ever and talked intently with a fashionable and pleasant-looking young woman who leaned against his arm and who Catherine immediately mistook for his sister; So she thoughtlessly wastes a good opportunity to keep him lost to her forever by already being married. But guided only by what was simple and probable, it had never occurred to her to marry Alsina-san; he had not behaved, he had not spoken, like the married men to whom she was accustomed; he had never mentioned a woman, and he had acknowledged a sister. From these circumstances arose the immediate conclusion that his sister is now at his side; and therefore, instead of becoming pale and falling on Mrs. Allen's bosom in a fit, Catherine sat upright, in perfect use of her senses, and with cheeks that were only a little redder than usual.
Mr. Alsina and his companion, who continued to approach, albeit slowly, immediately preceded by a lady, an acquaintance of Mrs. Dorfman; and this lady stopped to talk to her, they also stopped because they belonged to her, and Catherine, who attracted Mr. Alsina's gaze, immediately received the smiling tribute of appreciation from him. She gave it back with pleasure, and then he moved even closer and talked to both her and Mrs. Allen, by whom he was very politely acknowledged. "I am very happy to see you again, sir; I was afraid you had left Bath." He thanked her for her fears and said he had calmed her down for a week, the same morning after he had the pleasure of seeing her.
"Well, sir, and I dare say that you are not sorry to be back here, because it is just the right place for young people – and actually for everyone else. I say Mr. To all, when he talks about getting tired of surely not complaining, because it is such a pleasant place that it is much better to be here than at home at this boring time of year. I tell him he is very lucky to be sent here for health reasons."
"And I hope, madam, that Mr. Everyone will be forced to like the house if he finds it useful to him."
"Thank you, sir. I have no doubt that he will. One of our neighbors, Dr. Skinner, was here last winter for his health and got off pretty boisterous."
"This circumstance must be a great encouragement."
"Yes, Sir – and Dr. Skinner and his family were here for three months; that's why I say Mr. Everyone, he must not be in a hurry to get away."
Here they were arrested by a request from Mrs. Dorfman to Mrs. Dorfman. Allen was interrupted to move a little to accommodate Mrs. Hughes and Miss Alsina as they had agreed to join their group. This was done accordingly while Mr Alsina was still standing before them; and after a few minutes of reflection, he asked Catherine to dance with him. This compliment, as delightful as it was, caused the lady a severe humiliation; and by refusing to do so, she expressed her grief on that occasion as much as if she had really felt that Dorfman, who joined her shortly afterwards, had been there half a minute earlier, he would have felt her suffering a little too bad. The very relaxed way in which he then told her that he had made her wait no longer reconciled her with her lot; even the details he entered while standing, about the horses and dogs of the friend he had just left, and about an intended exchange of terriers between them, did not interest her so much that she often prevented her from looking there in the part of the room where she had left Mr. Alsina. She could not see anything of her dear Bella, whom she particularly wanted to point out to this gentleman. They were in different sets. She was separated from all her company and from all her acquaintance; one castration followed the other, and from the whole she drew the useful lesson that attending a ball that was previously engaged does not necessarily increase the dignity or enjoyment of a young lady. From such a moralizing tension as this, she was suddenly awakened by a touch on her shoulder, and when she turned around, she noticed Mrs. Hughes right behind her, accompanied by Miss Alsina and a gentleman. "I beg your pardon, Miss Fenmore," she said, "for this freedom – but I can't get to Miss Dorfman anyway, and Mrs. Dorfman said she was sure you didn't have the slightest objection to letting this young lady in with you." Mrs. Hughes could not have turned to any creature in the room that would have pleased her more willingly than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Alsina expressed an appropriate sense of such kindness, Miss Fenmore with the real tenderness of a generous spirit that took the commitment lightly; and Mrs. Hughes, content to have dealt with her young accusation so respectably, returned to her company. Dorfman said she was sure you wouldn't have the slightest objection to letting this young lady in with you." Mrs. Hughes could not have turned to any creature in the room that would have pleased her more willingly than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Alsina expressed an appropriate sense of such kindness, Miss Fenmore with the real tenderness of a generous spirit that took the commitment lightly; and Mrs. Hughes, content to have dealt with her young accusation so respectably, returned to her company. Dorfman said she was sure you wouldn't have the slightest objection to letting this young lady in with you." Mrs. Hughes could not have turned to any creature in the room that would have pleased her more willingly than Catherine. The young ladies were introduced to each other, Miss Alsina expressed an appropriate sense of such kindness, Miss Fenmore with the real tenderness of a generous spirit that took the commitment lightly; and Mrs. Hughes, content to have dealt with her young accusation so respectably, returned to her company. Miss Fenmore with the real tenderness of a generous spirit that takes the commitment lightly; and Mrs. Hughes, content to have dealt with her young accusation so respectably, returned to her company. Miss Fenmore with the real tenderness of a generous spirit that takes the commitment lightly; and Mrs. Hughes, content to have dealt with her young accusation so respectably, returned to her company.
Miss Alsina had a good figure, a pretty face and a very comfortable posture; and her air, although she did not have all the decisive claim, the determined elegance of Miss Dorfmans, had more real elegance. Their manners showed reason and good upbringing; they were neither shy nor open; and she seemed young, attractive, and on the ball, without wanting to attract the attention of every man around her, and without exaggerated feelings of ecstatic joy or unimaginable anger at every little thing. Catherine, who was immediately interested in her appearance and her relationship with Mr. Alsina, wished to meet her, so she spoke willingly whenever she could think of something she could say, and had the courage and leisure to say it. But the obstacle of a very quick intimacy thrown in the way,
The two dances were barely finished when Catherine found her arm gently gripped by her faithful Bella, who exclaimed in the best mood: "Finally I have you. My dearest creature, I have been looking for you for this hour. What could make you want to get into this set if you knew I was in the other one? I was quite unhappy without you."
"My dear Bella, how was it possible for me to get to you? I couldn't even see where you were."
"I told your brother that all the time – but he didn't believe me. Go and look for her, Mr. Fenmore, I said – but all in vain – he wouldn't move an inch. Was it not so, Mr Fenmore? But you men are all so excessively lazy! I scolded him so much, my dear Catherine, you would be amazed. You know that I never like ceremony with people like that."
"Look at this young lady with the white pearls around her head," Whispered Catherine, detaching her friend from James. "It's Mr. Alsina's sister."
"Oh! Sky! You don't say that! Let me look at them at this moment. What an adorable girl! I've never seen anything half as beautiful! But where is her all-conquering brother? Is he in the room? Show him to me immediately if he is. I die to see him. Mr. Fenmore, you should not listen. We're not talking about you."
"But what's the point of all the whispering? What's going on?"
"So, now I knew what it would be like. You men are so restlessly curious! Speaking of women's curiosity, indeed! It's nothing. But be satisfied, because you should not know anything about the matter at all."
"And will that probably satisfy me, you think?"
"Well, I explain that I never knew anything like you. What can it mean to you what we are talking about? Maybe we're talking about you; so I would advise you not to listen, otherwise you might hear something not very pleasant."
In this ordinary chatter, which lasted some time, the original theme seemed completely forgotten; and although Catherine was very pleased that it was dropped for a while, she could not avoid a small suspicion when Bella's impatient desire to see Mr. Alsina was completely lifted. When the orchestra sang a new dance, James would have led his beautiful partner away, but she fought back. "I tell you, Mr. Fenmore," she shouted, "for nothing in the world would I do such a thing. How can you tease like that; just imagine, my dear Catherine, what your brother wants from me. He wants me to dance with him again, although I tell him that this is highly inappropriate and completely against the rules. It would make us a topic of conversation if we didn't change partners."
"In my honor," James said, "in these public gatherings, it is done more often than ever."
"Nonsense, how can you say that? But when you men have something to say, you never hold on to anything. My sweet Catherine, support me; convince your brother how impossible it is. Tell him that it would shock you quite a bit to see me do something like this; now isn't it?"
"No not at all; but if you think it wrong, you'd be much better off changing."
"There," Bella exclaimed, "you hear what your sister says, and yet you won't care about her. Remember that it's not my fault if we get all the old ladies in Bath excited. Come with me, my dearest Catherine, for heaven's sake, and stand by me." And off we went to regain their old place. John Dorfman had since left; and Catherine, always ready to give Mr. Alsina the opportunity to repeat the pleasant request that had flattered her before, made her way to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Dorfman, hoping to find him with them – a hope that she found highly unreasonable when it proved fruitless. "Well, my dear," said Mrs. Dorfman, impatient to praise for her son, "I hope you had a pleasant partner."
"Very pleasant, madam."
"I'm happy about it. John has adorable spirits, doesn't he?"
"Did you meet Alsina-san, my dear?" said Mrs. Allen.
"No, where is he?"
"He was just with us and said he was so tired of loitering that he was determined to go and dance; so I thought he might ask you if he met with you."
"Where can he be?" said Catherine and looked around; but she hadn't looked around long when she saw him leading a young lady to the dance.
"Ah! He has a partner; I wish he had asked you," said Mrs. Allen; and after a brief silence, she added, "He is a very pleasant young man."
"In fact, Mrs. Allen," said Mrs. Dorfman, smiling complacently; "Although I am his mother, I must say that there is no more pleasant young man in the world."
This inaccurate answer may have been too much for many to understand; but it confused Mrs. Not to all of them, because after thinking for just a moment, she said to Catherine in a whisper, "I dare say that she thought I was talking about her son."
Catherine was disappointed and upset. She seemed to have missed the real goal she had in mind, so little; and this persuasion did not lead her to a very gracious answer when John Dorfman came to her soon after and said, "Well, Miss Fenmore, I suppose you and I get up again and tinker together again."
"Oh no; I am very attached to you, our two dances are over; and besides, I'm tired and don't want to dance anymore."
"Isn't it? Then let's walk around and ask people. Come with me and I'll show you the four biggest quizzes in the room; my two younger sisters and their partners. I laughed at her for half an hour."
Again, Catherine apologized; and finally he left to question his sisters alone. The rest of the evening she found very boring; Alsina-san was pulled away from her tea party to attend his partner's; Miss Alsina, although she was one of them, wasn't sitting next to her, and James and Bella were so busy talking to each other that the latter had no time to give her friend more than a smile, a push, and a "dearest Catherine."
Chapter 69
A few more days, and Captain Cambridge was famously in Kellynch, and Mr. Cumberland had visited him and had returned warmly in his praise, and he had arranged with the Field's to dine in Uppercross at the end of another week. It had been a great disappointment for Mr Cumberland to find that no earlier day could be set, so impatient was he to show his gratitude by seeing Captain Cambridge under his own roof and welcoming him in his cellars to everything that was strongest and best. But a week must pass; only a week, according to Anne's assessment, and then, she assumed, they had to meet; and soon she began to wish that she could feel safe even for a week.
Captain Cambridge returned to Mr. Cumberland's courtesy very early, and she called there almost in the same half hour. She and Mary were just making their way to the Great House, where, as she later learned, they must have inevitably found him when they were prevented from having the oldest boy brought home at that moment as a result of a serious fall. The child's situation made the visit completely obsolete; but she could not hear indifferently about her escape, even in the midst of the serious fear they later felt for his sake.
It turned out that his collarbone was dislocated and such injuries were suffered in the back, which aroused the most disturbing thoughts. It was an afternoon of need, and Anne had to do everything at the same time; to send the pharmacist, to have followed and informed the father, to support the mother and to avoid hysteria, to control the servants, to banish the youngest child and to care for and calm the poor sufferer; moreover, as soon as she remembered, she sent a neat message to the other house, which earned her an entry of frightened, questioning companions rather than very useful helpers.
The return of her brother was the first consolation; he could best take care of his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the pharmacist. Until he came and examined the child, their fears were all the worse because they were vague; they suspected great injury, but did not know where; but now the collarbone was soon replaced, and although Mr. Robinson felt and felt and rubbed and looked serious and spoke soft words with both the father and the aunt, they should all hope for the best and be able to separate and eat their dinner in bearable peace of mind; and then, just before they separated, the two young aunts were able to wander so far away from their nephew's state to give the information of Captain Cambridge's visit; Five minutes behind father and mother to express how completely delighted they were of him, how much more beautiful, how infinitely more pleasant they found him than anyone among their male acquaintances who had ever been a favorite. How happy they had been when Dad invited him to dinner, how sorry he was when he said it was completely out of his power, and how happy once again when, in response to Dad and Mom's, he promised more urgent invitations to come to them and dine with them in the morning – actually in the morning; and he had promised it in such a pleasant way, as if he felt all the motives of their attention exactly as he should. And in short, he had seen everything with such exquisite grace and said that they could assure them all that their heads were both turned by him; and off they ran, full of joy as love,
The same story and the same delight were repeated when the two girls came with their father through the darkness of the evening to inquire; and Mr. Cumberland, who no longer suffers from the initial discomfort with his heir, could add his confirmation and praise, hoping that there would be no reason to say goodbye to Captain Cambridge now, and would only regret believing that the cottage party probably wouldn't like to leave the little boy to give him the meeting. "Oh no; as far as leaving the little boy is concerned," both father and mother were far too worried and fresh to bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of fleeing, could not help but add her heartfelt protests to hers.
In fact, Charles Cumberland later showed more inclination; "the child was doing so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to Captain Cambridge that he might be able to join them in the evening; he wouldn't eat from home, but he could walk in for half an hour. But in it he was eagerly told by his wife with "Oh no, actually, Charles, I can't stand you leaving. Do you just think if something should happen?"
The child had a good night, and the next day he was fine. It must be temporary work to make sure that the spine has not been injured; but Mr. Robinson found nothing to add to the anxiety, and Charles Cumberland consequently began to feel no need for prolonged detention. The child should be kept in bed and entertained as quietly as possible; but what should a father do? This was an all-female case, and it would be highly absurd of him, who could not do any good at home, to lock himself up. His father wished very much that he would meet Captain Cambridge, and since there was no sufficient reason against it, he should leave; and it ended with him returning from the shooting making a bold, public statement that he intended to dress directly and dine in the other house.
"Nothing can go on better than the child," he said; "So I just told my father that I was coming, and he proved me right. Since your sister is with you, my dear, I have no scruples at all. You don't want to leave him yourself, but you see I can't do any good. Anne will send after me if something is wrong."
Husbands and wives generally understand when resistance is in vain. Mary knew about Charles' way of speaking, that he was determined to leave, and that there would be no point in annoying him. That's why she didn't say anything until he was out of the room, but as soon as only Anne could be heard –
I couldn't cope with it at all. You saw how hysterical I was yesterday."
"But that was just the effect of the suddenness of your alarm – the shock. They will not be hysterical again. I dare say that we will not have anything to worry us. I fully understand Mr. Robinson's instructions and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I can't be surprised about your husband. Care does not belong to a man, it is not his territory. A sick child is always the property of the mother: her own feelings usually do it that way."
"I hope I like my child as much as any mother, but I don't know that I'm more useful in the hospital room than Charles, because I can't always scold and tease the poor child when he's sick; and you saw this morning that if I told him to be quiet, he would surely start stomping around. I have no nerves for something like that."
"But could you make yourself comfortable spending the whole evening without the poor boy?"
"Yes, you see, his dad can, and why shouldn't I? Jemima is so careful, and she could tell us every hour how he is doing. I really think Charles might as well have told his father that we were all coming. It's me I'm no longer worried about little Charles than he is. I was terribly worried yesterday, but today the case is very different."
"Well, if you don't think it's too late to quit yourself, assume you're leaving, as is your husband. Leave little Charles in my care. Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland can't think wrong as long as I stay with him. "
Are you serious?" cried Mary with shining eyes. " My gosh! that's a very good thought, very good even. Of course, I can walk just as well as not, because I don't use anything at home – right? and it just bothers me. You, who don't have the feelings of a mother, are by far the most decent person. You can get little Charles to do anything, he always takes care of a word. It will be much better than just leaving him with Jemima. Oh! I will go for sure; I'm sure I should do that if I can, just like Charles, because they want me to get acquainted with Captain Cambridge, and I know you don't mind being left alone. An excellent thought from you, Anne go and tell Charles, and get ready right away. You can call us at any time if something is wrong; but I dare say that there will be nothing to worry you. I wouldn't leave, you can be sure if I didn't feel completely comfortable with my dear child."
The next moment she knocked on her husband's wardrobe door, and when Anne followed her up the stairs, she was just in time for the whole conversation, which began with Mary saying
in a tone of great jubilation,
"I intend to go with you, Charles, because I am no more useful at home than you. If I were to lock myself up with the child forever, I would not be able to persuade him to do something he did dgl. Anne will stay, Anne commits to stay at home and take care of him, it is Anne's own suggestion, and so I will go with you, which will be much better, because I haven't eaten in the other house since Tuesday."
"This is very kind of Anne," was her husband's reply, "and I would be very happy to let you go;
Anne was now on hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her behavior was soon enough to convince him, where the conviction was at least very pleasant, he had no further scruples about leaving her alone to eat, although he still wanted her to come to them in the evening when the child could rest for the night, and kindly urged her to let him come and get her, but she was quite unconvinced; and since this was the case, she had long had the pleasure of seeing them set off together in the best of moods. They had left, she hoped, to be happy, however strangely constructed such happiness might seem; as far as she herself was concerned, did she remain like that?? many feelings of comfort, as they may ever have. She knew that she was of the greatest benefit to the child; and what was it about her when Frederick Cambridge was only half a mile away,
she would have liked to know how he felt at a meeting. Perhaps indifferent if there could be indifference in such circumstances. He must be either indifferent or unwilling. If he had ever wanted to see her again, he would not have had to wait until that time; he would have done what she couldn't, but believed that she should have done in his place a long time ago, when events early on gave him the independence that he alone had lacked.
Her brother and sister returned delighted with their new acquaintance and their visit in general. There had been music, singing, talking, laughing, all the most pleasant; charming manners in Captain Cambridge, no shyness or restraint; They all seemed to know each other perfectly, and he came the very next morning to shoot with Charles. He was supposed to come for breakfast but not to the cottage, although this had initially been suggested; but then he had been pushed to come to the Big House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in the way of Mrs. Charles Cumberland because of the child, and therefore, somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended with Charles having to meet him for breakfast at his father's.
Anne got it. He wanted to avoid seeing them. He had inquired about her, she noted, a little, as would befit a previous acquaintance, and seemed to acknowledge those she had acknowledged, perhaps driven by the same view of escaping the idea of meeting.
The morning hours of the cottage were always later than those of the other house, and in the morning the difference was so great that Mary and Anne had just started breakfast when Charles came in to say that they were about to leave, that he had come because of his dogs, which his sisters followed with Captain Cambridge; his sisters intended to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Cambridge suggested waiting for them for a few minutes as well, if it wasn't inconvenient; and although Charles had replied that the child was not in such a state that could make him uncomfortable, Captain Cambridge would not be satisfied without continuing to dismiss him.
Mary, very pleased with this attention, rejoiced to receive him, while Anne overcame a thousand feelings, the most comforting of which was that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. Two minutes after Charles' preparation, the others appeared; they were in the salon. Her eye hit half that of Captain Cambridge, a bow, a kink passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said everything that was right, said something to Miss Cumberlands, enough to show an easy stand; the room seemed full, full of people and voices, but a few minutes finished it. Charles showed up at the window, everything was ready, her visitor had bowed and left, the Miss Cumberlands had also left, suddenly determined to go with the athletes to the end of the village: the room was vacated, and Anne could do breakfast as she could.
"It's over! It's over!" she repeated herself again and again in nervous gratitude. "The worst is over!"
Mary spoke, but she could not attend. She had seen him. They had met. They had been in the same room again.
Soon, however, she began to argue with herself and try to feel less. Eight years, almost eight years, had passed since everything had been abandoned. How absurd to resume the excitement that had relegated such a pause to distance and blur! What could eight years not do? Events of all kinds, changes, alienations, moves – everything, everything must be contained in it, and forgetting the past – how natural, how certainly! It covered almost a third of her own life.
Oh! For all her reasoning, she found that eight years for reserved feelings can be little more than nothing.
Well, how were his feelings to read? Was that like a desire to avoid her? And the next moment, she hated herself for the stupidity that posed the question.
On another question, which perhaps her extreme wisdom could not have prevented, she was soon spared all the tension; because after Miss Cumberlands returned and finished her visit to the cottage, she received this spontaneous information from Mary: –
"Captain Cambridge is not very gallant of you, Anne, although he was so attentive to me. Grace asked him what he thought of you when they walked away, and he said, 'You were so changed that he shouldn't have recognized you.'"
Mary had no feelings that could make her respect her sister's in the usual way, but she was completely unsuspicious of inflicting any strange wound on her.
"Changed beyond his knowledge." Anne submitted completely, in silent, deep humiliation. No doubt it was, and she could not take revenge, because he was not changed, or not for the worse. She had already admitted it to herself, and she couldn't think otherwise, make him think of her the way he wanted. No: the years that had destroyed their youth and prosperity had only given him a brighter, more masculine, more open appearance, without diminishing his personal merits. She had seen the same Frederick Cambridge.
"So changed that he shouldn't have known her again!" These were words she couldn't escape. But soon she began to rejoice that she had heard them. They were of sobering tendency; they calmed the excitement; they composed and consequently had to make them happier.
Frederick Cambridge had used such words or something similar, but without any idea that she would be carried around to her. He had considered them to be miserably changed and had spoken at the first moment of the request as he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Hightower. She had used him sickly, abandoned him and disappointed; and worse, she had shown a weakness of character that his own determined, confident temperament could not bear. She had given up on him to obey others. It had been the effect of persuasion. It had been weakness and shyness.
He had been most warmly attached to her and had never seen a woman to whom he considered her equal; but apart from a natural sense of curiosity, he had no desire to see her again. Their power with him was gone forever.
Now it was his goal to get married. He was rich, and since he was brought ashore, he had the firm intention of settling as soon as he could be tried properly; actually looking around, ready to fall in love with all the speed that a clear head and a quick taste could allow. He had a heart for both Miss Cumberlands, if they could believe it; In short, a heart for every pleasant young woman who came in his way, with the exception of Anne Hightower. This was his only secret exception when he said to his sister in response to her conjecture: –
"Yes, here I, Sophia, am quite willing to make a foolish couple. Anyone between fifteen and thirty can ask me to ask me. A bit of beauty and a few smiles and a few compliments to the Navy, and I'm lost man. Shouldn't this be enough for a sailor who had no company among women to make him nice?"
He said it, she knew that to contradict him. His bright, proud eye expressed the conviction that he was nice; and Anne Hightower was not out of his mind when he more seriously described the woman he wanted to meet with. "A strong spirit, with sweetness in behavior," made the first and the last of the description.
"This is the woman I want," he said. "Of course, I will accept something inferior, but it must not be much.
Chapter 70
The sudden cessation of Colonel Bridgerton's visit to the park, with his steadfastness in concealing its cause, filled the opinion, and raised the astonishment of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great astonishment, as it must be anyone who is very keenly interested in the comings and goings of his acquaintances. She wondered without interruption what could be the reason for this; was sure that there had to be bad news, and thought about any kind of distress that could have hit him, with the firm determination that he should not escape everyone.
"There must be something very melancholic about it, I'm sure," she said. "I could see it in him. Poor man! I'm afraid his circumstances might be bad. The Delaford estate was never counted more than two thousand a year, and his brother left all sad entanglements. I think he must have been it for money matters, because what else can it be? I wonder if it is. I would give anything to know the truth. Maybe it's about Miss Williams, and by the way, I dare say it is because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. Maybe she's sick in the city, nothing in the world more likely, because I feel like she's always pretty sickly. I would bet it's about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely that he should be saddened IN his situation NOW, because he is a very prudent man, and to be sure, the property must have been vacated by this time. I wonder what it can be! Maybe his sister is worse off in Avignon and she sent after him. His hasty departure seems to be very similar to him. Well, I wish him with all my heart out of all his difficulties and on top of that a good woman."
So surprised, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Their minds changed with each new guess, and all seemed equally likely when they appeared. Eleanore, although she really felt interested in the well-being of Colonel Bridgerton, could not give his sudden departure all the miracle that Mrs. Jennings was desirable of her feeling; moreover, in their opinion, the circumstance did not justify such constant amazement or manifold speculation, their amazement was otherwise settled. She was captivated by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Warwicks on the subject, which they must know was of particular interest to all of them. The longer this silence lasted, the stranger and more incompatible it seemed to the minds of both. Why they shouldn't openly admit to themselves and their mother,
she could easily imagine that marriage might not be in her power right away; for although Warwick was independent, there was no reason to consider him rich. His estate had been estimated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred per year; but he lived at expenses that this income could hardly match, and he himself had often complained about his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy they maintained about their engagement, which actually hid nothing at all, she couldn't explain; and it was so contrary to their general opinions and customs that she sometimes had doubts that they were really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her from asking Marianne.
Nothing could express the attachment to all of them more clearly than Warwick's behavior. For Marianne, it had all the characteristic tenderness that a lover's heart could give, and for the rest of the family, it was the loving attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be regarded and loved by him as his home; he spent much more of his hours there than in Allenham; and if no general commitment gathered them in the park, the exercise that asked him in the morning almost certainly ended where he spent the rest of the day at Marianne's side and from his favorite pointer to her foot.
Especially one evening, about a week after Colonel Bridgerton left the country, his heart seemed more than usual open to any sense of attachment to the objects around him; and when Mrs. Hargrove happened to mention her plan to improve the cottage in the spring, he fiercely resisted any change in a place that his affection had proven perfect for him.
"What!" he exclaimed: "Improve this dear cottage! No. I will never agree with that.
"Don't worry," Miss Hargrove said, "nothing of the sort is being done; because my mother will never have enough money to try."
"I'm very happy about it," he shouted. "May she always be poor if she cannot use her wealth better."
"Thank you, Warwick. But you can be sure that I wouldn't sacrifice a sense of local attachment from you or from anyone I loved for all the improvements in the world. if I make my calculation in the spring, I would even rather leave it useless than dispose of it in such a painful way for you. But do you really hang on to this place in such a way that you don't see any deficiency in it?
"I am," he said. "For me, it's impeccable. No, more than that, I consider it the only form of building in which happiness is achievable, and if I were rich enough, I would immediately pull Combe down and rebuild it according to the exact plan of this cottage."
"With dark narrow staircase and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," Eleanore said.
"Yes," he cried out in the same zealous tone, "with everything and everyone that goes with it; – in no convenience or inconvenience should the slightest change be perceptible. Then, and only then, under such a roof, Maybe I'll be as happy in Combe as I am in Barton."
"I flatter myself," Eleanore replied, "that even at the disadvantage of better rooms and a wider staircase, you will later find your own house as impeccable as you do now."
"There are certainly circumstances," Warwick said, "that could make it very popular to me; but this place will always have a claim to my affection that no one else can possibly share."
Mrs. Hargrove looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were so expressively fixed on Warwick, which clearly showed how well she understood him.
"How many times I wished," he added, "when I was in Allenham for twelve months this time, that this Barton Cottage would be inhabited! I didn't think at the time that the very first news I would hear from Mrs. Smith the next time I came to the country would be that Barton Cottage was occupied: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which can explain nothing but a kind of premonition of what happiness I was to experience from it. Mustn't it have been so, Marianne?" spoke to her in a low voice. Then he continued his earlier tone and said, "And yet you would spoil this house, Mrs. Hargrove? They would deprive it of its simplicity through imaginary improvements!
Ms. Hargrove reassured him that no change of this kind should be attempted.
"You are a good woman," he replied warmly. "Your promise makes it easy for me. Expand it a little further, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only will your house remain the same, but that I will always find you and yours as unchanged as your apartment; and that you will always look at me with the kindness that has made everything that belongs to you so dear to me."
The promise was made willingly, and Warwick's behavior throughout the evening immediately showed his affection and bliss.
"See you for dinner tomorrow?" said Ms. Hargrove as he left her. "I'm not asking you to come tomorrow morning because we have to go to the park to visit Lady Mideltown."
He got engaged to be with them at four o'clock.
Chapter 71
Since there was no objection to the engagement of the young people to their aunt and Mr. Collins was constantly resisted all the scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell for only a single evening during his visit, the carriage brought him and his five cousins ?? at one o'clock suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing when they entered the salon that Mr. Waterhouse had accepted their uncle's invitation and was then in the house.
When this information was given and they had taken all their seats, Mr. Collins had time to look around and admire, and he was so impressed with the size and furniture of the apartment that he explained that he could almost have guessed it himself in the small summer breakfast salon in Rosings; a comparison that at first did not convey much satisfaction; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what Rosings was and who its owner was – when she had only listened to the description of one of Lady Catherine's salons and found out that the mantelpiece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she said she felt all the power of the addition and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper's room.
Describing to her all the splendor of Lady Catherine and her villa with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode and the improvements he received, he was happily occupied until the lords joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of its importance increased with what she heard, and who decided to spread everything among her neighbors as quickly as possible. For the girls, who could not listen to their cousin and who had nothing to do but wish for an instrument and examine their own indifferent porcelain imitations on the mantelpiece, the waiting time seemed very long. However, it was finally over. The gentlemen approached, and when Mr. Waterhouse entered the room, Elizabeth felt that she had not seen him before or thought of him since. with the least amount of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the county were generally a very commendable, gentle, human-like group, and the best of them belonged to the present party; but Mr. Waterhouse was as superior to all of them in person, facial expression, air and gait as far as THEY were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy Uncle Phillips, who breathed port wine who followed them into the room.
Mr. Waterhouse was the happy man to whom almost every female eye was directed, and Elizabeth was the happy woman next to whom he eventually took a seat; and the pleasant way in which he immediately started talking, even though it was only a wet night, made her feel that the most ordinary, boring, flimsy topic could be made interesting by the skill of the speaker.
With such rivals for the attention of the Fair as Mr. Waterhouse and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; for the young ladies it was certainly nothing; but he still had a friendly listener in Mrs. Phillips and was most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin through her vigilance. When the card tables were set up, he had the opportunity to do her a favor by sitting down to the whist.
"I don't understand much about this game at the moment," he said, "but I'll be happy to improve because in my life situation..." Mrs. Phillips was very happy about his approval, but could not wait for his reasoning.
Mr. Waterhouse did not play Whist and was received with great joy at the other table between Elizabeth and Linda. At first there seemed to be a danger that Linda would make full use of him, because she was an extremely determined speaker; Since she also loved lottery tickets, she soon became too interested in the game, was too eager to place bets and scream for prizes to have attention for anyone in particular. Given the general demands of the game, Mr. Waterhouse therefore had leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to listen to him, although she could not hope to learn what she mainly wanted to hear – the story of his acquaintance with Mr. Drury. She did not even dare to mention this gentleman. However, her curiosity was unexpectedly relieved. Mr Waterhouse himself started with the subject. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and after receiving her answer, he hesitantly asked how long Drury-san had been there.
"About a month," Elizabeth said; and then added, unwilling to drop the subject: "He is a man with a very large fortune in Derbyshire, I hear."
"Yes," replied Mr. Waterhouse; "His possessions there are noble ones. Clear ten thousand per year. You couldn't have met anyone who would be better able to give you certain information on this subject than I would, because I have been connected to his family in a special way since childhood.'
Elizabeth couldn't help but look surprised.
"You may be surprised, Miss Mitchell, at such a claim after seeing, as you will probably see, the very cold nature of our meeting yesterday. Are you well acquainted with Drury-san?"
"As much as I wish," Elizabeth exclaimed very warmly. "I spent four days with him in the same house, and I find him very uncomfortable."
"I have no right to express MY opinion," Waterhouse said, "whether he agrees or not. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a righteous judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I think your opinion of him would generally be surprising - and maybe you wouldn't express it quite as strongly elsewhere. Here you are in your own family."
"By my word, I don't say more HERE than I would say in any house in the neighborhood, except Netherfield. It is not at all popular in Hertfordshire. Everyone is disgusted by their pride. They will not be spoken more positively about him by anyone.'
"I can't pretend I'm sorry," Waterhouse said after a brief interruption, "that he or any other man is not valued beyond their merits; but with HIM, I don't think it happens often. The world is blinded by his fortune and his consequences, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he prefers to be seen.'
'I would consider him, even with MY fleeting acquaintance, to be an evil man.' Waterhouse just shook his head.
'I wonder,' he said at the next opportunity to speak, 'whether he will probably stay in this country for a long time.'
'I don't know at all; but I didn't hear about his departure when I was in Netherfield. I hope your plans in favor of the county will not be affected by his presence in the neighborhood."
'Oh! no – it is not for me to be driven away by Drury-san. If He wants to avoid seeing ME, He must go. We don't have friendly relationships, and it always hurts me to meet him, but I have no reason to avoid Him except what I could proclaim to the whole world, a feeling of very great abuse and extremely painful regret about him for what he is. His father, Miss Mitchell, the late Mr. Drury, was one of the best men who ever lived, and the most loyal friend I ever had; and I can never be with this Mr. Drury without being saddened by a thousand tender memories in my soul. His behavior towards me was scandalous; but I really believe that I could forgive him anything and everything, instead of him disappointing hopes and dishonoring his father's memory.'
Elizabeth found that interest in the subject increased, and listened with all her heart; but the tenderness of it prevented further investigation.
Mr. Waterhouse began to talk about more general topics, Meryton, the neighborhood, the society, seemed highly satisfied with everything he had seen so far, and spoke with gentle but very understandable gallantry of the latter.
"It was the prospect of consistent society and good company," he added, "that was my main incentive to enter the county. I knew it was a most respectable, pleasant corps, and my friend Denny continued to seduce me with his account of their current quarters and the very great attention and excellent acquaintances Meryton had given them. Society, I confess, is necessary for me. I was a disappointed man, and my soul cannot bear loneliness. I MUST have employment and company. A military life is not what I was meant to be, but circumstances have now made it possible. The Church should have been my profession—I was raised for the Church, and I could have had a most valuable livelihood at that time if it had pleased the Lord we were talking about.'
'Indeed!'
"Yes – the late Mr. Drury left me the next presentation of the best way of life of his gift. He was my godfather and was overly attached to me. I can't live up to his kindness. He wanted to provide for me abundantly and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.'
'You dear heaven!' cried Elisabeth; "But how could THAT be? How could his will be disregarded? Why didn't you take legal action?'
"The terms of the legacy were so informal that I had no hope of the law. A man of honor could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Drury preferred to doubt it – or to treat it as a mere conditional recommendation and to claim that I had forfeited any claim to it through extravagance, carelessness – in short, anything or nothing. What is certain is that the living became free two years ago, just as I was old enough to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is that I can't blame myself for really doing anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, careless temperament, and I have expressed my opinion ABOUT him and about him perhaps too frankly. I can't remember anything worse. But the fact is that we are very different types of men and that he hates me."
"This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly embarrassed.'
"At some point he WILL be – but not from ME. Until I can forget His Father, I can never defy or expose Him.'
Elizabeth honored him for such feelings and found him more beautiful than ever when he expressed them.
"But what," she said after a pause, "could have been his motive? What could have caused him to behave so cruelly?"
"A thorough, determined aversion to me – an aversion that I cannot attribute to jealousy other than to some extent. If the late Mr. Drury had liked me less, his son might have endured me better; but his father's unusual affection for me irritated him, I think, very early in life. He had no temperament to endure the kind of competition we were in – the kind of preference I was often given.'
"I didn't think Drury-san was so bad – although I never liked him. I hadn't thought so badly of him. I had suspected that he despised his fellow human beings in general, but I did not suspect that he would condescend to such vicious revenge, to such injustice, to such inhumanity.'
However, after a few minutes of reflection, she continued: "I remember one day at Netherfield he bragged about the relentlessness of his resentment and irreconcilable temperament. His disposition must be terrible."
"I'm not going to dare on this issue," Waterhouse replied; I can hardly be fair to him.'
Elizabeth was again deeply immersed in thought and after some time exclaimed: 'This is how to deal with the godson, the friend, the favorite of his father!' She could have added: "Even a young man, like you, whose face may vouch for your kindness" – but she was content with this: "And on top of that, one who had probably been his companion from childhood, connected to each other, as I think you said in the narrowest way!'
"We were born in the same community, in the same park; most of our youth was spent together; Inmates of the same house who share the same pleasures, objects of the same parental care. My father began his life in the profession that your uncle, Mr. Phillips, seems to do so much honor – but he gave up everything to benefit the late Mr. Drury and devoted all his time to caring for Pemberley's property. He was highly esteemed by Drury-san, a very intimate, confidential friend. Drury-san often confessed to the greatest commitments to my father's active supervision, and when Mr. Drury made him a voluntary promise to care for me immediately before my father's death, I am convinced that he felt that way I am very grateful to Him, as well as for his affection for myself.'
'How strange!' cried Elisabeth. "How disgusting! I'm surprised that the pride of this Mr. Drury didn't exactly make him you! Though for no better reason that he shouldn't have been too proud to be dishonest – because I have to call it dishonesty."
"It IS wonderful," Waterhouse replied, "because almost all of his actions can be traced back to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It connected him more closely to virtue than to any other feeling. But none of us is consistent, and in his behavior towards me there were even stronger impulses than pride.'
"Can such a heinous pride have ever done him any good?"
'Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money generously, to show hospitality, to help his tenants and to support the poor. Family pride and CHILD PRIDE – because he is very proud of what his father was – have made this happen. It is a strong motive not to shame his family, to fall away from popular qualities or to lose the influence of the House of Pemberley. He also has FRATERNAL pride, which, along with SOME fraternal affection, makes him a very kind and careful protector of his sister, and you will hear him generally hailed as the most attentive and best of all brothers.'
"What kind of girl is Miss Drury?"
He shook his head. "I wish I could call her kind. It hurts me to talk badly about a Drury. But she's too similar to her brother – very, very proud. As a child she was loving and pleasant and loved me very much; and I've dedicated hours after hours to their entertainment. But now it's not for me anymore. She's a pretty girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I hear, highly gifted. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her and oversees her education.'
After many pauses and trials of other subjects, Elizabeth couldn't help but return to the first one and say,
"I'm amazed at his intimacy with Mr. Woodland! How can Mr. Woodland, who seems to be in a good mood. myself, and do I really think it is really amiable to be friends with such a man? How can they fit together? Do you know Mr. Woodland?"
'Not at all.'
"He is a good-natured, kind, charming man. He can't know what Drury-san is."
'Probably not; but Drury-san can please wherever he wants. He doesn't want skills. He can be a talkative companion if he thinks it makes sense. Among those who are therefore quite equal to him, he is a very different person than for the less well-off. His pride never leaves him; but among the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, reasonable, honorable and perhaps pleasant – he allows something for wealth and figure.'
The Whist party ended shortly thereafter, the players gathered around the other table and Mr. Collins took his place between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. From the latter, the usual research was made after his success. It hadn't been very big; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern about it, he assured her with much serious seriousness that it was not of the slightest importance that he considered the money for a mere trifle, and asked her not to get restless.
"I know very well, madam," he said, "that when people sit down at a card table, they have to take their risk on these things, and fortunately I'm not in such circumstances that five shillings mean anything. Undoubtedly, there are many who could not say that, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh I am far beyond the need to take care of small things."
Mr. Waterhouse's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice if her relative was very familiar with de Bourgh's family.
"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has recently secured his livelihood. I don't know how Mr. Collins first became aware of her, but he certainly hasn't known her for long."
"You know, of course, that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Drury were sisters; Consequently, she is the aunt of the present Mr. Drury.'
"No, I actually didn't. I knew nothing at all about Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of their existence until the day before yesterday."
"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two lands."
This information made Elizabeth smile when she thought of poor Miss Woodland. All their attentions must be in vain, vain and useless their affection for his sister and her praise for herself, if he were already destined for another.
'Lord. Collins," she said, "speaks of both Lady Catherine and her daughter in the highest tones; but from some of the details he has told about her ladyhood, I suspect that his gratitude misleads him, and that although she is his patron, she is an arrogant, conceited woman.'
"I think it's very much both," Waterhouse replied; I haven't seen them for many years, but I remember very well that I never liked them and that their manners were dictatorial and outrageous. It has a reputation for being remarkably reasonable and wise; but I rather believe that she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative nature, and the rest from the pride in her nephew, who chooses that everyone associated with him should have a first-class understanding.'
Elizabeth admitted that he had reported it very reasonably, and they continued to talk with mutual satisfaction until dinner put an end to the card game, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Waterhouse's attention. There could be no entertainment in the noise of Mrs. Phillips' dinner party, but his manners recommended him to everyone. Whatever he said was well said; and what he did, he did gracefully. Elizabeth walked away from him with her head full. She couldn't think of anything but Mr. Waterhouse and what he had told her all the way home; but she didn't even have time to mention his name when they left, for neither Linda nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Linda spoke incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the courtesy of Mr. and Mrs.
Chapter 72
The honorable John Yates, this new friend, did not recommend much, apart from fashion and cost, and since he was the younger son of a lord with a tolerable independence; and Sir Thomas would probably not have considered his introduction to Mansfield to be desirable at all. Mr. Schmidt's acquaintance with him had begun in Weymouth, where they had spent ten days together in the same company, and the friendship, if you could call it friendship, had been proven and perfected by Mr. Yates' invitation to accept Mansfield into his way whenever he could, and by his promise to come; and he came earlier than expected, as a result of the sudden dissolution of a large group that had gathered to celebrate at another friend's house and to which he had left Weymouth to join. He came on the wings of disappointment, and with his head full of acting, for it had been a theatrical party; and the play in which he had played a role was within two days of the performance, when the sudden death of one of the family's closest relatives had destroyed the plan and dispersed the performers. So close to happiness, so close to fame, so close to the long heel in praise of the private theatres in Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalised the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation. and the play in which he had played a role was within two days of the performance, when the sudden death of one of the family's closest relatives had destroyed the plan and dispersed the performers. So close to happiness, so close to fame, so close to the long heel in praise of the private theatres in Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalised the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation. and the play in which he had played a role was within two days of the performance, when the sudden death of one of the family's closest relatives had destroyed the plan and dispersed the performers. So close to happiness, so close to fame, so close to the long heel in praise of the private theatres in Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalised the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation. when the sudden death of one of the family's closest relatives destroyed the plan and dispersed the performers. So close to happiness, so close to fame, so close to the long heel in praise of the private theatres in Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalised the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation. when the sudden death of one of the family's closest relatives destroyed the plan and dispersed the performers. So close to happiness, so close to fame, so close to the long heel in praise of the private theatres in Ecclesford, the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalised the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation. the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalized the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation. the seat of the Right Hon. Lord Ravenshaw in Cornwall, who of course would have immortalized the whole party for at least twelve months! and to be so close, to lose everything, was a violently felt injury, and Yates-san could not speak of anything else. Ecclesford and his theatre, with his arrangements and dresses, rehearsals and jokes, was his never-failing theme, and bragging about the past was his only consolation.
Fortunately for him, the love of theatre is so general, the urge to act among young people so strong that he could hardly persuade the interest of his listeners. From the first cast of the roles to the epilogue, everything was beguiling, and there were few who did not want to be involved or would have hesitated to try their skills. The piece had been Lovers' Vows, and Mr. Yates should have played Count Cassel. "An insignificant role," he said, "and not at all to my liking, and one that I would certainly not accept again; but I was determined not to make any difficulties. Lord Ravenshaw and the Duke had acquired the only two characters worth playing before I reached Ecclesford; and although Lord Ravenshaw offered me to cede his to me, it was impossible to accept it, you know. I felt sorry for him that he should have misunderstood his powers so much, because he was no longer equal to the Baron, a small man with a weak voice, always hoarse after the first ten minutes. It must have materially violated the piece; but I was determined not to make any difficulties. Sir Henry did not consider the Duke to be on an equal footing with Frederick, but that was because Sir Henry wanted the role himself; although it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Fortunately, the strength of the piece did not depend on him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and many considered the Duke to be very tall. And on the whole, it would certainly have gone wonderfully." but that was because Sir Henry wanted the role himself; although it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Fortunately, the strength of the piece did not depend on him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and many considered the Duke to be very tall. And on the whole, it would certainly have gone wonderfully." but that was because Sir Henry wanted the role himself; although it was certainly in the best hands of the two. I was surprised to see Sir Henry such a stick. Fortunately, the strength of the piece did not depend on him. Our Agatha was inimitable, and many considered the Duke to be very tall. And on the whole, it would certainly have gone wonderfully."
"It was a hard case, at my word"; and, "I think you were very pitiful," were the kind responses of listening compassion.
"It's not worth complaining about; but the poor old widow certainly could not have died at a worse time; and it is impossible to wish that the news could be suppressed only for the three days we wanted. It was only three days; and since I am only a grandmother and everything happens two hundred miles away, in my opinion there would have been no great harm, and it was proposed, I know; but Lord Ravenshaw, who I assume is one of the most correct men in England, did not want to hear about it."
"An after-piece instead of comedy," said Mr. Schmidt. "The vows of the lovers were over, and Lord and Lady Ravenshaw went to play My Grandmother alone. Well, the joint may comfort him; and perhaps he began to tremble among friends to his credit and lungs in the baron, and did not regret withdrawing; and to make amends for you, Yates, I think we need to set up a little theatre in Mansfield and ask you to be our manager."
This, although the thought of the moment, did not end with the moment; for the inclination to act was awakened, and in no one stronger than in him, who was now the master of the house; and the one who had so much leisure to make almost every novelty a certain good, also had such a degree of lively talent and comic taste, which was exactly adapted to the novelty of acting. The thought kept coming back. "Oh, for the Ecclesford theatre and the scenery to try something out with." Each sister could repeat the wish; and Henry Dorset, for whom it was still an unused pleasure in all the turmoil of his satisfactions, was very much alive with the idea. "I really believe," he said, "I could be stupid enough at this moment to take on any character ever written, from Shylock or Richard III down to the singing hero of a farce in his scarlet coat and three-pointed head. I feel like I can be anything or everything; as if in any tragedy or comedy in English I could rant and storm or sigh or cut caprioles. Let's do something. Be it only half a piece, an act, a scene; What should prevent us? Not those faces, I'm sure," he looked over at Miss Schmidt; And for a theatre, what does a theatre mean? We will only enjoy ourselves. Any room in this house could suffice."
"We have to have a curtain," said Tom Schmidt; "A few meters of green wool fabric for a curtain, and maybe that's enough."
"Oh, enough," shouted Yates-san, "with only one or two side wings, doors in the apartment, and three or four backdrops to be lowered; more would not be necessary with such a plan. For the mere pleasure of each other, we should not wish for anything more."
"I think we have to settle for less," Maria said. "There would be no time and other difficulties would arise. Rather, we need to adopt Mr. Dorset's views and make performance, not theater, our goal. Many parts of our best pieces are independent of the scenery."
"No," said Edmund, who listened with alarm. Let's not do things by halves. If we are to play, it will be in a fully equipped theatre with grandstand, boxes and gallery, and a whole play from beginning to end; just as it is a German piece, no matter what, with a good trick, an interplay and a figure dance and a hornpipe and a song between the acts. If we don't beat Ecclesford, we don't do anything."
"Well, Edmund, don't be uncomfortable," Julia said. "No one loves a play more than you or can have gone much further to see one."
"Right, to see real acting, good, hard-boiled real acting; but I would hardly go from this room to the next to look at the raw efforts of those who have not been bred into the profession: a group of gentlemen and ladies who have to fight their way through all the disadvantages of education and decency.
However, after a short pause, the topic went on and was discussed with undiminished zeal, with the inclination of each individual increasing through the discussion and the inclination of the others becoming known; and although nothing was clear but that Tom Schmidt would prefer a comedy and his sisters and Henry Dorset a tragedy, and that nothing in the world could be easier than finding a play that would please everyone, the decision to play anything seemed so decided that Edmund felt quite uncomfortable. He was determined to prevent this as much as possible, although his mother, who also listened to the conversation at the table, did not show the slightest disapproval.
The same evening gave him the opportunity to test his powers. Maria, Julia, Henry Dorset and Mr. Yates were in the billiard room. Tom, who returned from them to the salon, where Edmund stood thoughtfully by the fire while Lady Schmidt sat on the sofa some distance away and Esther arranged her work close to her, began like this when he entered: "Something like this A terribly disgusting pool table like ours is, I believe, not to be found above ground. I can no longer bear it, and I think I can say that nothing will ever seduce me again; but one good thing I just realized: it's the right space for a theater, exactly the shape and length for it; and the doors at the other end that connect to each other, as is possible in five minutes by simply moving the bookshelf in my father's room, is exactly what we could have wished for if we had sat down to wish for it; and my father's room will be an excellent greenroom. It seems to intentionally connect with the billiard room."
"You're not serious, Tom, with the intention of acting?" said Edmund in a low voice as his brother approached the fire.
"Not seriously! never again, I assure you. What is there that surprises you about it?"
"I think that would be very wrong. In general, private theatrical performances are subject to some objections, but given the circumstances, I have to think that it would be highly unreasonable and more than unreasonable to try something like this. It would show great lack of feelings for my father, as absent as he is and to some extent exposed to constant danger; and it would be careless, I think, in relation to Mary, whose situation is very delicate, considering everything, extremely delicate."
"You take one thing so seriously! as if we wanted to perform three times a week until my father's return and invite the whole country. But it should not be such an ad. We mean nothing more than a little conversation with each other, just to vary the scene and exercise our powers in something new. We don't want an audience, we don't want advertising. I think we can be trusted if we choose a game that is completely blameless; and I can't think of any greater harm or danger to any of us talking in the elegant written language of a respectable author than talking in our own words. I have no fears and no scruples. And my father's absence is so far removed from an objection that I see it more as a motive; for the expectation of his return must be a very anxious time for my mother; and if we can be the means to amuse that fear and maintain their mood for the next few weeks, I think our time is very well spent, and I'm sure he will too. It's a very anxious time for them."
When he said that, everyone looked at his mother. Lady Schmidt, sunk back into a corner of the sofa, the image of health, wealth, lightness and tranquility, just fell into a gentle slumber, while Esther managed the few difficulties of her work for her.
Edmund smiled and shook his head.
"From Jove! that's not possible," Tom shouted and threw himself on a chair with a hearty laugh. "However, my dear mother, your fear – I was unlucky."
"What's going on?" asked her gracious wife in the heavy tone of a half-excited; "I didn't sleep."
"Oh dear, no, Ma'am, no one suspected you! Well, Edmund," he continued, returning to the previous theme, posture and voice as soon as Lady Schmidt began to nod again, "but I maintain that we will do no harm."
"I can't agree with you; I am convinced that my father would totally disapprove of this."
"And I am convinced of the opposite. No one loves or promotes the talent of young people more than my father, and for everything acting, talking, reciting, I think he always has a pronounced taste. I'm sure he encouraged it in us as boys. How many times have we mourned the body of Julius Caesar and to be in this room for his amusement and not to be? And I'm sure my name was Norval, every night of my life until the Christmas holidays."
"That was something completely different. You have to see the difference for yourself. My father wanted us to speak well as schoolboys, but he would never want his adult daughters to play plays. His sense of decency is strict."
"I know all that," Tom said angrily. "I know my father as well as you do; and I will make sure that his daughters do not put him in distress. Take care of your own affairs, Edmund, and I'll take care of the rest of the family."
"If you are determined to act," replied the persistent Edmund, "I must hope that it will be very small and quiet; and I don't think a theater should be tried. It would take liberties with my father's house in its absence, which would be unjustifiable."
"I'm responsible for everything of this kind," Tom said in a decisive tone. "No harm shall be done to his house. I have as much interest in taking care of his house as you can have; and as for the changes I have just proposed, such as moving a bookshelf or unlocking a door or even using the billiard room for a period of a week without playing billiards in it, you can just as well assume he would resist us sitting more in this room and less in the breakfast room than before his departure, or that my sister's pianoforte is placed from one side of the room to the other. Absolute nonsense!"
"The innovation, if it is not wrong as an innovation, will be wrong as an expense."
"Yes, the cost of such an endeavor would be enormous! Maybe it costs as much as twenty pounds. We must undoubtedly have something of a theater, but it will be according to the simplest plan: a green curtain and a little carpentry, and that's all; and since the carpenter's work may be done by Christopher Jackson himself at home, it would be too absurd to speak of cost; and as long as Jackson is employed, everything will be fine with Sir Thomas. Do not think that no one in this House but yourself can see or judge. Don't act yourself if you don't like it, but don't expect to rule everyone else."
"No, as far as my own acting is concerned," said Edmund, "against which I absolutely protest."
Tom walked out of the room when he said it, and Edmund stayed behind to sit down and stoke the fire in thoughtful annoyance.
Esther, who had heard it all and kept Edmund company in every way all along, now dared to say, in her effort to give some comfort, "Maybe they won't find a suitable piece. The tastes of your brother and your sisters seem to be very different."
"I have no hope, Esther. If they stick to the scheme, they will find something. I'm going to talk to my sisters and try to dissuade them from doing so, and that's all I can do."
"I think my Aunt Norris would be on your side."
"I dare say she would, but she doesn't have any influence on Tom or my sisters that could be of any use; and if I can't convince them myself, I will let things run their course without trying through them. Family bickering is the greatest evil of all, and we'd better do everything we can than be completely to our ears."
His sisters, with whom he had the opportunity to speak the next morning, were just as impatient with his advice, just as adamant about his representation, just as determined in the cause of pleasure as Tom. Their mother had no objections to the plan, and they were not the slightest afraid of their father's disapproval. It couldn't hurt what had been done in so many respected families and by so many first-class women; and it must be an insane unscrupulousness that saw anything to criticize in a plan like hers, which included only brothers and sisters and close friends, and of which nothing would ever be heard outside of herself. Julia seemed inclined to admit that Mary's situation might require special caution and tenderness – but this could not affect her – she was free to do so; and Mary apparently viewed her engagement only in such a way that she elevated her so much more above restraint and gave her less opportunity than Julia to consult either father or mother. Edmund had little to hope for, but he was still pushing for the subject when Henry Dorset, fresh from the rectory, entered the room and shouted, "No shortage of hands in our theater, Miss Schmidt. No shortage of undertrappers: my sister desires her love and hopes to be accepted into society, and will gladly take on the role of an old Duenna or a tame confidant, which you may not like yourself. "No shortage of hands in our theatre, Miss Schmidt. No shortage of undertrappers: my sister desires her love and hopes to be accepted into society, and will gladly take on the role of an old Duenna or a tame confidant, which you may not like yourself. "No shortage of hands in our theatre, Miss Schmidt. No shortage of undertrappers: my sister desires her love and hopes to be accepted into society, and will gladly take on the role of an old Duenna or a tame confidant, which you may not like yourself.
Maria glanced at Edmund, which meant, "What do you say now? Can we be wrong if Mary Dorset thinks the same way?" And Edmund, who was silenced, had to admit that the charm of acting could very well fascinate the spirit of the genius; and with the ingenuity of love, to be more concerned with the binding, accommodating content of the message than with anything else.
The scheme progressed. Resistance was in vain; and as for Mrs. Norris, he was wrong to think she would want to make some. She did not begin any difficulties that were not talked down in five minutes by her eldest nephew and niece, who were omnipotent with her; and since the whole arrangement was to bring very little cost to anyone and none at all to herself, since she saw in it all the comforts of haste, busyness and importance, and took the immediate advantage of feeling compelled to leave her own house, where she had lived for a month at her own expense, and took up residence in hers, in order to spend every hour in her service, she was indeed extremely pleased with the project.
Chapter 73
Mr. Lodge was soon ready for his tea; and when he had drunk his tea, he was ready to go home; and it was all his three companions could do to suppress his late hour notification before the other gentlemen appeared. Mr. Winstone was talkative and sociable and not a friend of early breakups of any kind; but eventually the society in the salon received an increase. Mr. Alton, in a very good mood, was one of the first to come in. Mrs. Winstone and Emma sat together on a sofa. He immediately joined them and sat down between them without being asked.
Emma, too, was in a good mood, ready to forget his late inconvenience and be as happy with him as before, from the amusement that the expectation of Mr. Frank Curcelle gave her, and since he made Harriet his very first subject, she was willing to listen with the kindest smile.
He declared himself extremely concerned about her beautiful friend – her beautiful, beautiful, kind friend. "Did she know? – had she heard anything about them since they were in Randalls? – he was very worried – he must confess that he was very concerned about the nature of her complaint." And in this style he continued to speak very neatly for a while, without paying much attention to an answer, but quite awake enough for the horror of a bad sore throat; and Emma was quite charitable with him.
But lately there seemed to be a perverse twist; suddenly he seemed more afraid that it was a bad sore throat because of her than Harriet's – more worried that she could escape the infection than that there should be no infection in the complaint. He began with great seriousness to ask her not to visit the hospital room for the time being – to ask her to promise him not to take such a risk until he had seen Mr. Perry and learned his opinion; and although she tried to dismiss it with a laugh and get the subject back on track, he couldn't put an end to his extreme concern for her. She was upset. It actually seemed – there was no secret – just like the pretense of being in love with her instead of Harriet; an impermanence, if genuine, the most contemptuous and heinous! and she had difficulty behaving with temperament. He turned to Mrs. Winstone for her help. "Wouldn't she give him her support? Wouldn't she add her beliefs to his to induce Miss Lodge not to go to Mrs. Goddard until it was certain that Miss Smith's illness was not an infection? He couldn't be satisfied without a promise – wouldn't she give him her influence to procure it?"
"So conscientious for others," he continued, "and yet so carefree for himself! She wanted me to cure my cold by staying home today, but still didn't promise to escape the danger of getting herself an ulcerated sore throat. Is that fair, Mrs. Winstone? – Judges among us. Don't I have a right to complain? I am sure of your kind support and help."
Emma saw Mrs. Winstone's surprise and thought it must be great, at an address that in words and manner assumed the right of first interest in her; and as far as she herself is concerned, she was too provoked and offended to have the power to say anything directly for the purpose. She could only look at him; but it was such a look that she thought he had to bring him back to his senses, and then she left the sofa, sat down next to her sister and gave her all her attention.
She didn't have time to know how Mr. Alton took up the rebuke, so quickly another topic succeeded; for Mr. John Hill came into the room now, after examining the weather, and told them all the news that the ground is covered with snow and that it is still snowing fast and a strong wind is blowing; Concluding with these words to Mr. Lodge:
"This will be a spirited start to your winter commitments, sir. Something new for your coachman and your horses to fight their way through a snowstorm."
Poor Mr. Lodge remained silent in dismay; but everyone else had something to say; Everyone was either surprised or not surprised and had a question to ask or comfort. Mrs. Winstone and Emma seriously tried to cheer him up and divert his attention from his son-in-law, who pursued his triumph rather callously.
"I greatly admired your determination, sir," he said, "to go out in this weather, because of course you saw that there would be snow very soon. Everyone must have seen the snow coming. I have admired your spirit; and I dare say that we will come home very well. An additional hour or two of snow can hardly make the road impassable; and we are two carriages; if one is blown over in the gloomy part of the common field, the other will be at hand. I dare say we will all be safe before midnight in Hartfield."
Mr. Winstone confessed with a triumph of a different kind that he had known for some time that it was snowing, but had not said a word so that Mr. Lodge would not feel uncomfortable and was an excuse for his haste. That some amount of snow has fallen or is likely to fall to hinder their return was a mere joke; he feared they would not find any difficulties. He wished the road was impassable so he could keep them all at Randalls; and with the greatest benevolence, he was sure that accommodation could be found for each corpse, and asked his wife to agree that with a little invention any corpse could be accommodated, which she barely understood, knowing that there are only two free rooms in the house.
"What is to be done, my dear Emma? – what to do?" was Mr. Lodge's first exclamation and everything he has been able to say for some time. With her he sought comfort; and their assurances of safety, their portrayal of the excellence of the horses and James, and that they had so many friends around them, enlivened him a little.
His eldest daughter's alarm was on a par with his own. The horror of being imprisoned in Randalls while their children were in Hartfield was full in their imagination; and she imagined that the road was now just passable for adventurous people, but in a state that did not allow for any delay, she was eager to get it settled that her father and Emma should stay in Randalls, while she and her husband immediately went through all the possible accumulations of flying snow that could hinder them.
"You'd better order the carriage directly, my dear," she said; "I dare say that we can get along if we set off straight away; and if we get to something very bad, I can get out and walk. I'm not afraid at all. I shouldn't mind going half way. I could change my shoes, you know, as soon as I get home; and it's not the kind of thing that caught a cold on me."
"Indeed!" he replied. "Then, my dear Bella, it's the most extraordinary thing in the world, because in general, everything causes you a cold. Go home! – They are nicely shoeed to go home, dare I say. It's going to be bad enough for the horses."
Bella turned to Mrs. Winstone to get her approval of the plan. Mrs. Winstone could only agree. Bella then went to Emma; but Emma couldn't quite give up hope that they could all escape; and they were still debating the point when Mr. Hill, who had left the room immediately after his brother's first report about the snow, came back and told them he had been outside for an examination and couldn't answer for the slightest difficulty of getting home whenever they liked it, either now or in an hour. He had gone beyond the loop – a bit along Highbury Road – the snow was nowhere higher than half an inch high – in many places barely enough to bleach the ground; a few flakes fell now, but the clouds split, and it looked like it would soon be over.
For Bella, the relief of such news was very great, and it was hardly less acceptable to Emma because of her father, who immediately felt as reassured by the subject as his nervous constitution allowed; but the alarm that had been raised could not be appeased to allow any comfort for him as he continued with Randalls. He was pleased that there was no present danger on returning home, but no assurances could convince him that it was safe to stay; and while the others pushed and recommended in different ways, Mr. Hill and Emma decided in a few short sentences: so –
"Your father will not have it easy; Why don't you go?"
"I'm ready when the others are."
"Should I ring the bell?"
"Yes, do."
And the bell was rung and the wagons were promised. A few more minutes, and Emma hoped to see an annoying companion deposited in his own house to get sober and cool, and the other would regain his temper and happiness when this arduous visit was over.
The carriage came: and Mr. Lodge, always the first object on such occasions, was carefully cared for by Mr. Hill and Mr. Winstone for his own; but not everything both could say could prevent renewed anxiety at the sight of the actual snow falling and the discovery of a much darker night than he had expected. "He was afraid that they might have a very bad ride. He was afraid that poor Bella would not like it. And in the carriage behind it would be poor Emma. He didn't know what they should do best. They have to stick together as much as possible." and James was approached and told to drive very slowly and wait for the other carriage.
Bella stepped in behind her father; John Hill, forgetting that he did not belong to their party, naturally jumped after his wife; so that Emma, ?? when she was escorted by Mr. Alton and chased into the second car, she realized that the door should be legally closed in front of them and that they should have a tete-a-tete ride. It would not have been the clumsiness of a moment, it would have been more of a pleasure, before the suspicion of that day; she could have told him about Harriet, and the three-quarters of a mile would have seemed like one to him. But now she would rather it hadn't happened. She believed that he had drunk too much of Mr. Winstone's good wine, and was sure that he wanted to talk nonsense.
In order to hold him back as much as possible through her own manners, she immediately prepared to talk about the weather and the night with exquisite calm and seriousness; but as soon as she had begun, no sooner had they passed the U-gate and joined the other carriage, when she found that her subject was cut up – her hand grasped – demanded her attention, and Mr. Alton actually made fierce love with her: using him the precious opportunity to express feelings that must already be well known, hoping – fearing – adoring – ready to die, if she rejected him; but he flattered himself that his fervent affection and incomparable love and passion could not fail to have a certain effect, and in short, determined to be seriously accepted as soon as possible. It really was. Without scruples – without excuse – without much obvious restraint, Mr. Alton, Harriet's lover, declared himself her lover. She tried to stop him; but in vain; he would go ahead and say anything. Angry as she was, the thought of the moment made her decide to hold back when she spoke. She felt that half of this folly had to be drunkenness, so she could hope that she only belonged to the passing hour. Accordingly, she responded with a mixture of seriousness and playfulness, which she hoped would best suit his half-and-half state:
"I am very amazed, Mr. Alton. That to me! They forget themselves – they think I am my friend – every message to Miss Smith I will gladly deliver; but please don't do more of it for me."
"Miss Smith! – Message to Miss Smith! – What could she have meant!" – And he repeated her words with such a confident accent, such a boastful glow of astonishment that she could not help but answer quickly,
"Lord. Alton, that's the most extraordinary behavior! and I can only explain it in one way; you're not yourself, or you couldn't talk to me or Harriet like that. Master yourself enough not to say anything more, and I will try to forget it."
But Mr. Alton had only drunk enough wine to lift his spirits, not to confuse his intellect. He knew his own meaning perfectly; and after warmly protesting her suspicions as highly harmful and lightly touching his respect for Miss Smith as her friend – but acknowledging his miracle that Miss Smith should be mentioned at all – he took up the subject of his own passion again and was very urgent for a positive response.
Thinking less of his intoxication, she thought more of his impermanence and presumption; and with less struggle for politeness, replied
,
"It's impossible for me to doubt any longer. You have expressed yourself too clearly. Mr. Alton, my amazement is beyond anything I can express. After such behavior that I have seen towards Miss Smith in the last month – such attentions that I am used to watching on a daily basis – addressing myself in this way – this is indeed a character weakness that I supposedly did not have possible! Believe me, sir, I am far, very far from satisfied with being the subject of such professions."
"Good heavens!" cried Mr. Alton, "what can that mean? – Miss Smith! – I have never thought of Miss Smith in all my life – have never paid attention to her, but as your friend: has never cared whether she is dead or alive, but as your friend. If she has imagined otherwise, her own desires have misled her, and I am very sorry – very sorry – But, Miss Smith, indeed! – Oh! Miss Lodge! who can think of Miss Smith when Miss Lodge is nearby! No, in my honor, there is no weakness of character. I just thought of you. I protest against having paid the slightest attention to someone else. Everything I have said or done in the past few weeks has been done with the sole purpose of expressing my worship of yourself. There can be no serious doubt about that. No! – (with a salacious accent) – I'm sure you've seen and understood me."
It would be impossible to say what Emma felt when she heard this – which of all her unpleasant sensations was the most important thing. She was too completely overwhelmed to respond immediately: and two moments of silence, which amply encouraged Mr. Alton's Sanguine state of mind, he tried again to take her hand when he joyfully exclaimed,
"Charming Miss Lodge! allow me to interpret this interesting silence. It confesses that you have long understood me."
"No, sir," cried Emma, ?"?" there is no such thing. Far from having understood you for a long time, I have been in a complete error regarding your views up to this moment. As far as I am concerned, I am very sorry that you should have given in to any feelings – nothing could be further from my wishes – your attachment to my friend Harriet – your pursuit of her (persecuting, it seemed) gave me great pleasure, and I very sincerely wished you every success: but I would have assumed that she does not exert her attraction on Hartfield, I would have thought you would have judged it badly if you made your visits so frequently. Am I supposed to think that you never tried to recommend Miss Smith in particular? – that you never seriously thought about them?"
"Never, madam," he shouted, offended, "never, I assure you. I seriously think of Miss Smith! Miss Smith is a very good girl; and I would be happy to see them respectably settled. I wish her all the best: and there are undoubtedly men who don't mind – every body has its own level: but as far as I'm concerned, I don't think I'm quite as perplexed. I don't need to despair so much of an equal alliance to turn to Miss Smith! – No, madam, my visits to Hartfield have been just for you; and the encouragement I received...«
"Encouragement! – I encourage you! Sir, you were completely wrong when you accepted that. I only saw you as an admirer of my friend. In no other light could you have been more to me than a common acquaintance. I am extremely sorry: but it is good that the error ends where it ends. Had the same behavior continued, Miss Smith might have been led to misjudge your views; I am probably no more aware than I am of the very great inequality of which you are so aware. But so the disappointment is unique and, I hope, not permanent. I'm not thinking about marriage at the moment."
He was too angry to say a word; their kind also chose to invite supplications; and in this state of swelling resentment and mutual deep humiliation, they had to continue together for a few more minutes, for Mr. Lodge's fears had limited them to one footstep. If there hadn't been so much trouble, there would have been desperate awkwardness; but their honest feelings left no room for small zigzag movements of embarrassment. Without knowing when the carriage turned into Vicarage Lane or stopped, they suddenly found themselves at the door of his house; and he was outside before another syllable passed. - Emma then thought it was essential to wish him a good night. The compliment was just returned coldly and proudly; and to the indescribable annoyance of the spirits, she was then transported to Hartfield.
There she was received with great joy by her father, who had trembled from the dangers of a lonely ride from Vicarage Lane – to turn a corner he could not think of – and in foreign hands – an ordinary coachman – no James; and then it seemed as if their return was only intended to make everything go well: for Mr. John Hill, who was ashamed of his bad mood, was now all kindness and attention; and so particularly concerned for her father's comfort, to seem – though not quite ready to join him in a basin of porridge – fully aware that it is extraordinarily healthy; and the day ended in peace and comfort for her whole little society, except herself. But her spirit had never been in such excitement;
Chapter 74
Mrs. Hargrove's visit to Lady Mideltown took place the next day, and two of her daughters accompanied her; but Marianne apologized from the party, under an insignificant pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that Warwick had made a promise the night before to visit her during her absence, was completely satisfied that she stayed at home.
On their return from the park, they found Warwick's curriculum and servants waiting for the cottage, and Mrs. Hargrove was convinced that their assumption had been fair. So far, everything has been as she had foreseen; but when she entered the house, she saw what she had taught without foresight. As soon as they were in the corridor, Marianne came out of the salon in a hurry, seemingly in sorrow, with her handkerchief in front of her eyes; and ran, without realizing it, up the stairs. Surprised and alarmed, they went straight into the room they had just calmed down, where they found only Warwick leaning against them by the mantelpiece with his back to them. When they came in, he turned around, and his expression showed that he was heavily involved in the excitement that overwhelmed Marianne.
"Is there anything wrong with her?" cried Mrs. Hargrove as she entered—"Is she sick?"
"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and now added with a forced smile: "It is I who can rather expect to be sick - because I am now suffering from a very serious disappointment!"
"Disappointment?"
"Yes, because I am not able to keep my engagement to you. Mrs. Smith exercised the privilege of wealth on a poor, dependent cousin this morning by sending me to London on business. I have just received my cables and said goodbye to Allenham; and out of joy I have now come to say goodbye to you."
"To London! - and are you driving this morning?"
"Almost at this moment."
"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs Smith must be committed; - and your business won't stop you from us for long, I hope."
He blushed as he replied: "They are very friendly but I have no idea to return to Devonshire immediately.
"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighborhood where you are welcome? Too bad, Warwick, can you wait here for an invitation?"
Its color increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground, he replied, "You're too good."
Mrs. Hargrove looked at Eleanore in surprise. Eleanore was also amazed. For a few moments, everyone was silent. Mrs. Hargrove spoke first.
"I just have to add, my dear Warwick, that you will always be welcome at Barton Cottage; for I will not urge you to return here immediately, because you can only judge to what extent THAT mrs. Smith might please; and so on this head, I am not inclined to question your judgment rather than to doubt your inclination.
"My current obligations," Warwick replied confusedly, "are of such a kind — that –I dare not flatter myself" —
He stopped. Mrs. Hargrove was too amazed to speak, and another pause followed. This was interrupted by Warwick, who said with a faint smile: "It is folly to dwell in this way.
Then he hastily said goodbye to everyone and left the room. They saw him get into his carriage, and in a minute she was out of sight.
Mrs. Hargrove felt too much to talk to and immediately calmed down the salon to make way for the anxiety and anxiety that this sudden departure caused in solitude.
Eleanore's discomfort was at least as great as her mother's. With fear and mistrust, she thought of what had just happened. Warwick's farewell behavior, his embarrassment, his feigned cheerfulness and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so dissimilar to a lover, so dissimilar to himself, worried her greatly. For a moment, she feared that no serious plan had ever been forged on his side; and the next, that an unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister; - the distress in which Marianne had calmed the room was so great that a serious quarrel could be most reasonably explained, although, when she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever the details of their separation, her sister's suffering was undeniable; and she thought with the most tender compassion of that intense sorrow to which Marianne in all probability gave in not only as a relief, but as a duty nourished and encouraged.
After about half an hour, her mother returned, and although her eyes were red, her facial expression was not unforgiving.
"Our dear Warwick is now a few miles from Barton, Eleanore," she said as she sat down at work, "and with how heavy heart does he travel?"
"It's all very strange. To be gone so suddenly! It seems to be only the work of a moment. And last night he was so happy, so happy, so loving with us? And now, after only ten minutes of notice – even without leaving – something more must have happened than what we are entitled to. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You must have seen the difference as well as I did. What can that be? Could they have argued? Why else would he have shown so little willingness to accept your invitation here?" –
"It was not a tendency he wanted, Eleanore; I could see THAT clearly. He didn't have the strength to accept it to me just like you."
"You can, indeed!"
that this may or may not have happened; but I will not listen to any objection unless you can point to another method to understand the matter as satisfactory. And now, Eleanore, what do you have to say?"
"Nothing, because you were expecting my answer."
"Then you would have told me that it might or may not have happened. Oh, Eleanore, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You would rather have taken evil than good on your account Poor Warwick than an apology for the latter. They are determined to consider him reprehensible because he said goodbye to us with less affection than his usual behavior has shown. And there must be no consideration for carelessness or recently depressed disappointment? Are there no probabilities to accept just because they are not certainties? Is there nothing wrong with the man we love so much and have no reason to think badly in the world? The possibility of motives that are in themselves unanswerable, although inevitably secret for a while? And whose do you suspect him after all?
"I can hardly tell myself. But the suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such a change as we have just seen in him. However, there is a great truth in what you have now demanded about the concessions that should be made for him, and it is my desire to be sincere in my judgment of each person. Warwick may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his behaviour, and I hope he has. But it would have been more similar to Warwick to acknowledge them immediately. Secrecy may be advisable; but I still have to wonder that he practices it.
"However, do not blame him for deviating from his character where the deviation is necessary. But you really admit the justice of what I said in his defiance? – I am happy – and he will be acquitted."
"Not quite. It may be right to hide their engagement (if they are engaged) from Mrs Smith – and if that is the case, it must be most expedient for Warwick to spend little time in Devonshire at the moment. But that's no excuse for them hiding it from us."
"To conceal this from us! My dear child, do you accuse Warwick and Marianne of veiling?
"I don't want proof of their affection," Eleanore said; "but from their engagement I do."
"I'm completely satisfied with both."
"But none of them told you a syllable about it."
"I didn't want syllables where actions spoke so clearly. Hasn't his behavior towards Marianne and all of us at least in the last fourteen days declared that he loves her and considers her his future wife and that he feels for us the attachment of the closest relatives? Didn't we fully understand each other? Wasn't my approval asked daily by his appearance, his behavior, his attentive and loving respect? My Eleanore, can you doubt her engagement? How could such a how can it be assumed that Warwick, convinced of how he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and perhaps leave her for months without telling her about his affection – that they should separate without mutual consent? Exchange of trust?"
"I confess," Eleanore replied, "that every circumstance except ONE speaks for their engagement; but this ONE is the complete silence of both on this subject, and for me it outweighs almost everyone else."
"How strange that is! You must indeed think pathetically of Warwick when, after all that has happened openly between them, you can doubt the nature of the conditions on which they are together. Did he play a role with his behavior towards you? Sister all the time? Do you think he really doesn't matter to her?"
"No, I can't think so. He has to love her and he does, I'm sure."
"But with a strange tenderness, when he can leave it to the future with such indifference, such carelessness, as you attribute it to him."
"You must bear in mind, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter safe. I had my doubts, I confess; but they are weaker than they were, and they may soon be completely gone. If we find that they agree, any fear of mine will be removed."
"A powerful concession indeed! If you saw them at the altar, you would assume that they would get married. Unmerciful girl! But I do not ask for such proof attempted; everything was uniformly open and unreserved. You can not doubt your sister's wishes. So it must be Warwick that you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honor and feeling? Alarm? can he be deceitful?"
"I hope not, I don't think so," Eleanore shouted. "I love Warwick, I sincerely love him, and the suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful for you than it is for me. It was involuntary, and I will not promote it - he did not speak like himself and did not reciprocate your kindness with any cordiality, but all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs, as you have assumed: he had just separated from my sister, had they seen him leave in the greatest need, and if he is afraid, Mrs. Smith felt obligated to resist the temptation to return here soon, and yet was aware that he declined your invitation by saying that he would travel for some time, he should seem to be an involuntary, a suspicious part of our family, he could very well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a clear and open admission of his difficulties would, in my opinion, have been more to his credit and also more appropriate to his general character; - but I will not object to anyone's behavior on such an illiberal basis, as a difference in judgment of myself or as a deviation from what I think is right and consistent."
"They speak very well. Warwick certainly doesn't deserve to be suspected. Although WE have not known him for long, he is no stranger to this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to their detriment? Acting himself and getting married immediately, it might have been strange that he left us without immediately confessing everything to me: but that is not the case. It is an engagement that has not been successfully started in some respects, because their marriage must be very much in the end uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be maintained, can now be highly advisable.
They were interrupted by Margaret's entry; and Eleanore was then free to reflect on her mother's ideas, to acknowledge the likelihood of many, and to hope for the justice of all.
They didn't see Marianne until dinner when she entered the room and sat down at the table without a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if their tears were held back with difficulty even then. She avoided all glances, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, when her mother silently squeezed her hand with tender compassion, her low bravery was completely overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
This violent suppression of the spirits lasted the whole evening. She was powerless because she had no desire to rule over herself. The slightest mention of anything related to Warwick immediately overwhelmed her; and although their family was very anxious about their well-being, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to stay away from any topic that their feelings connected with him.
Chapter 75
Elizabeth told Jane the next day what had happened between Mr. Waterhouse and her. Jane listened in amazement and concern; she didn't know how to believe that Mr. Drury might be so unworthy of Mr. Woodland's attention; and yet it was not in their nature to question the truthfulness of a young man of such a amiable appearance as Waterhouse. The possibility that he had endured such unkindness was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and there was therefore nothing left to do but think well of the two of them, to defend the behavior of each one and to throw everything that could not be explained otherwise into the calculation of the accident or mistake.
"They've both been deceived," she said, "in one way or another, dare I say, that we can't imagine. Interested parties may have misrepresented each other. In short, it is impossible for us to suspect the causes or circumstances that may have alienated them without both sides actually being to blame.'
'Very true, indeed; And now, my dear Jane, what do you have to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably dealt with the business? Clean THEM too, or we will be forced to think badly of someone.'
"Laugh as much as you want, but you won't laugh at me. My dearest Lizzy, just consider the shameful light in which Mr. Drury is portrayed to treat his father's darling like this, one his father had promised to take care of. It's impossible. No man of ordinary humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be able to do so. Can his most intimate friends be so overly deceived in him? Oh! No.'
"I can believe much more that Mr. Woodland will be forced than that Mr. Waterhouse should invent such a story of himself as he told me last night; Names, facts, everything mentioned without further ado. If this is not the case, Mr. Drury should contradict it. Moreover, there was truth in his appearance."
"It's indeed difficult – it's excruciating. You don't know what to think.'
'I apologise; you know exactly what to think.'
But Jane could only think of one point for sure – that if Mr. Woodland had been forced upon him, he would suffer a lot if the affair became public.
The two young ladies were called out of the bushes where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the real people they had spoken of; Mr. Woodland and his sisters came to deliver their personal invitation to the long-awaited ball at Netherfield, which was scheduled for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were happy about the reunion with their dear friend, called it an eternity since they had met, and kept asking what she had done to herself since their separation. They paid little attention to the rest of the family; he avoided Mrs. Mitchell as much as possible, didn't say much to Elizabeth and nothing at all to the others. They soon left, rising from their seats with an activity that surprised their brother, and rushing away as if to escape Mrs. Mitchell's courtesies.
The view of the Netherfield Ball was extremely pleasant for any woman in the family. Mrs. Mitchell chose to take it as a compliment to her eldest daughter and felt particularly flattered to receive the invitation from Mr. Woodland himself instead of a ceremonial card. Jane imagined a happy evening in the company of her two friends, and her brother's attentions; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a lot with Mr. Waterhouse and seeing in Mr. Drury's appearance and behavior a confirmation of everything. The happiness expected of Catherine and Linda depended less on a single event or a specific person, because although they both, like Elizabeth, wanted to dance half the evening with Mr. Waterhouse, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was a ball anyway.
"Although I can have my morning to myself," she said, "it's enough — I don't think it's a sacrifice to occasionally attend evening appointments. Society has demands on all of us; and I confess to those who consider recreation and entertainment breaks to be desirable for everyone.'
Elizabeth's mood was so high on this occasion that, although she did not often speak to Mr. Collins unnecessarily, she could not help but ask him if he intended to accept Mr. Woodland's invitation, and if he did, if he thought it appropriate, take part in the evening's entertainment; and she was quite surprised when she realized that he had no scruples in this regard and was very far from fearing a rebuke by the Archbishop or Lady Catherine de Bourgh by daring to dance.
"I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you," he said, "that such a ball, which a young man of character gives away to decent people, can have any evil tendencies; and I am so far from dancing myself that I hope to be honored in the course of the evening with the hands of all my beautiful cousins; and I take this opportunity to ask yours, Miss Elizabeth, especially for the first two dances, a preference that I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right thing and not to some disrespect for her.'
Elizabeth felt completely taken. She had fully proposed to be engaged by Mr. Waterhouse for exactly these dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead! Their liveliness had never been at a worse time. However, there was no help for this. Mr. Waterhouse's happiness and her own were inevitably delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins' proposal was accepted as mercilessly as she could. She was no longer pleased with his gallantry of the idea, which suggested something more. Now the first thing she noticed was that SHE was chosen from the circle of her sisters as worthy to be the mistress of Hunsford Parsonage and to help form a quadrillent table in Rosings, in the absence of more suitable visitors. The idea soon gained persuasiveness as she observed his increasing politeness to himself, and heard his frequent attempt at complimenting her wit and liveliness; and although she amazed herself more than satisfied herself at this effect of her charms, it didn't take long for her mother to tell her that the likelihood of her marriage was extremely pleasant for HER. However, Elizabeth did not choose to understand the clue, as she was aware that a serious argument had to be the result of any response. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and until he did, it was pointless to argue about him.
If there hadn't been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk about, the younger Miss Mitchell would have been in a very pathetic state at the time, because from the day of the invitation to the day of the ball there was such a series of rains that once prevented her from going to Meryton. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought – even the shoe roses for Netherfield were procured by proxy. Even Elizabeth would have put her patience to the test in the weather that completely canceled out the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Waterhouse; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday bearable for Kitty and Linda.
Chapter 76
Esther seemed to be more right than Edmund had assumed. The business of finding a piece suitable for everyone turned out to be no small thing; and the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, hinted at and eliminated at least two difficulties, and after making fully clear the need for an expansion of the plan and costs, he was already at work while a play was still to be sought. Other preparations were also underway. A huge roll of green felt had arrived from Northampton and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving of a full three-quarters of a yard from her good administration) and actually formed from the maids to a curtain, and that the game was still missing; and when two or three days passed in this way, Edmund almost began to hope that no one would ever be found.
In fact, there were so many things to do, so many people to please, so many best characters to need, and most importantly, such a need that the play was to be tragedy and comedy at the same time, that this was the case seems to have as little chance of decision as something haunted by youth and zeal.
On the tragic side were Miss Schmidts, Henry Dorset and Mr. Yates; on the comic, Tom Schmidt, not entirely alone, for it was obvious that Mary Dorset's desires, although politely withheld, tended in the same direction: but his determination and power seemed to make allies unnecessary; and regardless of this big unbridgeable difference, they wanted a piece that as a whole contained very few characters, but all characters first-class and three main women. All the best pieces were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester presented anything that could satisfy even the tragics; and "The Rivals", "The School for Scandal", "Wheel of Fortune", "Heir at Law" and so on were rejected one after the other with even warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that didn't cause trouble for anyone, and on one side or the other, it was a constant repetition of, "Oh no, that never works! Let's not have noisy tragedies. Too many characters. No tolerable female role in the play. Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it. Such a role could not be expected of anyone. Nothing but antics from start to finish. That might be enough, but for the low parts. When I have to say my opinion, I always found it the most boring piece in English. I do not wish to raise any objections; I'll be happy to be of use, but I don't think we could make a worse choice." No tolerable female role in the play. Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it. Such a role could not be expected of anyone. Nothing but antics from start to finish. That might be enough, but for the low parts. When I have to say my opinion, I always found it the most boring piece in English. I do not wish to raise any objections; I'll be happy to be of use, but I don't think we could make a worse choice." No tolerable female role in the play. Anything but that, my dear Tom. It would be impossible to fill it. No one could be expected to play such a role. Nothing but antics from start to finish. That might be enough, but for the low parts. When I have to say my opinion, I always found it the most boring piece in English. I do not wish to raise any objections; I'll be happy to be of use, but I don't think we could make a worse choice."
Esther watched and listened, not unamused, to observe the egoism that, more or less disguised, seemed to dominate them all, and wondered how this would end. To her own satisfaction, she could have wished that something was played, because she had never seen even half a piece, but everything important was against it.
"That never works," Tom Schmidt finally said. "We are wasting time in a heinous way. Something has to be fixed. No matter what, so that something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few signs too many must not frighten us. We need to double it. We have to descend a little. If a part is insignificant, the greater our merit is to make something out of it. From that moment on, I don't make any difficulties. I take every role you give me, just like it's weird. Just let it be weird, I don't need anything else."
For about the fifth time, he proposed the heir, only doubting whether he should prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very seriously, but very unsuccessfully, he tried to convince the others that there were some beautiful tragic parts in the remaining dramatic characters.
The pause that followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same orator who picked up one of the many volumes of plays lying on the table and turned around and suddenly exclaimed, "Vows of love! And why shouldn't Lovers' Vows be as good for us as they are for the Ravenshaws? How did it come about that it was never thought of before? It seems to me that this is exactly how it works. What do you all say? Here are two great tragic parts for Yates and Dorset, and here's the rhyming butler for me, in case no one else wants him; an insignificant part, but something I should not dislike, and as I said earlier, I am determined to take everything and do my best. And as for the rest, they can be filled in by anyone. It's just Count Kassel and Anhalt."
The proposal was generally welcomed. Everyone grew tired of indecision, and the first thought in all of them was that nothing had ever been proposed that was so likely to be suitable for all of them. Mr Yates was particularly pleased: he had sighed and longed to make the Baron at Ecclesford, had indulged in every tirade of Lord Ravenshaw and was forced to repeat everything in his own room. The storm by Baron Wildenheim was the culmination of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of being able to memorize half of the scenes, he now offered his services for the role with the greatest zeal. However, in order to do it justice, he did not decide to appropriate it; because he remembered that there was a very good reason to rant in Frederick, he declared the same willingness to do so. Henry Dorset was willing to accept both. Which Mr. Yates would not satisfy him completely, and a short conversation with compliments followed. Miss Schmidt, who felt all the interest of an Agatha in this question, took her on to decide it by remarking to Mr. Yates that this was a point where size and figure had to be taken into account, and that he was apparently the greatest to suit him especially for the Baron. She was quite right, and since the two roles were accepted accordingly, she was sure to have the right Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, except For Mr. Rushmore, for whom Maria was always ready to do anything; when Julia, who wanted to be like her sister Agatha, began to be conscientious about Miss Dorset. She took it upon herself to decide it by remarking to Yates-san that this was a point at which size and figure should be taken into account, and that since he was the greatest, he seemed to suit him especially for the baron. She was quite right, and since the two roles were accepted accordingly, she was sure to have the right Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, except For Mr. Rushmore, for whom Maria was always ready to do anything; when Julia, who wanted to be like her sister Agatha, began to be conscientious about Miss Dorset. She took it upon herself to decide it by remarking to Yates-san that this was a point at which size and figure should be taken into account, and that since he was the greatest, he seemed to suit him especially for the baron. She was quite right, and since the two roles were accepted accordingly, she was sure to have the right Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, except For Mr. Rushmore, for whom Maria was always ready to do anything; when Julia, who wanted to be like her sister Agatha, began to be conscientious about Miss Dorset. she was sure of the right Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, except For Mr. Rushmore, for whom Maria was always ready to do anything; when Julia, who wanted to be like her sister Agatha, began to be conscientious about Miss Dorset. she was sure of the right Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, except For Mr. Rushmore, for whom Maria was always ready to do anything; when Julia, who wanted to be like her sister Agatha, began to be conscientious about Miss Dorset.
"This is not good behavior of the absentees," she said. "There aren't enough women here. Amelia and Agatha may be enough for Mary and me, but there's nothing here for your sister, Dorset-san."
Mr. Dorset wished that this should not be thought of: he was very sure that his sister did not have the desire to play when she could be useful, and that she would not allow to be considered in this case. However, This was immediately contradicted by Tom Schmidt, who claimed that the role of Amelia would be the property of Miss Dorset in every respect if she accepted it. "For them it is as natural as it is necessary," he said, "as Agatha is for one or the other of my sisters. It can't be a victim on their side, because it's highly funny."
A brief silence followed. Every sister looked worried; for everyone felt the best claim to Agatha and hoped to get it imposed on her by the rest. Henry Dorset, who had meanwhile recorded the play and turned the first act around with apparent negligence, soon settled the matter.
"I have to ask Miss Julia Schmidt," he said, "not to get involved in the role of Agatha, or it will ruin my whole celebration. You may not, in fact you may not" (turned to her). "I could not bear your face, dressed in pain and pallor. The many laughs we had together would come to me infallibly, and Friedrich and his Tornister would have to run away."
Pleasant, polite was spoken; but the manner was lost in the matter of Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Mary that confirmed the injury to her: it was a plan, a trick; she was insulted, Mary was preferred; the triumphant smile that Mary tried to suppress showed how well it was understood; and before Julia could overcome herself enough to speak, her brother also stood up to her by saying, "Oh yes! Mary must be Agatha. Mary will be the best Agatha. Although Julia thinks she prefers tragedy, I wouldn't trust her to do that. There is nothing tragic about it. It doesn't look like it. Her facial features are not tragic traits, and she goes too fast and speaks too fast and would not maintain her posture. She had better do the old farmer's wife: the wife of the cottager; They actually had Julia. Cottager's wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. With a good portion of verve, the old lady relieves the high-flying goodwill of her husband. Thou shalt become Cottager's wife."
"Cottager's wife!" shouted Mr. Yates. "What are you talking about? The most trivial, meagre, insignificant part; the mere commonplace; on the whole, no tolerable speech. That's what your sister does! It is an insult to propose it. In Ecclesford, the governess should have done it. We all agreed that it couldn't be offered to anyone else. A little more justice, Mr. Manager, please. You don't deserve the office if you can't assess your company's talents a little better."
"Why, my good friend, until I and my company have really acted, there must be some guesses; but I don't mean denigrating Julia. We cannot have two agathas, and we must have the wife of a cottager; and I'm sure I myself gave her the example of moderation by being happy with the old butler. If the role is insignificant, she will put more emphasis on making something out of it; and if she is so desperately inclined against everything humorous, she should take the speeches of Cottager instead of those of Cottager's wife and thus change the roles completely; it is solemn and pathetic enough, I'm sure. It couldn't make a difference in the play, and as for Cottager himself, if he had his wife's speeches, I would take him over with all my heart."
"For all your fondness for Cottager's wife," said Henry Dorset, "it will be impossible to make any of it suitable for your sister, and we must not let her kindness be imposed on us. We must not allow her to take on the role. It must not be left to its own satisfaction. Your talents are sought in Amelia. Amelia is a character who is more difficult to portray than even Agatha. I think Amelia is the most difficult character in the whole play. It requires great powers, great subtlety, to give it playfulness and simplicity without extravagance. I've seen good actresses fail in the role. Simplicity, in fact, is unattainable for almost every actress by profession. It requires a subtlety of feeling that they don't have. It takes a Gentlewoman – a Julia Schmidt. You will do it, I hope?" turn to her with an anxious pleading look that calmed her down a little; but while she was hesitant about what to say, her brother stepped in again with Miss Dorset's better claim.
"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It's not the role for them at all. She wouldn't like it. She wouldn't do it well. It is too big and robust. Amelia is supposed to be a small, light, girlish bouncy figure. It is suitable for Miss Dorset, and only for Miss Dorset. It looks like this, and I am convinced that it will make it admirable."
Without caring, Henry Dorset continued his pleading. "You have to commit us," he said, "you really have to. If you've studied the character, I'm sure it suits you. The tragedy may be your choice, but it will certainly look like the comedy will choose you. You will visit me in prison with a basket full of food; You will not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your basket."
The influence of his voice could be felt. Julia wavered; but was he just trying to calm and calm her down and make her overlook the previous insult? She mistrusted him. The light one had been the most determined. He may have been, but at a telltale game with her. She looked at her sister suspiciously; Mary's expression should decide: when she was upset and worried – but Mary looked quite calm and content, and Julia knew very well that For this reason, Mary could only be happy at her expense. That's why she hurriedly and in a trembling voice said to him, "You don't seem to be afraid to forgive your face when I come in with a basket full of supplies – although you might think – but it's just like Agatha I should be so overwhelming!" She stopped – Henry Dorset looked pretty stupid, as if he didn't know what to say.
"Miss Dorset must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"Don't be afraid that I want the character," Julia shouted with angry speed: "I'm not supposed to be Agatha, and I'm sure I won't do anything else; and as for Amelia, it is the most disgusting of all parts of the world. I detest them quite a bit. A hideous, small, cheeky, unnatural, outrageous girl. I've always protested against comedy, and this is comedy at its worst." And so she hastily walked out of the room, leaving unpleasant feelings on more than one, but on everyone except Esther, who had been a silent listener of the whole thing, and who could not imagine that she was under the excitement, exciting little compassion of jealousy without much pity.
A brief silence followed her as she left; but her brother soon returned to the lovers' shops and vows and, with Mr. Yates' help, eagerly watched the play to determine what backdrops would be necessary – while Maria and Henry Dorset conversed in a low voice and the explanation she began with: "I'm sure I'd love to leave the role to Julia, but although I will probably do it very badly, I am convinced that she would make it worse," was undoubtedly receiving all the compliments it needed.
When this had taken some time, the division of society was completed by Tom Schmidt and Mr. Yates leaving together to consult further in the room now called theater, and Miss Schmidt decided to go to the rectory herself with Amelia's offer to Miss Dorset; and Esther was left alone.
The first use she made of her loneliness was to record the tape that had been left on the table and familiarize herself with the game she had heard so much about. Her curiosity was all awake, and she went through it with a zeal interrupted only by intervals of amazement that in this case it could be chosen, that it could be proposed and accepted in a private theater! Agatha and Amelia, in their different ways, seemed so completely unsuitable for representation at home – the situation of one and the language of the other so unsuitable to be expressed by a humble woman that she could hardly assume that her cousins ?? had knowledge of what they were dealing with; and longed to shake her up as soon as possible with the accusation that Edmund would surely make.
Chapter 77
The hair was curled, and the maid sent away, and Emma sat down to think and feel unhappy. – It was really a miserable thing! – Such an overthrow of everything she had wished for! – Such a development of everything unwelcome! – Such a blow for Harriet! – that was the worst of all. Each part of it brought pain and humiliation in one way or another; but compared to the evil for Harriet, everything was easy; and she would have liked to have felt even more mistaken – even more mistaken – even more disgraced by misjudgement than she actually was if the effects of her mistakes had been limited to herself.
"If I hadn't persuaded Harriet to like the man, I could have endured anything. He might have doubled his arrogance towards me – but poor Harriet!"
How could she be so deceived! He asserted that he had never seriously thought of Harriet – never! She looked back as best she could; but it was all confusion. She had taken up the idea, she suspected, and adapted everything to it. However, his manners must have been inconspicuous, swaying, dubious, otherwise she could not have been so deceived.
The picture! – How eager he had been for the picture! – and the charade! – and a hundred other circumstances – how clearly they seemed to point to Harriet. Of course, the charade with its "ready wit" – but then the "gentle eyes" – actually suited neither of them; it was a mess with no taste or truth. Who could have seen through such stubborn nonsense?
Surely she had often, especially recently, considered his manners unnecessarily gallant; but it had passed as his path, as a mere error of judgment, of knowledge, of taste, as a proof, among others, that he had not always lived in the best company, that for all the gentleness of his speech was sometimes true elegance wanted; but to this day, she had never suspected for a moment that it meant anything other than grateful respect to her as Harriet's friend.
Mr. John Hill owed her first idea on the subject, the first approach of his possibility. There was no denying that these brothers had penetration. She remembered what Mr. Hill had once told her about Mr. Alton, the caution he had given, the belief he had declared that Mr. Alton would never marry indiscreetly; and blushed at the thought of how much more true a knowledge of his character had been shown there than any that she herself had achieved. It was terribly humiliating; but Mr. Alton turned out in many ways to be the exact opposite of what she had meant and believed him; proud, presumptuous, conceited; very full of his own demands and little concerned about the feelings of others.
Contrary to the usual course of events, Mr. Alton's desire to pay her his addresses had, in her opinion, corrupted him. His professions and his proposals did him no service. She thought nothing of his attachment and was offended by his hopes. He wanted to marry well, and since he had the arrogance to raise his eyes to her, he pretended to be in love; but she was absolutely sure that he didn't have to suffer any disappointment to take care of. Neither in his language nor in his manners had there been any real affection. Sighs and beautiful words had been given in abundance; but she could hardly come up with a set of expressions or imagine a tone of voice that was less associated with real love. She didn't have to bother to pity him. He just wanted to expand and enrich himself; and if Miss Lodge of Hartfield, the heiress of thirty thousand pounds,
but – that he should speak of encouragement, she should consider herself as aware of his views, accept his attention, which (in short) means marrying him! Understanding the ranks under him so well, and being so blind to what rose to the top to imagine, not to show presumptuousness when he addresses them! - It was highly challenging.
Perhaps it wasn't fair to expect him to feel how inferior he was to her in talent and all the elegance of the mind. The mere lack of such equality could prevent him from perceiving it; but he must know that she was far superior to him in terms of assets and consequences. He must know that the lodges had been settled in Hartfield, the younger branch of a very old family, for several generations – and that the Altons were no one. The Hartfield estate was certainly insignificant, as it was just a kind of notch in the Donwell Abbey estate, to which all the rest of Highbury belonged; but their fortune from other sources was such that in any other kind of consequences they were hardly secondary to Donwell Abbey itself; and the lodge had for a long time a high priority in the consideration of the neighborhood, the Mr. Alton had entered for the first time less than two years ago to go his way as he could, without any alliances, except in trade or anything that would recommend to him, except to pay attention to his situation and courtesy. - But he had imagined that she was in love with him; that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. to go his way as he could, without any alliances, but in trade, or anything that would recommend to him, except to notice his situation and politeness. - But he had imagined that she was in love with him; that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. to go his way as he could, without any alliances, but in trade, or anything that would recommend to him, except to notice his situation and politeness. - But he had imagined that she was in love with him; that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. or any thing to advise him to pay attention to, but his situation and politeness. - But he had imagined that she was in love with him; that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. or any thing to advise him to pay attention to, but his situation and politeness. - But he had imagined that she was in love with him; that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. that must obviously have been his dependence; and after raving a little about the apparent incompatibility of gentle manners and an imaginary head, Emma had to pause in all honesty and admit that her own behavior towards him had been so pleasing and accommodating, so full of politeness and attention, as (assuming her true motive unnoticed) could be a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, justify considering yourself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. how (assuming her true motive is unnoticed) could justify to a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, to consider himself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him. how (assuming her true motive is unnoticed) could justify to a man of ordinary observation and sensitivity, like Mr. Alton, to consider himself a determined favorite. If she had misinterpreted his feelings so wrongly, she had little right to wonder that he should have misunderstood her out of self-interest to blind him.
The first mistake and the worst was on their doorstep. It was foolish, it was wrong to participate so actively in bringing two people together. It ventured too far, assumed too much, downplayed what was supposed to be serious, and did a trick of what should be simple. She was very worried and ashamed and decided not to do such things anymore.
"Here," she said, "I actually persuaded poor Harriet to be very attached to this man. Without me, she might never have thought of him; and surely I would never have thought of him with hope if I had not assured her of his affection, for she is as humble and humble as I used to think of him. Oh! that I was content to convince them not to accept young Martin. I was right. That was good of me; but I should have stopped there and left the rest of the time and chance. I introduced her to good company and gave her the opportunity to please someone worth having; I shouldn't have tried more. But now, poor girl, her rest is interrupted for some time. I was only half a friend to her; and if she did not feel this disappointment so much, I am sure I have no idea of any other person who would be desirable for her at all; – William Coxe – Oh! no, I couldn't stand William Coxe – a cheeky young lawyer."
She paused to blush and laugh at her own relapse, and then resumed a more serious, discouraging reflection on what had been, could and could be, and had to be. The agonizing explanation she had to make to Harriet and all that poor Harriet would suffer, along with the awkwardness of future meetings, the difficulties of continuing or breaking off the acquaintance, suppressing feelings, hiding resentment and avoiding scandal, were enough to keep her busy in most joyless thoughts for some time, and she finally went to bed with nothing fixed, than the conviction that she had made the most terrible mistake.
For youth and natural cheerfulness like Emma's, the return of day, although temporarily gloomy at night, will hardly fail to bring the return of spirits. The youth and cheerfulness of the morning are in happy analogy and of powerful effect; and if the need is not poignant enough to keep the eyes open, they will surely open up to sensations of alleviated pain and brighter hope.
The next morning, Emma stood up more comfortingly as she went to bed, more willing to see relief from the evil before her and to rely on getting rid of it tolerably.
It was a great comfort that Mr. Alton wasn't really in love with her or so particularly gracious that it was shocking to disappoint him — that Harriet's nature wasn't of the superior kind where the feelings are most intense and reserved—and that no one needed to know what had happened except the three principals, and especially, that her father was worried about this for a moment.
These were very encouraging thoughts; and the sight of a lot of snow on the ground did her further service, because everything was welcome, which could justify that all three of them were currently quite separate.
The weather was the most favorable for them; Although she could not go to church on Christmas Day. Mr. Lodge would have been unhappy if his daughter had tried, and she was therefore sure to come up with either exciting or unpleasant and highly inappropriate ideas. The snow-covered ground and atmosphere in that restless state between frost and thaw that is the most unfriendly of all the others for movement, starting every morning with rain or snow and starting to freeze every evening, she was a most honorable prisoner for many days. No traffic with Harriet possible, but by note; no church for them on Sunday more than on Christmas Day; and no need to make excuses for Mr. Alton's absence.
It was a weather that could pretty much lock anyone up at home; and although she hoped and believed that he really found solace in any society, it was very pleasant to have her father so content that he was all alone in his own house, too wise to get upset; and to hear him say to Mr. Hill, who no weather could keep away from them entirely,
"Ah! Mr. Hill, why don't you stay at home like poor Mr. Alton?"
These days of captivity would have been remarkably pleasant without her private confusions, since such seclusion suited her brother, whose feelings for his companions must always be of great importance; and he had also eliminated his bad mood so thoroughly. With Randalls, that his kindness never let him down during the rest of his stay in Hartfield. He was always pleasant and accommodating and spoke kindly of every person. But for all the hopes of happiness and all the present comfort of postponement, in the hour of explanation with Harriet, there was still such an evil hanging over her that it made it impossible for Emma to ever fully relax.
Chapter 78
The development of Catherine's misfortune over the events of the evening was as follows. It first manifested itself in a general dissatisfaction with everyone around her while she stayed in the rooms, which quickly led to considerable fatigue and a fierce desire to go home. When he arrived at Pulteney Street, it took the direction of an extraordinary hunger, and when it was satisfied, it turned into a serious longing to be in bed; that was the ultimate point of their need; for when she arrived there, she immediately fell into a deep sleep that lasted nine hours and from which she awoke completely recovered, in an excellent mood, with new hopes and new plans. The first wish of her heart was to improve her acquaintance with Miss Alsina, and almost her first decision to visit her for this purpose at noon in the drinking hall. In the pump hall, such a new arrival in Bath had to be met, and this building, which she had already found so favorable for the discovery of female excellence and the completion of female intimacy, which was so admirably suited to secret conversations and unlimited trust that she was sensibly encouraged to expect another friend within its walls. After her plan for the morning was so fixed, she sat quietly at her book after breakfast and decided to stay in the same place and occupation until the clock struck one; and out of habit very little disturbed by the remarks and exclamations of Mrs. To all those whose emptiness and inability to think were such that, since she never talked much, she could never remain completely silent; and therefore, while she sat at work, when she lost her needle or her thread broke, when she heard a carriage on the street or saw a stain on her dress, she had to watch it out loud whether someone had time to answer her or not. Around half past one, she drove a remarkably loud knock to the window, and as soon as she had time to tell Catherine that there were two open carriages at the door, in the first just a servant, in the Miss Dorfman of her brother Second, before John Dorfman ran upstairs and shouted, "Well, Miss Fenmore, here I am. Have you waited a long time? We could not come before; It took the old devil of a carriage builder such an eternity to figure out what's right to get in, and now it's ten thousand to one, but they break down before we're off the road. How are you, Ms. Allen? A famous ball last night, wasn't it? Come, Miss Fenmore, be quick, because the others are in a damn hurry to leave. They want to overcome their fall."
"What do you mean?" said Katharina. "Where are you all going?"
"Will you? You have not forgotten our engagement! Didn't we arrange a trip together this morning? What a head you have! We're going to Claverton Down."
"Something was said about it, I remember," Catherine said, seeing Mrs. To all, in their opinion; "But I really didn't expect you."
"Don't expect me! This is good! And what dust you would have done if I hadn't come."
Catherine's silent appeal to her friend has since been completely thrown away, because Mrs. All those who did not have the habit of conveying an expression through a glance themselves were unaware that it was ever intended by someone else; and Catherine, whose desire to see Miss Alsina again could tolerate a short delay in favor of a ride at that moment, and who thought there could be no inappropriateness in going with Mr. Dorfman, since Bella was walking with James at the same time, was therefore obliged to speak plainly. "Well, Ma'am, what do you say to that? Can you spare me an hour or two? Should I go?"
"Do what you want, my dear," Replied Mrs. To all with the quietest indifference. Catherine took the advice and ran away to get ready. In very few minutes, she reappeared after giving the other two barely enough time to get a few short sentences in her praise through after Dorfman had earned Mrs. Allen's admiration for his performance; and then they received their friend's good farewell wishes and both hurried downstairs. "My dearest creature," cried Bella, to whom the duty of friendship immediately called her before she could get into the carriage, "you were busy getting ready for at least three hours. I was afraid you were sick. What a delightful ball we had last night. I have a thousand things to tell you; but hurry up and get in, for I long to go away."
Catherine followed her orders and turned away, but not too soon to hear her friend shouting loudly to James, "What a cute girl she is! I'm pretty much in love with her."
"You won't be afraid, Miss Fenmore," Dorfman said as he handed it over, "if my horse should dance around a little bit on the first departure. He will most likely give a splash or two and take the rest maybe for a minute; but soon he will know his Master. He is full of temperament, as playful as possible, but there is no vice in him."
Catherine didn't find the portrait very inviting, but it was too late to retire, and she was too young to admit fear; so she accepted her fate and relied on the animal's boastful knowledge of its owner, sat down peacefully and saw Dorfman sit down next to her. After everything was arranged, the servant standing at the horse's head was ordered in an important voice to "let it go," and they walked away in the calmest way imaginable, without a fall or a caper or anything like that. Catherine, delighted with such a happy escape, expressed her joy aloud with grateful surprise; and her companion immediately made it easy, assuring her that it was entirely due to the strangely reasonable way in which he had led the reins at the time, and the unique acumen and skill with which he had directed his whip. Catherine, although involuntarily surprised that with such a perfect mastery of his horse, he should consider it necessary to worry her with a relationship of his tricks, sincerely congratulated herself on being under the care of such an excellent coachman; and when he noticed that the animal continued to walk in the same calm manner, without showing the slightest tendency to unpleasant liveliness, and (considering its inevitable speed of ten miles per hour) by no means disturbingly fast, it gave itself to all the pleasure air and movement of the most invigorating kind, on a beautiful mild February day, with the awareness of safety. Their first brief dialogue was followed by a silence lasting several minutes; it was interrupted very abruptly by Dorfman's saying: "Old Allen is as rich as a Jew – isn't he?" Catherine didn't understand him – and he repeated his question, adding to the statement: "The old Allen, the man you are with."
"Oh! Mr Allen, you think. Yes, I think he's very rich."
"And no children at all?"
"No – none."
"A famous thing for his next heirs. He's your godfather, isn't he?"
"My godfather! Nope."
"But you're always very much with them."
"Yes, very much."
"Yes, that's what I meant. He seems to be a pretty good old guy and has lived very well in his time, dare I say; he is not sick with gout for nothing. Does he drink his bottle every day now?"
"His bottle a day! No. Why would you think of such a thing? He's a very spirited man, and you couldn't drink him in alcohol last night?"
"Lord, help you! You women always remember that men are drunk. Why not assume that a man is overwhelmed by a bottle? I'm sure that if everyone drank their bottle every day, there wouldn't be half of all the diseases in the world that exist today. It would be a famous good thing for all of us."
"I can't believe it."
"Oh! Lord, it would be the salvation of thousands. There is not the hundredth part of the wine consumed in this kingdom that there should be. Our foggy climate needs help."
"And yet I have heard that a lot of wine is drunk in Oxford."
"Oxford! There is no more drinking in Oxford, I assure you. Nobody drinks there. You would hardly meet a man who at most has his four pints ?? goes out. Now, for example, at the last party in my rooms, it was considered remarkable that we averaged about five pints?? per capita. It was considered something extraordinary. Mine is famously good stuff to be sure. You wouldn't often find something like that in Oxford – and that may be to blame. But that just gives you an idea of the overall drinking rate there."
"Yes, that suggests," Catherine said heartily, "that means you all drink a lot more wine than I thought. However, I'm sure James doesn't drink that much."
This explanation led to a loud and overwhelming response, no part of which was very clear, except for the frequent exclamations that almost amounted to oaths and that adorned her, and Catherine ended up with a fairly strengthened belief that there is a lot of wine drunk in Oxford and the same happy belief of her brother's relative sobriety.
Dorfman's ideas then all returned to the merits of his own equipage, and she was asked to admire the spirit and freedom with which his horse moved forward, and the ease that his steps, as well as the excellent feathers, gave to the movement of the chariot. She followed him in all his admiration as best she could. It was impossible to go ahead of him or beyond him. His knowledge and ignorance of the subject, his speed of expression and her restraint made this impossible for her; she could not praise anything new, but she willingly repeated whatever he claimed, and it was finally clarified between them without any difficulty that his equipage was the most complete of its kind in England, his carriage the most well-groomed, his horse the best walker and even the best coachman. "You don't really believe Mr.
'Nervous breakdown! Oh! Lord! Have you ever seen such a small presumptuous thing in your life? There is no healthy piece of iron on it. The wheels have been pretty worn for at least ten years – and as far as the body is concerned! With my soul, you could shake them to pieces yourself with a touch. It's the most diabolical little rickety shop I've ever seen! Thank you God! we have it better. For fifty thousand pounds, I wouldn't be obliged to drive two miles with it."
"You dear heaven!" shouted Katharina, frightened. "Then pray, let us repent; You will certainly have an accident if we continue. Let us repent, Mr. Dorfman; Stop and talk to my brother and tell him how insecure it is."
"Uncertain! Oh God! What's in there? They only get a role when it breaks; and there is a lot of dirt; it will fall excellently. Oh, cursed! The carriage is safe enough if you know how to drive it; a thing of this kind in good hands holds more than twenty years after it is quite worn. Lord bless you! I would take it for five pounds to go to York and back again without losing a nail."
Catherine listened in amazement; she didn't know how to reconcile two very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the tendencies of a rattle, nor to know how many vain claims and cheeky falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead to. Her own family consisted of simple, sober people who rarely aimed at any joke; her father contented herself at most with a play on words and her mother with a proverb; they therefore did not lie to increase their importance, or to claim in an instant what they would contradict the next. She pondered the matter for some time in great embarrassment and was more than once about to ask Mr. Dorfman for a clearer insight into his real opinion on the subject; but she examined herself, because it seemed to her that he did not excel in giving these clearer insights, in making clear those things that he had previously made ambiguous; and following the idea that he would not really expose his sister and friend to a danger from which he could easily save them, she finally came to the conclusion that he had to know that the car was indeed completely safe, and would therefore no longer be afraid. With him, the whole thing seemed completely forgotten; and all the rest of his conversation, or rather talking, began and ended with himself and his own worries. He told her about horses he had bought for a little something and sold for incredible sums; of racing battles in which his verdict had infallibly predicted the winner; of Shooting Festivals, in which he had killed more birds (but without a good shot) than all his companions combined; and described to her a famous day sport with the hunting dogs, in which his foresight and dexterity in steering the dogs had made up for the mistakes of the most experienced hunter, and in which the audacity of his riding, although she had never endangered him for a moment his own life, had constantly led others into trouble, which, as he calmly noted, many had broken their necks.
As little as Catherine was accustomed to judging for herself, and as vague as her general ideas of what men should be were, she could not quite suppress a doubt while carrying the outpourings of his endless imagination of his perfect being pleasantly. It was a bold guess, for he was Bella's brother; and she had been assured by James that his manners would recommend him to her whole sex; but nevertheless, the extreme fatigue of his society, which afflicted them before they were out for an hour, and which increased incessantly until they stopped again in Pulteney Street, led them to resist to some extent against abusing high authority and distrusting his power, giving universal pleasure.
When they arrived at Mrs. Allen's door, Bella's amazement was hard to express when she realized that it was too late in the day to accompany her friend into the house: "After three o'clock!" It was unimaginable, unbelievable, impossible! And she would not believe her own watch, nor that of her brother, nor the servant; she would not believe any assurance based on reason or reality until Fenmore pulled out his watch and established the fact; To have doubted for a moment longer would have been just as unimaginable, unbelievable and impossible; and she could only protest over and over again that never before had two and a half hours passed as quickly as Catherine was asked to confirm it; Catherine couldn't even tell a lie to please Bella; but the latter was spared the misery of her friend's dissenting voice by not waiting for her answer. Their own feelings occupied them completely; her misery was most acute when she felt compelled to go straight home. It had been ages since she had talked to her dearest Catherine for even a moment; and even though it is so ?? had a thousand things to say, it seemed as if they would never be together again; so she said goodbye to her friend with a smile of the most delicious misery and the laughing eye of extreme depression and went on.
Catherine found Mrs. All just returned from all the busy idleness of the morning and was immediately greeted with "Well, my dear, here you are"," a truth that she had no more inclination than power to deny; "And I hope you had a pleasant ventilation?"
"Yes, Ma'am, thank you; We couldn't have had a better day."
"That's what Mrs. Dorfman said; She was very pleased that you were doing everything."
"So you saw Mrs. Dorfman?"
"Yes, I went to the drinking hall as soon as you left, and that's where I met her, and we talked a lot. She says there was hardly any veal available at the market this morning, it's so extremely scarce."
"Have you seen any of our acquaintances?"
"Yes; we agreed to turn into the Crescent and there we met Mrs. Hughes and Mr. and Miss Alsina who went with her."
"Did you actually have? And did they talk to you?"
"Yes, we walked along the Crescent together for half an hour. They seem to be very pleasant people. Miss Alsina wore a very nicely spotted muslin, and I imagine that after everything I have experienced, she always dresses very handsomely. Mrs. Hughes talked to me a lot about the family."
"And what did she tell you about it?"
"Oh! A big deal indeed; she hardly spoke of anything else."
"Did she tell you from which?? Part of Gloucestershire they are coming?"
"Yes, it has; but I can't remember now. But they are very good people and very rich. Mrs. Alsina was a Miss Drummond, and she and Mrs. Hughes were schoolmates; and Miss Drummond had a very large fortune; and when she married, her father gave her twenty thousand pounds and five hundred to buy wedding clothes. Mrs. Hughes saw all the clothes after they came out of the camp."
"And are Mr. and Mrs. Alsina in Bath?"
"Yes, I think so, but I'm not quite sure. However, when I remember, I have the idea that they are both dead; at least the mother is; Yes, I'm sure Mrs. Alsina is dead, because Mrs. Hughes told me that Mr. Drummond gave his daughter a very nice pearl set on her wedding day and that Miss Alsina has now received because they were put back for her when her mother died."
"And is Mr. Alsina, my partner, the only son?"
"I can't be quite sure, my dear; I have a hunch that he is; but he is a very fine young man, says Mrs. Hughes, and he will probably do very well."
Catherine did not ask further; she had heard enough to feel that Mrs. Allen had no real information to give, and that she herself was particularly unhappy to have missed such a meeting with brother and sister. If she had been able to foresee such a circumstance, nothing should have led her to go out with the others; and so she could only lament her bad luck and think about what she had lost until she realized that the ride had not been very pleasant by any means and that John Dorfman himself was quite unpleasant.
Chapter 79
Until Elizabeth entered the salon in Netherfield and looked in vain for Mr. Waterhouse under the red coats gathered there, she had never had any doubts about his presence. The certainty of meeting him had not been hindered by any of those memories that had not unreasonably worried her. She had dressed with more than usual care and prepared herself in the best mood for the conquest of what was still invincible from his heart, trusting that it was no more than could be won in the course of the evening. But in a moment the terrible suspicion arose from his deliberately omitted for the pleasure of Mr. Drury in Woodland's invitation to the officers; and although this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Linda eagerly turned, and who told them that Waterhouse had to go to town the day before on business and had not yet returned; With a meaningful smile, he added, "I can't imagine that his business would have recalled him right now if he didn't want to avoid a certain gentleman here."
This part of his intelligence, although not heard of Linda, was absorbed by Elizabeth, and since he assured her that Drury was no less responsible for Waterhouse's absence than if her first assumption had been fair, any sense of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment that she could hardly respond to the polite requests with bearable courtesy, which he addressed immediately afterwards. Presence, forbearance, patience with Drury hurt Waterhouse. She was determined against any kind of conversation with him and turned away with a certain upset. which she could not quite overcome, even when she spoke to Mr. Woodland, whose blind preference provoked her.
But Elizabeth wasn't made up for a bad mood; and although every own view for the evening was destroyed, it could not linger on their spirits for long; and after telling Charlotte Lucas, whom she hadn't seen for a week, all her grief, she was soon able to voluntarily move on to her cousin's oddities and point out her special attention to him. The first two dances, however, brought a return of necessity; they were killing dances. Mr. Collins, clumsy and solemn, apologizing instead of coming, and often moving wrongly without knowing it, gave her all the shame and misery that an unpleasant partner can bring for a few dances. The moment of their liberation from him was ecstasy.
She danced next with an officer and had the refreshment to talk about Waterhouse and hear that he was generally popular. When these dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas and talked to her when she was suddenly approached by Mr. Drury, who surprised her so much in his application for her hand that, without knowing what she was doing, she accepted him. He immediately left, and she had to be annoyed by her own lack of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to comfort her:
'I dare say that you will find him very pleasant.'
'God forbid! THAT would be the greatest misfortune ever! Find a man you want to hate pleasant! Don't wish me such evil.'
However, when dancing started again and Drury approached to take her hand, Charlotte couldn't help but warn her in a whisper that she wasn't a simple brush, and allow her fondness for Waterhouse to make her seem uncomfortable ten times in the eyes of a man's consequence. Elizabeth did not answer and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity she gained when she was allowed to face Mr. Drury, and read her same amazement in the eyes of her neighbors. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that her silence would endure the two dances, and was initially determined not to break it; until she suddenly imagined that it would be the greater punishment for her partner to force him to talk, and made a small remark about the dance. He replied and remained silent again. After a break of a few minutes, she turned to him a second time: "Now it's YOUR turn to say something, Drury-san. I talked about the dance, and YOU should make a comment about the size of the room or the number of couples."
He smiled and assured her that everything she wanted from him should be told.
'Very good. That answer is enough for the moment. Perhaps I will gradually observe that private balls are much more pleasant than public ones. But NOW we can remain silent.'
"Do you speak by the rule while you dance?"
'Sometimes. You have to speak a little bit, you know. It would look strange to be completely silent for half an hour; and yet, for the benefit of SOME, the conversation should be arranged in such a way that they have the trouble of saying as little as possible.'
"In this case, are you questioning your own feelings or do you think you are satisfying mine?"
'Both,' Elizabeth replied mischievously; "Because I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our thoughts. We are all unsociable, silent and unwilling to speak unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room and be passed on to posterity with all the applause of a proverb.'
"That's not a very striking resemblance to your own character, I'm sure," he said. "How close it may be to MINE, I can't say. YOU no doubt consider it a faithful portrait."
"I'm not allowed to decide on my own performance."
He gave no answer, and they remained silent again until they walked down the dance when he asked them if she and her sisters didn't go to Meryton very often. She answered in the affirmative, adding, not resisting temptation, "When you met us there the other day, we had just made a new acquaintance."
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of arrogance covered his features, but he didn't say a word, and Elizabeth, although she blamed herself for her own weakness, could not continue. Finally, Drury spoke and was forced to say, "Mr. Waterhouse is blessed with such cheerful manners that he can be sure that he makes friends – whether he is also able to keep them is less certain."
"He was so unlucky to lose your friendship," Elizabeth replied emphatically, "in a way he will likely suffer throughout his life."
Drury did not answer and seemed to want to change the subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared near her and wanted to go through the set to the other side of the room; but when he noticed Mr. Drury, he stopped with a bow of superior politeness to compliment him on his dance and his partner.
"I have indeed been extremely satisfied, my dear Sir. Such superior dancing is not often seen. It is obvious that you belong to the first circles. However, allow me to say that your beautiful partner does not embarrass you, and that I must hope to repeat this pleasure often, especially when a certain desirable event takes place, my dear Eliza (with a look at her sister and Woodland). What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Drury-san: – but don't let me interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for keeping you from the enchanting conversation of this young lady whose shining eyes also reprimand me.'
The last part of this address was hardly heard by Drury; but Sir William's allusion to his friend seemed to hit him violently, and his eyes were on Woodland and Jane dancing together with a very serious expression. However, when he soon recovered, he turned to his partner and said: "Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking about."
"I don't think we spoke at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say. We've already tried two or three topics without success, and I can't imagine what to talk about next.'
"What do you think of books?" he said with a smile.
»Books – oh! No. I'm sure we never read the same thing or with the same feelings.'
"I'm sorry you think so; but if this is the case, at least there can be no shortage of subject. We can compare our different opinions.'
"No – I can't talk about books in a ballroom; my head is always busy with something else.'
'The PRESENT always occupies you in such scenes - doesn't it?' he said with a doubtful look.
"Yes, always," she replied, not knowing what she was saying, because her thoughts had wandered far from the subject when she suddenly appeared soon after and exclaimed, "I remember hearing you once say, Drury-san, that you almost never forgive that your once created resentment was insatiable. They are very cautious, I suppose, about its CREATION.'
"That's me," he said in a firm voice.
"And never let yourself be blinded by prejudices?"
'I hope not.'
"Especially those who never change their minds, it is up to them to be sure to judge correctly at first."
"May I ask what these questions amount to?"
"Just to illustrate your character," she said, trying to shake off her seriousness. 'I'm trying to figure it out.'
"And what is your success?"
She shook her head. "I can't get any further at all. I hear such different reports about you that confuse me extraordinarily."
"I can easily believe," he replied earnestly, "that the reports regarding me can be very different; and I could wish, Miss Mitchell, that you would not outline my role at the moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would not be recognized for either of them."
"But if I don't take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."
"There is no way I would suspend your pleasure," he replied coldly. She said nothing more, and they went down the other dance and separated in silence; and dissatisfied on both sides, though not to the same extent, because in Drury's chest was a tolerably strong feeling towards her, which soon gave her forgiveness and directed all his anger against another.
They hadn't broken up for long when Miss Woodland approached them and addressed them with an expression of civil contempt:
"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you're pretty excited about George Waterhouse! Your sister talked to me about him and asked me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man completely forgot to tell you, among his other communications, that he was the son of the old Waterhouse, the administrator of the late Mr. Drury. However, as a friend, let me advise you not to place full trust in all his claims; because Drury-san makes him sick, that's completely wrong; on the contrary, he was always remarkably kind to him, even though George Waterhouse treated Mr. Drury in the most shameful way. I don't know the details, but I know very well that Drury-san is not guilty in the slightest, that he can't stand george Waterhouse being mentioned, and that although my brother thought he couldn't avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was extremely happy to find that he had gotten out of his way. That he comes to the country at all is indeed a highly outrageous thing, and I wonder how he could have presumed to do so. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favorite's guilt; but given his ancestry, you really couldn't expect much better.'
"His guilt and his ancestry seem to be the same on your bill," Elizabeth said angrily; 'for I have heard that you are accusing him of nothing worse than being the son of Mr. Drury's administrator, and of that, I can assure you, he has informed me himself.'
"I beg your pardon," Miss Woodland replied, turning away with a sneering smile. Excuse my interference - it was meant kindly.'
'Outrageous girl!' Elisabeth said to herself. "You are very wrong if you expect to influence me by such a pathetic attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own deliberate ignorance and the wickedness of Mr. Drury." She then went to see her eldest sister, who has pledged to investigate the same subject of Woodland. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as clear enough how satisfied she was with the events of the evening. Elizabeth immediately read her feelings, and at that moment the concern for Waterhouse, the resentment against his enemies, and everything else gave way to the hope that Jane would be happy in the fairest way possible.
"I want to know," she said with a smile on her face as well as her sister's, "what you learned about Mr. Waterhouse. But maybe you were too pleasantly busy to think of a third person; In this case, you can be sure of my forgiveness.'
"No," Jane replied, "I haven't forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfying to say to you. Mr. Woodland doesn't know his whole story and doesn't know the circumstances that mainly offended Mr. Drury. but he vouches for his friend's good manners, integrity, and honor, and is completely convinced that Mr. Waterhouse deserves much less attention from Mr. Drury than he has received; and I am sorry to say that, according to his account, as well as that of his sister, Mr. Waterhouse is by no means a decent young man. I'm afraid he was very careless and deserved to lose Drury's respect."
'Lord. Woodland doesn't know Mr. Waterhouse himself?"
'No; he never saw him in Meryton until the other morning.'
"So he received this bill from Drury-san. I am satisfied. But what does he say about the living?'
"He doesn't remember the circumstances exactly, even though he heard them more than once from Drury-san, but he believes it was only left to him UNDER CONDITIONS."
"I have no doubt about the sincerity of Mr. Woodland," Elizabeth said warmly; "but you have to apologize that I am not only convinced by assurances. The defence of Mr Woodland of his friend was a very capable, dare I say; but since he does not know some parts of the story and has experienced the rest of this friend himself, I dare to think of both gentlemen as I used to.
Then she changed the speech to one that was more pleasing to everyone and where there could be no disagreement. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, if modest, hopes jane had of Mr. Woodlands and said everything in her power to strengthen her confidence in it. When Mr. Woodland himself joined them, Elizabeth retired to Miss Lucas; To whose question she had hardly answered about the kindness of her last partner, when Mr. Collins approached her and told her with great enthusiasm that he had just been lucky enough to make an extremely important discovery.
"I found out," he said, "by a unique coincidence that there is now a close relative of my patron in the room. By chance, I heard the gentleman himself tell the young lady who pays homage to the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh and her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderful such things seem! Who would have thought of my meeting with perhaps a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I am very grateful that the discovery will be made in time so that I can pay my respects to him, which I am going to do now, and trust that he will apologize for not having done it earlier. My complete ignorance of the connection must excuse me."
"You won't imagine Drury-san!"
'In fact, I am. I will ask for his forgiveness for not doing it sooner. I think he is Lady Catherine's NEPHEW. It is in my power to assure him that your ladyhood was doing quite well last night.'
Elizabeth went to great lengths to dissuade him from such a plan by assuring him that Mr. Drury would consider it an outrageous freedom to address him without imagination and not a compliment to his aunt; that it was not necessary in the slightest that there should be a notification on both sides; and if it were, it would have to belong to Mr. Drury, the superior consequently, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with a determined expression, as if following his own inclination, and when she stopped speaking, he replied as follows:
"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world regarding your excellent judgment in all matters that are within your understanding; but allow me to say that there must be a great difference between the established forms of ceremony among the laity and those who govern the clergy; for allow me to note that I consider the ministry to be equal to the highest rank in dignity in the kingdom, provided that at the same time an appropriate humility in conduct is maintained. You must therefore allow me to take this opportunity to follow the dictates of my conscience that lead me to do what I see as a duty. Forgive me for failing to benefit from your advice, which is supposed to be my constant guide on all other issues, although in this case I consider myself better suited through education and habitual study to decide what is right than a young lady like you.' And with a deep bow, he left her to attack Mr. Drury, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched and whose amazement at being addressed in this way was very obvious. Her cousin introduced his speech with a solemn bow, and although she couldn't hear a word of it, she felt like she was hearing it all and saw in the movement of his lips the words "sorry," "Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine." de Burgh.' It annoyed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Drury looked at him with uninhibited amazement, and when Mr. Collins finally gave him time to talk, he responded with a expression of distanced politeness. However, Mr. Collins was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Drury's contempt seemed to increase abundantly with the length of his second speech, and in the end he only made him a slight bow and went in a different direction. Mr Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
"I have no reason, I assure you," he said, "to be dissatisfied with my admission. Drury-san seemed very pleased with the attention. He replied to me with the utmost courtesy and even added to me that he was so convinced of Lady Catherine's judgment that he was sure that she could never do an undignified favor. It was really a very nice thought. On the whole, I'm very happy with him.'
Since Elizabeth no longer had any interests of her own, she turned her attention almost exclusively to her sister and Mr. Woodland; and the series of pleasant thoughts that produced her observations perhaps made her almost as happy as Jane. She saw them in the imagination set in this very house, in all the happiness that a marriage full of affection could confer; and in such circumstances, she felt able to make an effort to even like Woodland's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts, which she saw clearly, were inclined in the same way, and she decided not to venture near her so she wouldn't hear too much. Therefore, when they sat down for dinner, she considered it a highly unfortunate perversity that intertwined them; and she was deeply upset when she realized that her mother was speaking freely and openly with this one person (Lady Lucas), and by nothing more than her expectation that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Woodland. It was an animating theme, and Mrs. Mitchell didn't seem to be up to the fatigue as she enumerated the benefits of the match. That he was such a charming young man and so rich and lived only three miles away from them were the first points of self-congratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think about how much the two sisters loved Jane and to be sure that they had to want the connection as much as she could. It was also such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane's marriage has to throw her in the way of other rich men; and finally, in her lifetime, it was so pleasant to be able to leave her single daughters in the care of her sister that she may not have had to go into company more than she would like. It was necessary to make this circumstance a pleasure, because on such occasions it is etiquette; but no one found it less likely than Mrs. Mitchell to find solace in staying home at some point in her life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas could soon be just as lucky, although she obviously and triumphantly believed that there was no chance for it.
Elizabeth tried in vain to check the speed of her mother's words, or to persuade her to describe her bliss in a less audible whisper; for to her unspeakable annoyance, she could perceive that the boss of it was being overheard by Mr. Drury, who was sitting opposite them. Her mother only turned her on because she was nonsense.
"What concerns Mr. Drury, please, that I am afraid of him? I'm sure we don't owe him any special courtesy for not having to say anything he doesn't want to hear."
"For heaven's sake, madam, speak more softly. What benefit can it have for you to insult Drury-san? You will never recommend yourself to his friend!'
Nothing she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother spoke in the same understandable tone about her views. Elizabeth blushed and blushed once again with shame and anger. She couldn't help but look Mr. Drury in the eye frequently, even though every glance convinced her of what she feared; for although he did not always look at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was always focused on her. The expression of his face gradually changed from indignant contempt to a serene and steady seriousness.
Finally, however, Mrs. Mitchell had nothing more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had long yawned at the repetition of pleasures she saw no chance they would share, was left to the comfort of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the break of rest; for when dinner was over, singing was talked about, and she had the humiliation of seeing Mary after asking very little to prepare to do society a favor. Through many meaningful glances and silent pleas, she tried to prevent such proof of favor, but in vain; Mary would not understand her; such an exhibition opportunity was delightful for her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with painful sensations, and she watched her progress through the various verses with an impatience that was very poorly rewarded at her end; for Mary, when, under the gratitude of the table, she received a hint of a hope that she could be made to prefer her again, another began after the break of half a minute. Mary's powers were by no means suitable for such a depiction; her voice was weak and her behavior artificial. Elizabeth was in agony. She looked at Jane to see how she wore it; but Jane spoke very calmly with Woodland. She looked at his two sisters and saw them mocking each other and Drury, who continued unwaveringly serious. She looked at her father to ask him for his interference so Mary wouldn't sing all night. He understood the clue, and when Mary finished her second song, he said out loud, "This is going to work very well, kid. They have inspired us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to show themselves."
Mary was a little confused, even though she pretended not to hear anything; and Elizabeth regretted her and regretted her father's speech, fearing that her fear had done no good. Others of the party have now been requested.
"If I were lucky enough to sing," said Mr. Collins, I would take great pleasure in serving society with a face, I'm sure; because I consider music to be a very innocent pastime and quite compatible with the profession of a clergyman. But I'm not saying that we're justifiably devoting too much time to music, because there are certainly other things to do. The pastor of a parish has a lot to do. In the first place, he must make an agreement on tithing that is beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his community duties and the care and improvement of his home, which he cannot excuse for making it as convenient as possible. And I do not think it is insignificant that he is attentive and conciliatory to everyone, especially to those to whom he owes his preference. I cannot absolve him of this duty; I also couldn't think well of the man who should miss an opportunity to show his respect to someone who is connected to the family.' And with a bow to Mr. Drury, he ended his speech, which had been spoken so loudly that it could be heard from half the room. Many stared – many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Mitchell himself, while his wife earnestly praised Mr. Collins for speaking so sensibly, and Lady Lucas remarked half-whispering that he was a remarkably smart, good young man. I cannot absolve him of this duty; I also couldn't think well of the man who should miss an opportunity to show his respect to someone who is connected to the family.' And with a bow to Mr. Drury, he ended his speech, which had been spoken so loudly that it could be heard from half the room. Many stared – many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Mitchell himself, while his wife earnestly praised Mr. Collins for speaking so sensibly, and Lady Lucas remarked half-whispering that he was a remarkably smart, good young man. I cannot absolve him of this duty; I also couldn't think well of the man who should miss an opportunity to show his respect to someone who is connected to the family.' And with a bow to Mr. Drury, he ended his speech, which had been spoken so loudly that it could be heard from half the room. Many stared – many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Mitchell himself, while his wife earnestly praised Mr. Collins for speaking so sensibly, and Lady Lucas remarked half-whispering that he was a remarkably smart, good young man.
Elizabeth felt that it would have been impossible for her to play her role with more spirit or greater success if her family had agreed to show themselves as much as possible during the evening; and she found it happy for Woodland and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his attention and that his feelings were not very disturbed by the folly he must have witnessed. However, that his two sisters and Mr. Drury had such an opportunity to ridicule their relatives was bad enough, and she could not decide whether the silent contempt of the Lord or the outrageous smile of the ladies were more unbearable.
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins, who remained very stubbornly by her side, and although he could not get her to dance with him again, he took it out of her power to dance with others. In vain, she begged him to get up with someone else and offered to introduce him to some young lady in the room. He assured her that he was completely indifferent to dancing; that he was above all concerned with recommending himself to her through tender gifts, and that he should therefore stay close to her all evening. There was no dispute about such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them and took Mr. Collins' conversation good-naturedly.
She was at least free from insulting Mr. Drury's further notification; Although he often stood at a very short distance from her, completely detached, he never got close enough to her to speak. She thought it was the likely consequence of her allusions to Mr. Waterhouse and was happy about it.
The Longbourn group was the last of the whole society to leave, and had to wait for their car through a maneuver by Mrs. Mitchell a quarter of an hour after everyone else had left, which gave them time to see how warmly they were wanted away by some family members. Mrs. Hurst and her sister barely opened their mouths except to complain of fatigue, and were obviously impatient to have the house to themselves. They fended off any attempt at conversation by Mrs. Mitchell, thereby bringing an inertia to the whole society, which was hardly tempered by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who complimented Mr. Woodland and his sisters on the elegance of the party, their entertainment and the hospitality and courtesy that had characterized their behavior toward their guests. Drury said nothing at all. Mr. Mitchell enjoyed the scene in equal silence. Mr. Woodland and Jane stood together, a little detached from the others, and just talked to each other. Elizabeth kept as firm a silence as Mrs. Hurst or Miss Woodland; and even Linda was too exhausted to produce more than the occasional exclamation "Lord, how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.
When they finally got up to say goodbye, Mrs. Mitchell expressed herself extremely politely in her hope of seeing the whole family in Longbourn soon, and especially turned to Mr. Woodland to assure him how happy he would make them if he had a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Woodland was a very grateful pleasure, and he willingly pledged to use the earliest opportunity to serve her upon his return from London, where he had to go for a short time the next day.
Mrs. Mitchell was completely satisfied and calmed the house with the delightful conviction that she would undoubtedly see her daughter in Netherfield over the course of three or four months, taking into account the necessary preparations for settlements, new carriages and wedding clothes. To have married another daughter to Mr. Collins, she thought with the same certainty and with considerable, if not the same pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear of all her children; and although the man and the match were pretty good enough for YOU, the value was dwarfed by each of Mr. Woodland and Netherfield.
Chapter 80
Miss Dorset accepted the role very readily; and shortly after Miss Schmidt returned from the rectory, Mr. Rushmore arrived, and consequently another character was cast. He had the offer of Count Cassel and Anhalt and at first did not know what to choose and wanted Miss Schmidt to lead him; but when he realized the different style of the characters and who was which, and remembered that he had seen the play once in London and thought Anhalt was a very stupid guy, he soon decided on the Count. Miss Schmidt approved the decision, because the less he had to learn, the better; and although she could not empathize with his desire for the Count and Agatha to act together, she could still wait very patiently as he slowly turned the pages, hoping to discover another such scene, she took his role very kindly in her hand, shortening every speech that admitted to being shortened; in addition, he points out the need to be very well dressed and choose his colors. Mr. Rushmore liked the idea of his splendor very much, although he pretended to despise it; and was too busy with what his own appearance would look like to think of the others or to draw any conclusions from them or to feel any of the displeasure for which Mary had been half prepared.
So much was done before Edmund, who had been out all morning, learned anything about it; but when he entered the salon before dinner, the discussion between Tom, Maria and Mr. Yates was high; and Mr. Rushmore stepped forward with great zeal to bring him the good news.
"We have a play," he said. "It shall be the vow of the lovers; and I shall be Count Cassel and enter first in a blue dress and a pink Atlas coat, and then I shall have another fine costume, as a hunting dress. I don't know how to please it."
Esther's eyes followed Edmund, and her heart beat for him as she heard this speech and saw his gaze and felt what his sensations must be.
"Vows in love!" in a tone of greatest astonishment was his only answer to Mr. Rushmore, and he turned to his brothers and sisters as if he had little doubt.
"Yes," shouted Mr. Yates. "After all our discussions and difficulties, we realize that nothing suits us as well, nothing as flawlessly as Lovers' Vows. The miracle is that it should not have been thought before. My stupidity was abhorrent, because here we have all the advantages of what I saw in Ecclesford; and it's so useful to have something like a model! We cast almost all the parts."
"But what are you doing for women?" said Edmund earnestly, looking at Mary.
Maria blushed involuntarily as she replied, "I take on the role that Lady Ravenshaw should have taken on, and" (with a bolder look) "Miss Dorset is supposed to be Amelia."
"I didn't think it was the kind of game to be filled with us so easily," Edmund replied, turning to the fire where his mother, aunt and Esther were sitting, and sitting down with an expression of great anger.
Mr. Rushmore followed him and said, "I come three times and give forty-two speeches. That's something, isn't it? But I don't like the idea of being so fine. I will hardly recognize myself in a blue dress and a pink satin cape."
Edmund could not answer him. After a few minutes, Mr. Schmidt was called out of the room to dispel some of the carpenter's doubts; and accompanied by Yates-san and soon followed by Mr. Rushmore, Edmund almost immediately took the opportunity to say, "I can't tell Yates-san what I think about this piece without thinking of his friends Ecclesford; but I have to tell you now, my dear Mary, that I consider it highly unsuitable for a private representation and that I hope that you give it up. I can only guess that you will do it if you have read it carefully. Read only the first act aloud to either your mother or aunt and see how you can approve it. It will not be necessary to take you to your father's court, I am convinced of that."
"We see it very differently," Maria exclaimed. "I am completely familiar with the piece, I assure you; and with very few omissions, etc., which are done naturally, I can't see anything offensive about it; and I'm not the only young woman you think is very suitable for private representation."
"I'm sorry," was his reply; "But in this matter, it is you who has to lead. You have to lead by example. If others have made a mistake, it is your job to correct them and show them what true delicacy is. In all respects of decency, your conduct towards the rest of the party must be lawful."
This image of their meaning had a certain effect, for no one loved to lead more than Mary; and in a much better mood she replied, "I am very attached to you, Edmund; You mean it very well, I'm sure: but I still think you see things too strongly; and I really can't do all the rest to preach about a topic of this kind. It would be the greatest decency, I think."
"Do you think I could have such an idea in my head? No; let your behavior be the only address. Say that when you examine the role, you don't feel up to it; that you find that it requires more effort and confidence than you can expect. Say this emphatically, and it will suffice. All those who can distinguish will understand your motive. The game will be abandoned, and your delicacy will be honored as it should be."
"Don't do anything indecent, my dear," lady Schmidt said. "Sir Thomas wouldn't like it. – Esther, ring the bell; I have to have dinner. – To be sure, Julia is dressed around this time."
"I'm convinced, madam," Edmund said, stopping Esther, "that Sir Thomas wouldn't like that."
"There, my dear, do you hear what Edmund says?"
"If I were to decline the role," Maria said with renewed zeal, "Julia would definitely take it over."
"What!" cried Edmund, "if she knew your reasons!"
"Oh! she might think that the difference between us – the difference in our situations – is that she doesn't have to be as conscientious as I might think it should be. I'm sure she would argue that way. No; You have to apologize to me; I cannot withdraw my consent; it's too far ticked off, everyone would be so disappointed, Tom would be very angry; and if we are so nice, we will never do anything."
"That's what I just wanted to say," Said Mrs. Norris. "If every game is to be objected to, you won't do anything, and the preparations will all throw away so much money, and I'm sure that would be a discrediting for all of us. I don't know the piece; but as Maria says, if something is too warm (and this is the case with most), you can just leave it out. We must not be too precise, Edmund. Since Mr. Rushmore is also supposed to act, it can't hurt. I just wish Tom had known his own opinion when the carpenters started, because because because of these side doors, the work was lost half a day. However, the curtain will do a good job. The maids do their job very well, and I think we will be able to send back a few dozen rings. There is no reason to put them so close together. I am useful, I hope, to avoid waste and make the most of things. There should always be a calm head to supervise so many young people. I forgot to tell Tom about something that happened to me that day. I had looked around the poultry farm and just came out when I was supposed to see someone other than Dick Jackson, who walked to the door of the servants' hall with two pieces of boards in his hand and brought her father, you can be sure; Mother had accidentally sent him a message to Dad, and then Father had asked him to bring them two boards, because he could not do without them. I knew what all this meant, for it was just above our heads that the food bell of the servants rang; and since I hate such abusive people (the Jacksons are very abusive, I've always said it: exactly the kind of people who get everything they can), I said directly to the boy (a great clumsy of ten years who should actually be ashamed): "I'm taking the boards to your dad, Dick, so bring you home as soon as you can."' The boy looked very silly and turned away without saying a word, because I think I could speak quite sharply; and I dare say that it will keep him from rummaging around the house for a while. I hate such greed – as good as your father is to the family to keep the man busy all year round!" and I dare say that it will keep him from rummaging around the house for a while. I hate such greed – as good as your father is to the family to keep the man busy all year round!" and I dare say that it will keep him from rummaging around the house for a while. I hate such greed – as good as your father is to the family to keep the man busy all year round!"
No one was trying to find an answer; the others soon returned; and Edmund felt that his only satisfaction must be to have made an effort to fix it.
Dinner passed hard. Mrs. Norris recounted her triumph over Dick Jackson, but otherwise there was not much talk of play or preparation, because Edmund's disapproval was felt even by his brother, although he would not have acknowledged it. Maria, who wanted Henry Dorset's animating support, thought the subject was better avoided. Mr. Yates, who tried to make himself comfortable with Julia, found her gloomy mood on each subject less impenetrable than that of his regrets about her separation from her society; and Mr Rushmore, who had only his own role and his own dress in his head, had soon floated away everything that could be said of both.
But the affairs of the theater were only suspended for an hour or two: there was still a lot to do; and the spirits of the evening, who gave fresh courage, Tom, Maria and Mr. Yates, soon after they were gathered back in the salon, sat down in the committee at a separate table, with the open piece in front of them, and just became deep in the topic when an extremely welcome interruption was given by the entry of Mr. and Miss Dorset, who, as late and dark and dirty as it was, could not help but come and were received with the most grateful joy.
"Well, what's next?" and "What have you regulated?" and "Oh! we can do nothing without you," followed the first greetings; and Henry Dorset was soon sitting at the table with the other three, while his sister made her way to Lady Schmidt and complimented her with pleasant attention. "I really have to congratulate your ladyship," she said, "that the piece was chosen; because although you have endured it with exemplary patience, I am sure that you must be tired of all our noise and difficulties. The actors may rejoice, but the audience must be infinitely more grateful for a decision; and I sincerely bring you joy, Madam, as well as Mrs. Norris and all the others who are in the same predicament." Half anxious, half clever, he looked over Esther to Edmund.
Lady Schmidt replied to her very politely, but Edmund said nothing. That he was only a spectator was not denied. After chatting with society for a few minutes by the fire, Miss Dorset returned to the company around the table; and as she stood next to them, she seemed to be interested in their arrangements until, as if struck by a sudden memory, she exclaimed, "My good friends, you work extremely serenely on these cottages and pubs, inside and out; but please let me know my fate in the meantime. Who should be Anhalt? With which ?? Gentleman among you may I have the pleasure of making love?"
For a moment, no one spoke; and then many spoke together to tell the same melancholic truth that they had not yet received a clue. "Sir. Rushmore was to become Count Cassel, but no one had yet taken over Anhalt."
"I had my choice of parts," said Mr. Rushmore; "but I thought I would like the Count the most, although I don't like the splendor I'm supposed to have very much."
"You chose very wisely, I'm sure," Miss Dorset replied with a brightened look; "Stopping is a hard part."
"The Count has forty-two speeches," Mr. Rushmore replied, "that's no small thing."
"I'm not at all surprised," Said Miss Dorset after a short break, "about this lack of a clue. Amelia didn't deserve better. Such a noble young lady can certainly frighten the men."
"I would be only too happy to take on the role if it were possible," Tom shouted; "But unfortunately, the butler and Anhalt are together. However, I will not give it up completely; I'll try what can be done – I'll look at it again."
"Your brother should take on the role," Yates said quietly. "Don't you think he would?"
"I'm not going to ask him," Tom replied coldly and resolutely.
Miss Dorset spoke of something else and soon rejoined the company by the fire.
"They don't want me at all," she said and sat down. "I just confuse them and oblige them to give civil speeches. Mr. Edmund Schmidt, since you do not act yourself, you will be an altruistic advisor; and that's why I'm applying to you. What should we do for a guide? Is it practical for one of the others to double it? What is your advice?"
"My advice," he said calmly, "is that you change the piece."
"I shouldn't mind," she replied; "Because although I wouldn't particularly like the role of Amelia if she was well supported, that is, if everything went well, I would be sorry to be an inconvenience; but since they don't want to listen to your advice at this table" (look around), "it will certainly not be accepted."
Edmund said nothing more.
"If anything could seduce you to act, it would probably be Anhalt," the lady remarked mischievously after a short pause; "For he is a clergyman, you know."
"This circumstance would not appeal to me at all," he replied, "because I would be sorry to ridicule the character with bad acting. It must be very difficult to prevent Anhalt from appearing as a formal, solemn lecturer; and the man who chooses the profession himself is perhaps one of the last to want to represent him on stage."
Miss Dorset was silenced, and with some feelings of resentment and humiliation, she moved her chair considerably closer to the tea table and turned all her attention to Mrs. Norris, who presided over it.
"Esther," shouted Tom Schmidt from the other table, where the conference continued eagerly and the conversation incessantly, "we need your services."
Esther was immediately back on her feet and was expecting an errand; for the habit of employing them in this way had not yet been overcome, despite all that Edmund could do.
"Oh! We don't want to disturb you from your seat. We do not want your current services. We just want you in our game. You must be Cottager's wife."
"Me!" shouted Esther and sat down again with a frightened look. "In fact, you have to apologize to me. I couldn't play anything if you gave me the world. No, in fact I can't act."
"Indeed, but you have to, because we can't excuse you. There is no need to frighten you: it is a nothingness of a part, a mere nothingness, no more than half a dozen speeches in total, and it will not mean much if no one hears a word from you; So you can be as much of a crawling mouse as you want, but we have to have you to look at."
"If you're afraid of half a dozen speeches," exclaimed Mr. Rushmore, "what would you do with a part like mine? I have to learn forty-two."
"It's not that I'm afraid of memorizing," said Esther, who was shocked to be the only speaker in the room at that moment and to feel that almost all eyes were on her; "but I really can't act."
"Yes, yes, you can play well enough for us. Learn your part, and we'll teach you the rest. You only have two scenes, and since I'm going to be a cottager, I'm going to put you in there and push you around, and you're going to do it very well, I'm going to stand up for it."
"No, Mr. Schmidt, you have to apologize to me. You can't have an idea. It would be absolutely impossible for me. If I dared, I would only disappoint you."
"Phu! Pho! Don't be so ashamed. You will do it very well. Each allowance is made for you. We do not expect perfection. You have to get a brown dress and a white apron and a mob cap, and we have to make you a few wrinkles and a little crow's foot in the corners of your eyes, and you're going to be a very decent little girl old woman."
"You have to excuse me, in fact, you have to excuse me," shouted Esther, who was getting redder and redder with excessive excitement, and looked sadly at Edmund, who watched her kindly; but not willing to upset his brother by interfering, only gave her an encouraging smile. Their request was ineffective with Tom: he only said once more what he had said before; and it wasn't just Tom, for the requisition was now supported by Maria and Mr. Dorset and Yates-san with an urgency that was different from his, but gentler or more ceremonial, and that quite overwhelmed Esther overall; and before she could breathe afterwards, Mrs. Norris completed the whole thing by whispering at her angrily and audibly at the same time: "What a job this is about nothing: I am quite ashamed of you, Esther, to make it so difficult to please your cousins in such a little thing – as friendly as they are to you! Accept the role with good will, and let's not hear more about the matter, I beg."
"Don't push them, madam," Edmund said. It is not fair to push them in this way. You see, she doesn't like to play. Let them decide for themselves, just like the rest of us. Their judgment can also be relied upon. Don't push them any further."
"I'm not about to push them," Mrs. Norris replied sharply; "but I will consider her a very stubborn, ungrateful girl if she doesn't do what her aunt and cousins?? you wish – very ungrateful, considering who and what she is."
Edmund was too angry to speak; but Miss Dorset, who looked at Mrs. Norris for a moment with astonished eyes, and then Esther, whose tears began to show, immediately said with some sharpness: "I don't like my situation: here it's too hot me," and moved her chair to the opposite side of the table, close to Esther, and said to her in a friendly, a quiet whisper as she sat down: "Never mind, my dear Miss Price, this is a bad evening: everyone is angry and teasing each other, but let's not disturb them"; and with emphasized attention, she continued to talk to her and tried to lift her spirits, even though she herself was depressed. By looking at her brother, she prevented any further request from the theatre management,
Esther did not love Miss Dorset; but she felt very committed to her for her present kindness; and when Miss Dorset took notice of her work and wished she could also work, begging for the pattern and assuming that Esther was now preparing for her appearance, as she would of course come out when her cousin got married, Miss Dorset went on to ask if she had heard of her brother at sea lately, and said she was very curious to see him, and imagined he was a very fine young man, and advised Esther to get a picture of him before he went back to sea – she couldn't help but admit that it was a very pleasant flattery, or to listen and respond more vividly than she had intended.
The deliberations on the play were still ongoing, and Miss Dorset first became aware of it by Esther when Tom Schmidt told her with infinite regret that he found it absolutely impossible for him to take on the role of Anhalt in addition to the butler: he had done it I tried very anxiously to think it was feasible, but it wouldn't work; he has to give it up. "But there won't be the slightest difficulty in filling it," he added. "We only need to say the word; we can choose and select. I could name at least six young men within six miles of us at this moment who are eager to be accepted into our society, and there are one or two who would not embarrass us: I should not be afraid to trust either of them the Olivers or Charles Maddox. Tom Oliver is a very clever lad, and Charles Maddox is such a gentle, human-like man as you will see everywhere, As he spoke,
Mary looked anxiously at Edmund in the full expectation that he would have to resist such an expansion of the plan as this: so against all her initial assurances; but Edmund said nothing. After a short reflection, Miss Dorset calmly replied: "As far as I am concerned, I can't object to what you all think is permissible. Have I ever seen any of the gentlemen? Yes, Mr. Charles Maddox ate at my sister's house one day, didn't he, Henry? A quiet-looking young man. I remember him. Please apply to him, because it will be less uncomfortable for me than to have a complete stranger."
Charles Maddox was supposed to be the man. Tom repeated his decision to go to him tomorrow morning; and although Julia, who had barely opened her lips before, remarked in a sarcastic manner and with a glance first at Mary and then at Edmund that "the theatre performances in Mansfield would enliven the whole neighbourhood extraordinarily", Edmund was still silent, showing his feelings only through a determined seriousness.
"I'm not very confident about our game," Miss Dorset said to Esther in a low voice after some reflection; "and I can tell Maddox-san that I'm going to cut some of his speeches and many of my own before we rehearse together. It will be very unpleasant and by no means what I expected."
Chapter 81
Mr. and Mrs. John Hill were not held in Hartfield for long. The weather soon improved to the point where those who needed to move could move; and Mr. Lodge, who, as usual, had tried to persuade his daughter to stay behind with all her children, had to see the whole society break up and return to his laments about the fate of poor Bella – which poor Bella passed by her life with those she adored, full of merit, blind to her mistakes and always innocent, could have been a model for proper female happiness.
Exactly on the evening of the day they left, Mr. Alton brought a note from Mr. Alton to Mr. Lodge, a long, polite, solemn note in which he said, with Mr. Alton's best compliments, "that he planned to leave Highbury in the morning on the way to Bath; where, in accordance with the urgent requests of some friends, he had committed himself to spending a few weeks, and deeply regretted that due to various weather and business circumstances he was unable to personally say goodbye to Mr. Lodge, whose friendly manners he should always be grateful for – and if Mr. Lodge had any orders, he should be happy to take care of them."
Emma was very pleasantly surprised. Alton's absence at this very moment was almost to be desired. She admired him for inventing it, although she couldn't give him much credit for the way it was announced. Resentment could not have been expressed more clearly than in a courtesy to her father, from whom she was so clearly excluded. She didn't even share in his opening compliments. – Her name was not mentioned – and in all this lay such a striking change and such an ill-considered solemnity of saying goodbye in his graceful confirmations, when she thought, could not escape her father's suspicion at first.
However, it did. Her father was quite taken by the surprise of such a sudden trip and his fear that Mr. Alton could never end safely, and saw nothing extraordinary in his language. It was a very useful note because it provided them with fresh food for thought and conversation for the rest of their lonely evening. Mr. Lodge talked beyond his alarms, and Emma was eager to convince her of it with all her usual speed.
She decided to stop leaving Harriet in the dark. She had reason to believe that she had almost recovered from her cold, and it was desirable that she had as much time as possible to resolve her other complaint before the Lord returned. Accordingly, she went to Mrs. Goddard the very next day to undergo the necessary communication penance; and it was a hard one. She had to destroy all the hopes that she had so diligently nurtured – to appear in the unfriendly character of those who were favored – and admit that she was grossly mistaken and mediocre in all her ideas on a subject, all her observations, all her beliefs, all her prophecies of the last six weeks.
The confession completely renewed her initial shame – and the sight of Harriet's tears made her think that she should never again be in charity with herself.
Harriet carried the intelligence very well – not to blame anyone – and testified in everything such an innocence of attitude and low opinion of herself, as it must seem particularly advantageous to her friend at that moment.
Emma was in humor. to appreciate simplicity and modesty to the utmost; and everything that was amiable, everything that was supposed to stick seemed to be on Harriet's side, not on her own. Harriet felt that she had nothing to complain about. The affection of such a man as Mr. Alton would have been too much of an award. – She could never have earned it – and no one but such a partisan and friendly friend as Miss Lodge would have thought it possible.
Her tears flowed abundantly – but her grief was so truly naïve that no dignity could have made him more respectable in Emma's eyes – and she listened to her and tried to comfort her with all her heart and understanding – really convinced that Harriet was convinced for the time being that the superior creature of the two – and resembling her would be more for her own well-being and happiness, than all that genius or intelligence could do.
It was quite late in the day to set out to be simple-minded and ignorant; but she left her with any previous determination to be confirmed, humble and discreet and to suppress the imagination for the rest of her life. Her second duty, subordinate only to her father's claims, was now to promote Harriet's well-being and strive to prove her own affection in a better way than through marriage mediation. She brought her to Hartfield and showed her the most unchanging kindness, trying to keep her busy and amused, and driving Mr. Alton out of her thoughts through books and conversations.
She knew she had to be given time to do this thoroughly; and she could assume that she was generally only an indifferent judge of such things and very inadequate to sympathize in an affection for Mr. Alton in particular; but it seemed reasonable to her that at Harriet's age, and with the complete extinguishing of all hopes until Mr. Alton's return, such progress could be made toward a state of serenity that they could all meet again in the usual get-to-know routine, without the danger of betraying or increasing feelings.
Harriet considered him perfect and claimed that there was no body equal to him in person or kindness – and in truth proved himself more decisively in love than Emma had foreseen; but still it seemed to her so ?? of course, so inevitably to fight unrequited against a tendency of this kind that she could not comprehend that she lasted for a very long time in the same strength.
If Mr. Alton made his own indifference as obvious and unquestionable on his return as she undoubtedly would, she could not imagine Harriet insisting on putting her happiness in his sight or memory.
Their fixation, so absolutely fixation in the same place, was bad for everyone, for all three. None of them had the power to eliminate society or bring about a material change in society. They have to meet each other and make the most of it.
Harriet continued to be unhappy in the tone of her companions with Mrs. Goddard; Mr. Alton is the reverence of all teachers and great girls in school; and only in Hartfield could she have a chance to hear him speak with cooling moderation or repulsive truth. Where the wound had been inflicted, the remedy had to be found, if at all; and Emma felt that there could be no true peace for herself until she saw her on the path of healing.
Chapter 82
From that point on, Captain Cambridge and Anne Hightower were in the same circle over and over again. They soon dined together with Mr. Cumberland, for the condition of the little boy could no longer provide his aunt with an excuse for her absence; and this was just the beginning of other meals and other gatherings.
Whether past feelings should be renewed must be put to the test; earlier times must undoubtedly be remembered by everyone; they could not be resorted to other than; he could only name the year of their engagement in the small stories or descriptions that the conversation provoked. His profession enabled him, his predisposition led him to speak; and "That was in year six;" "This happened before I went to sea in the sixth year," happened during the first evening they spent together, and although his voice did not falter, and although she had no reason to assume that his gaze wandered to her as he spoke From her knowledge of his thoughts, Anne felt the complete impossibility that he could not be invited by memory any more than she could. There must be the same immediate association of thoughts,
you had no conversation with each other, no sexual intercourse except what the most ordinary politeness required. Once so much together! Nothing now! There had been a time when, of all the large group that now filled the Salon in Uppercross, it would have been the hardest for them not to talk to each other anymore. With the possible exception of Admiral and Mrs. Field, who seemed to be particularly connected and happy (Anne could not allow any other exceptions even among the married couples), there could not have been two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in harmony, no faces so loved. Now they were like strangers; no, worse than strangers, because they could never get to know each other. It was an eternal alienation.
When he spoke, she heard the same voice and perceived the same spirit. There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the Party; and he was questioned a great deal, and especially from the two Miss Cumberlands, who seemed to have little other eyes but for him, regarding the way of life on board, the daily regulations, the food, the hours, etc. and their surprise about him, reports eluded from him when he learned to what extent an adaptation and precaution was practicable, a pleasant mockery, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant and had also been accused of assuming that sailors lived outside on board to eat something, or a cook to prepare it if there was one, or a servant to wait, or any knife and fork you could use.
After listening and thinking like this, she was awakened by a whisper from Mrs. Cumberland, who, overwhelmed by loving regret, couldn't help but say,
"Ah! Miss Anne, if heaven had pleased to spare my poor son, I dare to say that he would have been just as different at that time."
Anne suppressed a smile and listened kindly, while Mrs. Cumberland relieved her heart a little; and therefore could not keep up with the conversation of the others for a few minutes.
When she was able to give free rein to her attention, she found the Miss Cumberlands just about to get the Navy List (her own Navy List, the first ever to be in Uppercross) and sat down with the confessors to brood over it to find out which ships Captain Cambridge had commanded.
"Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp."
"You won't find them there. Pretty exhausted and broken. I was the last man to command them. Hardly fit for duty at the time. Registered as fit for home service for a year or two, and so I was sent to the West india."
The girls looked amazed.
"The Admiralty," he continued, "occasionally converses with sending a few hundred men to sea on an unusable ship. But it has very many to take care of, and among the thousands this may be fair both to the bottom and not, it is impossible for them to distinguish exactly the group that is least missed.
"Phu! Phew!" shouted the admiral, "what stuff these young guys are talking about! In their time, there was never a better sloop than the Asp. For an old-built sloop, you wouldn't see it right away. A lucky guy who caught them! He knows that there must have been twenty better men than he did who are applying for them at the same time.
"I felt my happiness, Admiral, I assure you," Captain Cambridge replied earnestly. "I have been as pleased with my appointment as you could wish for. It was a great goal at the time to be at sea with me; a very great goal, I wanted to do something."
"Absolutely. What should a young lad like you do together on land for half a year?
"But, Captain Cambridge," Lois shouted, "how upset you must have been when you came to asp to see what an old thing they had given you."
"I knew pretty well what she was before that day," he said with a smile. "I didn't have more discoveries to make than you did about the fashion and firmness of some old pelisse that you've seen you borrow from half of your acquaintances for as long as you can remember, and which finally, on a very wet day, is borrowed from you. Oh! she was a dear old Asp. She did everything I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we should either get to the bottom of it together, or that she would be what it takes for me; and I never had two days of bad weather while at sea in it, and after taking enough buccaneers to be very entertaining, I was lucky enough to meet the very French frigate on my trip home the next fall I wanted. I took her to Plymouth; and here another stroke of luck. We hadn't been in the Sound for six hours when a storm came up that lasted four days and nights and poor old Asp would have done in half the time; our contact with the Great Nation has not improved our condition much. Twenty-four hours later, and I should have been just a brave Captain Cambridge, in a small paragraph in a corner of the newspapers; and if I had only gotten lost in a sloop, no one would have thought of me." Anne's shudder was only for herself, but Miss Cumberlands could be as open as they were sincere in their exclamations of pity and horror. in a small paragraph on a corner of newspapers; and if I had only gotten lost in a sloop, no one would have thought of me." Anne's shudder was only for herself, but Miss Cumberlands could be as open as they were sincere in their exclamations of pity and horror. in a small paragraph on a corner of newspapers; and if I had only gotten lost in a sloop, no one would have thought of me." Anne's shudder was only for herself, but Miss Cumberlands could be as open as they were sincere in their exclamations of pity and horror.
"And then, I suppose," Mrs. Cumberland said in a low voice, as if thinking out loud, "then he went to Laconia, and there he met our poor boy. Charles, my dear," (waving him to her), "ask Captain Cambridge where he first met your poor brother. I've always forgotten it."
"It was in Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left sick in Gibraltar with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Cambridge."
"Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Cambridge, he need't be afraid to mention poor Dick in front of me, because it would be more of a pleasure to hear such a good friend talk about him."
Charles, who was a little more concerned about the probabilities of the case, just nodded in response and walked away.
The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Cambridge could not fail the pleasure of taking the precious ribbon into his own hands to spare them the trouble, and once again reading aloud the small statement of her name and class and presenting her underclass, noting that she was also one of the best friends, that man has ever had.
"Ah, those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How quickly I made money with her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise off the West Islands. Poor Cheval, sister! You know how much he wanted money": worse than me. He had a wife. Excellent guy. I will never forget his happiness. He felt everything, so much for her sake. I wished him back next summer when I was still having the same luck in the Mediterranean."
"And I'm sure sir," said Mrs. Cumberland, "it was a happy day for us when you were named captain of this ship. We will never forget what you did."
Their feelings made them speak softly; and Captain Cambridge, who only partially heard and probably didn't have Dick Cumberland close to his thoughts at all, looked pretty excited and like he was waiting for more.
"My brother," whispered one of the girls; "Mom thinks of poor Richard."
"Poor dear guy!" Ms. Cumberland continued; "He became so stable and such an excellent correspondent while he was under your care! Ah! It would have been a happy thing if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Cambridge, we are very sorry to leave you."
On Captain Cambridge's face in this speech lay a fleeting expression, a certain look of his shining eyes and a ripple of his pretty mouth, which convinced Anne that he had probably done it, instead of sharing Mrs. Cumberland's kind wishes regarding her son and made an effort to get rid of him; but it was too temporary indulgence of self-amusement to be discovered by anyone who understood it less than himself; at another moment he was completely collected and serious, and almost immediately afterwards he approached the sofa on which she and Mrs. Cumberland were sitting, took a seat at the latter and began in a low voice a conversation with her about her son, who did it with as much sympathy and natural grace as he showed the kindest consideration for everything, which was real and absurd in the feelings of the parents.
They were actually sitting on the same sofa, for Mrs. Cumberland had so willingly made room for him; they were shared only by Mrs Cumberland. It was, in fact, not an insignificant obstacle. Mrs. Cumberland was of comfortable, considerable size and by nature infinitely better suited to express good mood and good mood than tenderness and feeling; and while the excitement of Anne's slender figure and thoughtful face can be seen as very completely shielded, Captain Cambridge should be given some credit for the self-control with which he cared for her big, fat sigh about the fate of a son alive who no one had cared about.
Personal greatness and emotional grief certainly have no necessary proportions. A tall, massive figure has as good a right to deep suffering as the most graceful limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are inappropriate conjunctions that the mind patronizes in vain – that taste does not tolerate – that seize ridicule.
After the admiral had made two or three refreshing rounds in the room with his hands on his back, had been called to order by his wife, he now approached Captain Cambridge, and without realizing what he could interrupt, thinking only of himself, began with --
"If you had been in Lisbon a week later last spring, Frederick, you would have been asked to give Lady Mary Grierson and her daughters a passage."
"Should I? I'm glad I wasn't a week later."
The admiral insulted him for his lack of gallantry. He defended himself; although he explained that he would never willingly allow ladies on board one of his ships, except for a ball or a visit that a few hours could comprehend.
"But, if I know myself," he said, "it's of a lack of bravery towards them. Rather, it is the feeling of how impossible it is, with all his efforts and all his sacrifices, to make the accommodation on board the way women should have it. There can be no lack of gallantry, Admiral, when it comes to highly estimating women's demands on every personal comfort, and that's what I do. I hate hearing from women on board or seeing them on board; and no ship under my command will ever take a family of ladies anywhere if I can prevent it.
This brought his sister to him.
"Oh! Frederick! But I can't believe it from you. – All idle sophistication! – Women can feel as comfortable on board as in the best house in England. I think I've lived on board as much as most women, and I know nothing better than the accommodations of a warship. I declare that even in Kellynch Hall I have no comfort or forbearance in myself" (with a friendly bow to Anne), "beyond what I've always had in most of the ships I've stayed on, and there were five in total."
"Nothing for the purpose," her brother replied. "You lived with your husband and were the only woman on board."
"But you yourself brought Mrs. Cheval, her sister, her cousin and three children from Portsmouth to Plymouth.
"Everyone merged into my friendship, Sophia. I would help any officer's wife I could, and I would bring everything from Chevals from the end of the world if he wanted to. But don't think I didn't find it evil myself."
"Trust it, they were all perfectly comfortable."
"Maybe that's why I don't like them better. So many women and children have no right to feel comfortable on board."
"My dear Friedrich, you speak quite idly. What would become of us poor sailors' wives, who we often want to be transferred to one or the other port after our men, if everyone had your feelings?"
"My feelings, you see, didn't stop me from bringing Mrs. Cheval and her whole family to Plymouth."
"But I hate to hear you speak like a fine gentleman, and as if women were all fine ladies instead of reasonable creatures.
"Ah, my dear," said the admiral, "if he has a wife, he will sing a different melody. If he is married and we are lucky enough to experience another war, we will see how he does it like you and I and many others have done it. We will be very grateful to everyone who brings him his wife."
"Yes, we will."
"Now I'm done," shouted Captain Cambridge. "Once married people start attacking me with, 'Oh! You'll think very differently when you're married.' I can only say, 'No, I won't;' and then they say again, 'Yes, you will,' and it's over."
He got up and left.
"What a great traveler you must have been, Ma'am!" Mrs. Cumberland told Mrs. Field.
"Pretty good, Ma'am, in the fifteen years of my marriage; although many women have done more. I have crossed the Atlantic four times and have been to the East Indies once and back again and only once; different places in my home country: Cork and Lisbon and Gibraltar. But I never went beyond the Streights and was never in the West Indies. We don't call Bermuda or Bahama the West Indies."
Mrs. Cumberland did not have a word to say against it; she couldn't blame herself for ever calling her that in her entire life.
when the admiral (then Captain Field) was in the North Sea. I was living in constant fear at the time and had all sorts of imaginary complaints about not knowing what to do with myself or the next time I should hear from him; but as long as we could be together, nothing hurt me, and I never had the slightest inconvenience."
"Yes, of course. Yes, indeed, oh yes! I fully agree with you, Mrs. Field," was Mrs. Cumberland's warm response. "Nothing is as bad as a breakup. I fully agree with you. I know what it is because Mr. Cumberland always attends the jury trials, and I'm so happy when they're over and he's safely back."
The evening ended with dancing. When she was proposed to him, Anne offered her services as usual; and although her eyes sometimes filled with tears when she sat at the instrument, she was extraordinarily happy to be busy and wanted nothing in return but to remain unobserved.
It was a happy, cheerful party, and no one seemed to be in a better mood than Captain Cambridge. She felt that he had everything to lift him up, what general attention and reverence and especially the attention of all young women could do. The Miss Hayters, the females of the already mentioned cousin family, were apparently given the honor of being in love with him; and Grace and Lois both seemed so completely absorbed by him that nothing but the continued appearance of the most perfect benevolence between them could have made it believable that they were not determined rivals. If he were a little spoiled by such general, zealous admiration, who could wonder?
These were some of the thoughts that occupied Anne as her fingers worked mechanically and went together for half an hour, equally without error and without consciousness. Once she had the feeling that he was looking at himself, looking at her changed features, perhaps he was trying to see in it the ruins of the face that had once enchanted him; and as soon as she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was barely aware of it until she heard the answer; but then she was sure that he had asked his partner if Miss Hightower had never danced? The answer was, "Oh no; never; she gave up dancing altogether. She preferred to play. She never tires of playing." Once he also spoke to her. She had left the instrument behind after the dance was over, and he had sat down to try to make a breath of which he wanted to give Miss Cumberlands an idea. Unintentionally, she returned to this part of the room; he saw her, immediately stood up and said with rehearsed politeness:
"I ask for your forgiveness, madam, this is your seat;" and although she immediately withdrew with a firm denial, he could not be arranged to sit down again.
Anne no longer wanted such looks and speeches. His cold politeness, his solemn grace were worse than anything else.
Chapter 83
Marianne would have considered herself very inexcusable if she had been able to sleep at all on the first night after the separation from Warwick. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning if she hadn't gotten out of bed and needed more rest than if she had laid down in it. But the feelings that made such serenity a disgrace did not leave them in danger of undergoing one. She was awake all night and cried most of the time. She got up with a headache, couldn't talk, and didn't want to eat food; She inflicted pain on her mother and sisters at every moment and denied them any attempt to comfort. Their sensitivity was strong enough!
When breakfast was over, she went out alone and wandered through the village of Allenham, reminiscing about past joys and crying over the present setback after the chief of the morning.
The evening passed in the same indulgence of feelings. She played every favorite song she was used to playing to Warwick, every melody in which her voices were most often connected, and sat at the instrument and stared at every line of notes he had written for her until her heart broke so hard that no further sadness could be won; and this food of sorrow was applied every day. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte, alternately singing and crying; her voice is often completely exposed to her tears. In books as well as in music, she competed for the misery that the contrast between past and present would certainly bring. She read nothing but what they had read together.
Such violence of tribulation could not, in fact, be endured forever; it sank into a calmer melancholy within a few days; but these pursuits to which she returned daily, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional outpourings of sorrow, as vivid as ever.
No letter came from Warwick; and no one seemed to be expected of Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Eleanore became restless again. But Mrs. Hargrove could find explanations whenever she wanted, which at least satisfied herself.
"Remember, Eleanore," she said, "how many times Sir John himself retrieves our letters from the post office and carries them there your correspondence should pass through Sir John's hands.
Eleanore could not deny the truth, and she tried to find in it a sufficient motive for her silence. But there was a method that was so direct, so simple and, in her opinion, so suitable for recognizing the real state of affairs and immediately eliminating all the secrets that she could not help but propose them to her mother.
"Why don't you ask Marianne right away," she said, "if she's engaged to Warwick or not? From you, her mother, and such a kind, so forgiving mother, the question could not cause offence was the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be wholehearted and especially towards you."
"I wouldn't ask such a question around the world. Suppose it were possible that they are not engaged, what a torment such a request would not cause! In any case, it would be highly unfriendly. I would never again earn her trust after I forced myself." a confession to her of what is currently to be concealed from everyone. I know Marianne's heart: I know that she loves me very much, and that I will not be the last person to be aware of the affair if circumstances reveal it, I would not try to force the trust of anyone, let alone a child, because a sense of duty would prevent the rejection that could guide her desires.
Eleanore considered this generosity exaggerated in view of her sister's youth and pushed the matter further, but in vain; common sense, general concern, general prudence, have all been sunk into the romantic delicacy of Mrs. Hargrove.
It took several days for Warwick's name to be mentioned by one of her family members before Marianne; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings were indeed not so nice; her jokes made some painful hours even more painful – but one evening Mrs. Hargrove accidentally called a Shakespeare volume into her hand:
"We never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Warwick left before we were done. We will put it aside when he comes back...
"Months!" cried Marianne with great surprise. "No - many more weeks."
Mrs Hargrove regretted what she had said; but it brought joy to Eleanore as it evoked a response from Marianne who expressed so much confidence in Warwick and knowledge of his intentions.
One morning, about a week after he left the country, Marianne was persuaded to accompany her sisters on their usual walk instead of leaving alone. Until now, she had carefully avoided any companion during her forays. When her sisters intended to walk on the hills, she stole away directly towards the alleys; When they talked about the valley, she was just as fast in climbing the hills and could never be found when the others set off. But eventually it was secured by the efforts of Eleanore, who greatly disapproved of such continued seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, mainly silently, because Marianne's SPIRIT was uncontrollable, and Eleanore, satisfied with winning a point, would then no longer make an effort. Beyond the entrance to the valley, where the land was still rich but less wild and open, a long stretch of road they had traveled on their first coming to Barton lay ahead of them; and when they reached this point, they stopped to look around and examine a view that formed the distance of their view from the hut, from a point they had not reached by chance on any of their walks before.
Among the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards her. In a few minutes they could recognize him as a gentleman; and a moment later, Marianne exclaimed in delight,
"It is Him; he really is – I know!" – and rushed towards him when Eleanore exclaimed:
"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are wrong. It's not Warwick. The person is not big enough for him and does not have his air."
"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I'm sure he has. His air, his fur, his horse. I knew how soon he was coming."
She eagerly walked on as she spoke; and Eleanore, to protect Marianne from peculiarities, as she was almost certain that it was not Warwick, accelerated her steps and kept up with her. They were soon only thirty meters away from the Lord. Marianne looked again; her heart sank into her; and suddenly she turned around and hurried back when the voices of her two sisters were raised to hold her back; a third, almost as well-known as Warwick's, joined them and asked them to stop, and she turned around in surprise to see and welcome Edward Gastonois.
He was the only person in the world who could be forgiven at that moment for not being Warwick; the only one who could have won a smile from her; but she scattered her tears to smile at HIM, and in her sister's happiness she forgot her own disappointment for a while.
He got off, gave his horse to his servant and went back with them to Barton, where he deliberately came to visit them.
He was greeted with great warmth by all, but especially by Marianne, who received him with more warmth and respect than even Eleanore herself. For Marianne, the meeting between Edward and her sister was actually just a continuation of the inexplicable coldness she had often observed in Norland in her mutual behavior. Especially on Edward's side, there was a lack of everything a lover should see and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed to feel little joy in seeing her, looked neither ecstatic nor cheerful, said little but what the questions forced of him, and did not distinguish Eleanore with a sign of affection. Marianne saw and heard with growing surprise. She almost began to feel an aversion to Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her,
After a brief silence that followed the first surprise and meeting requests, Marianne asked Edward if he was directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire for fourteen days.
"Two weeks!" she repeated, surprised that he had been in the same county with Eleanor for so long without having seen her before.
He looked quite distressed when he added that he had stayed with a few friends near Plymouth.
"Have you been to Sussex lately?" said Eleonore.
"I was in Norland about a month ago."
"And what does dear Norland look like?" cried Marianne.
"Dear, dear Norland," Eleanore said, "probably looks like it always does at this time of year. The forests and paths are densely covered with dead foliage."
"Oh," cried Marianne, "with which?? I used to see them fall with a captivating feeling! How happy I was when I left, when I saw them being driven over me by the wind in showers! What feelings have completely inspired them, the season, the air! Now there is no one left to pay attention to them.
"It's not everyone," Eleanore said, "who has your passion for dead leaves."
"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But SOMETIMES they are." – When she said this, she sank into reveries for a few moments; But picking herself up again, "Now, Edward," she said, drawing his attention to the view: "Here's Barton Valley. Look up and be calm if you can. Check out these hills! Have you ever seen your peers? On the left is Barton Park, in the middle of these forests and plantations. You can see the end of the house. And there, under this most distant hill that rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."
"It's a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be dirty in winter."
"How can you think of dirt, with such objects in front of you?"
"Because," he replied with a smile, "I see a very dirty alley among the other objects in front of me."
"How strange!" Marianne said to herself as she walked on.
"Do you have a nice neighborhood here? Are the nice people of Mideltown?"
"No, not all of them," Marianne replied; "We couldn't be more unhappy."
"Marianne," her sister shouted, "how can you say that? How can you be so unjust? we owe them many pleasant days?"
"No," Marianne said in a low voice, "like many painful moments."
Eleanore took no notice; and by focusing her attention on her visitor, she endeavored to support something like a conversation with him by talking about her current residence, his amenities, etc. Blackmail from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and restraint put them to shame; she was upset and half upset; but by choosing to base her behavior toward him on the past rather than the present, she avoided any semblance of resentment or displeasure and treated him as she felt she should treat for family reasons.
Chapter 84
The next day, a new scene opened in Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his statement in form. Determined to do it without any loss of time, as his leave of absence only lasted until the next Saturday, and without shyness that might embarrass him even now, he set to work very neatly on all the customs that he considered a normal part of the business. When he met Mrs. Mitchell, Elizabeth and one of the younger girls shortly after breakfast, he addressed the mother with these words:
"May I hope for your interest in your beautiful daughter Elizabeth, madam, if I ask her later this morning for the honor of a private audience?"
Before Elizabeth had time for anything other than a blush of surprise, Mrs. Mitchell immediately replied, "Oh dear! – yes – certainly. I'm sure Lizzy will be very happy – I'm sure she can't mind. Come, Kitty, I want you to go up.' And she gathered her work together and hurried away when Elizabeth shouted,
"Dear woman, don't go. I ask you not to leave. Mr. Collins must apologize. He can't have anything to say to me that no one needs to hear. I'm leaving myself.'
"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I want you to stay where you are.' And when Elizabeth was really about to escape with angry and embarrassed looks, she added, "Lizzy, I INSIST that you stay and listen to Mr. Collins."
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction – and since a brief reflection also made it clear to her that it would be wisest to get it over as quickly and as calmly as possible, she sat down again and tried to hide the conflicting feelings between distress and distraction through incessant occupation. Mrs. Mitchell and Kitty walked away, and as soon as they left, Mr. Collins began.
"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, far from doing you a disservice, is more likely to contribute to your other perfections. They would have been less amiable in my eyes if it hadn't been for this little reluctance; but allow me to assure you that I have the permission of your venerable Mother for this address. You can hardly doubt the meaning of my speech, however your natural tenderness may make you pretend; My attention was too intense to be wrong. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I chose you as the companion of my future life. But before I get overwhelmed by my feelings about this topic, it might be wise to explain my reasons for getting married – and beyond that, for coming to Hertfordshire to choose a wife, which I certainly did."
The idea that Mr. Collins, with all his solemn serenity, would be chased away by his feelings almost made Elizabeth laugh that she could not use the short break he allowed to stop him further, and he continued,
"My reasons for getting married are, first, that I think it is right that every clergyman in light circumstances (like me) in his parish should follow the example of marriage. gives; secondly, that I am convinced that it will contribute greatly to my happiness; and thirdly – what I should perhaps have mentioned earlier is that it is the special advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling Patroness. Twice she has condescended to tell me (even without being asked!) her opinion on this subject; and it was exactly the Saturday night before I left Hunsford – between our pools in the quadrille, when Mrs. Jenkinson arranged Miss de Bourgh's footstool when she said, "Mr. Collins, you have to get married. A clergyman like you has to get married. Choose correctly, choose a noblewoman for MY sake; and for yourself, let them be an active, useful person, not highly educated, but able to go a good way with a small income. That is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as possible, take her to Hunsford, and I will visit her." By the way, allow me to note, my beautiful cousin, that I do not count the attention and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh among the slightest advantages I have to offer. They will find their manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and liveliness, I think, must be acceptable to them, especially if they are tempered by the silence and respect that will inevitably arouse their rank. So much for my general intention in favor of marriage; It remains to be said why my views were directed towards Longbourn rather than my own neighborhood, where I can assure you that there are many kind young women. But the fact is that I, as I am, to inherit this good after the death of your revered father (who is allowed to live for many years), without the decision to choose a wife from his daughters, I could not convince myself that the loss for them would be as small as possible when the melancholic event takes place – but what, as I said, can only be in a few years. That was my motivation, my beautiful cousin, and I imagine it will not let me sink into your appreciation. And now I have no choice but to assure you of the ferocity of my affection in the most vivid language. I am completely indifferent to happiness and will not challenge your father in this way, because I know well that it could not be fulfilled; and the thousand pounds in the four percent that will not belong to you until after your mother's death is all you're ever entitled to. I will therefore remain uniformly silent on this; and you can assure yourself that no involuntary reproach will ever come across my lips when we are married.'
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt it now.
"You're too hasty, sir," she shouted. You forget that I didn't answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you give me. I am very aware of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to act other than to reject them.'
"I don't know now," Mr. Collins replied with a formal wave of his hand, "that it is common for young ladies to refuse the addresses of the man they want to secretly accept when he first favors theirs; and that sometimes the rejection is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said and hope to be able to lead you to the altar soon.'
"To my word, sir," Elizabeth exclaimed, "your hope is quite extraordinary, according to my explanation. I assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if there are such young ladies) who dare to risk their luck when asked a second time. I mean my rejection completely seriously. You could not make ME happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you like this. No, if your friend Lady Catherine knew me, I am convinced that she would consider me unsuitable for the situation in every respect."
"Would it be safe for Lady Catherine to think that way," Mr Collins said very seriously – "but I can't imagine that your ladyhood would disapprove of you at all. And you can be sure that when I have the honor of seeing her again, I will speak in the highest tones of your modesty, thrift and other kind qualities."
"In fact, Mr. Collins, any praise from me will be unnecessary. They must allow me to judge for myself and pay me the supplement to believe what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, you are doing everything in my power to prevent you from being different. By making me the offer, you must have served your tenderness towards my family and can take possession of the Longbourn estate whenever it falls without reproach. This matter can therefore be regarded as definitively settled.' And while she was speaking like this, she would have calmed the room if Mr. Collins hadn't addressed her like this:
"The next time I have the honor of speaking to you about the subject, I hope to get a more favorable answer than you have given me now; although I am not accusing you of cruelty at the moment, because I know that it is customary among your gender to reject a man at the first application, and perhaps even now you have said as much to promote my complaint as would be logical with the true tenderness of the female character.'
"Really, Mr. Collins," Elizabeth exclaimed with some warmth, "you confuse me tremendously. If what I have said so far can seem like an encouragement to you, I do not know how to express my rejection in such a way that it convinces you that it is.'
"You must allow me to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your rejection of my addresses is, of course, just words. My reasons for believing this are briefly the following: it does not seem to me that my hand is unworthy of your assumption or that the facility I can offer would be anything but highly desirable. My life situation, my connections with the de Bourgh family and my relationship with your own are circumstances that are very much in my favor; and you should continue to consider that, despite your many charms, it is by no means certain that you will ever be offered a marriage offer again. Your share, unfortunately, is so small that it will in all likelihood negate the effects of your loveliness and your kind qualities. Since I must conclude that you are not serious about your rejection,
"I assure you, sir, that I have no claim whatsoever to this kind of elegance, which is to torment a decent man. I would rather receive the compliment that I am sincerely believed. I thank you again and again for the honour you have given me with your proposals, but it is absolutely impossible to accept them. My feelings forbid it in every way. Can I speak more clearly? Now think of me not as an elegant woman who intends to plague you, but as a rational being who speaks the truth from her heart.'
"You're charming throughout!" he shouted with a hint of awkward gallantry; "and I am convinced that my proposals, if approved by the express permission of your two excellent parents, will not fail to be acceptable."
Elizabeth did not respond to such persistence in deliberate self-deception and immediately and silently withdrew; determined, if he insisted on considering her repeated rejections as flattering encouragement, to turn to her father, whose denial could be so decisively expressed and whose behavior could at least not be confused with affectation and coquettishness of a woman elegant woman.
Chapter 84
The next day, a new scene opened in Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his statement in form. Determined to do it without any loss of time, as his leave of absence only lasted until the next Saturday, and without shyness that might embarrass him even now, he set to work very neatly on all the customs that he considered a normal part of the business. When he met Mrs. Mitchell, Elizabeth and one of the younger girls shortly after breakfast, he addressed the mother with these words:
"May I hope for your interest in your beautiful daughter Elizabeth, madam, if I ask her later this morning for the honor of a private audience?"
Before Elizabeth had time for anything other than a blush of surprise, Mrs. Mitchell immediately replied, "Oh dear! – yes – certainly. I'm sure Lizzy will be very happy – I'm sure she can't mind. Come, Kitty, I want you to go up.' And she gathered her work together and hurried away when Elizabeth shouted,
"Dear woman, don't go. I ask you not to leave. Mr. Collins must apologize. He can't have anything to say to me that no one needs to hear. I'm leaving myself.'
"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I want you to stay where you are.' And when Elizabeth was really about to escape with angry and embarrassed looks, she added, "Lizzy, I INSIST that you stay and listen to Mr. Collins."
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction – and since a brief reflection also made it clear to her that it would be wisest to get it over as quickly and as calmly as possible, she sat down again and tried to hide the conflicting feelings between distress and distraction through incessant occupation. Mrs. Mitchell and Kitty walked away, and as soon as they left, Mr. Collins began.
"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, far from doing you a disservice, is more likely to contribute to your other perfections. They would have been less amiable in my eyes if it hadn't been for this little reluctance; but allow me to assure you that I have the permission of your venerable Mother for this address. You can hardly doubt the meaning of my speech, however your natural tenderness may make you pretend; My attention was too intense to be wrong. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I chose you as the companion of my future life. But before I get overwhelmed by my feelings about this topic, it might be wise to explain my reasons for getting married – and beyond that, for coming to Hertfordshire to choose a wife, which I certainly did."
The idea that Mr. Collins, with all his solemn serenity, would be chased away by his feelings almost made Elizabeth laugh that she could not use the short break he allowed to stop him further, and he continued,
"My reasons for getting married are, first, that I think it is right that every clergyman in light circumstances (like me) in his parish should follow the example of marriage. gives; secondly, that I am convinced that it will contribute greatly to my happiness; and thirdly – what I should perhaps have mentioned earlier is that it is the special advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling Patroness. Twice she has condescended to tell me (even without being asked!) her opinion on this subject; and it was exactly the Saturday night before I left Hunsford – between our pools in the quadrille, when Mrs. Jenkinson arranged Miss de Bourgh's footstool when she said, "Mr. Collins, you have to get married. A clergyman like you has to get married. Choose correctly, choose a noblewoman for MY sake; and for yourself, let them be an active, useful person, not highly educated, but able to go a good way with a small income. That is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as possible, take her to Hunsford, and I will visit her." By the way, allow me to note, my beautiful cousin, that I do not count the attention and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh among the slightest advantages I have to offer. They will find their manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and liveliness, I think, must be acceptable to them, especially if they are tempered by the silence and respect that will inevitably arouse their rank. So much for my general intention in favor of marriage; It remains to be said why my views were directed towards Longbourn rather than my own neighborhood, where I can assure you that there are many kind young women. But the fact is that I, as I am, to inherit this good after the death of your revered father (who is allowed to live for many years), without the decision to choose a wife from his daughters, I could not convince myself that the loss for them would be as small as possible when the melancholic event takes place – but what, as I said, can only be in a few years. That was my motivation, my beautiful cousin, and I imagine it will not let me sink into your appreciation. And now I have no choice but to assure you of the ferocity of my affection in the most vivid language. I am completely indifferent to happiness and will not challenge your father in this way, because I know well that it could not be fulfilled; and the thousand pounds in the four percent that will not belong to you until after your mother's death is all you're ever entitled to. I will therefore remain uniformly silent on this; and you can assure yourself that no involuntary reproach will ever come across my lips when we are married.'
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt it now.
"You're too hasty, sir," she shouted. You forget that I didn't answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you give me. I am very aware of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to act other than to reject them.'
"I don't know now," Mr. Collins replied with a formal wave of his hand, "that it is common for young ladies to refuse the addresses of the man they want to secretly accept when he first favors theirs; and that sometimes the rejection is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said and hope to be able to lead you to the altar soon.'
"To my word, sir," Elizabeth exclaimed, "your hope is quite extraordinary, according to my explanation. I assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if there are such young ladies) who dare to risk their luck when asked a second time. I mean my rejection completely seriously. You could not make ME happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you like this. No, if your friend Lady Catherine knew me, I am convinced that she would consider me unsuitable for the situation in every respect."
"Would it be safe for Lady Catherine to think that way," Mr Collins said very seriously – "but I can't imagine that your ladyhood would disapprove of you at all. And you can be sure that when I have the honor of seeing her again, I will speak in the highest tones of your modesty, thrift and other kind qualities."
"In fact, Mr. Collins, any praise from me will be unnecessary. They must allow me to judge for myself and pay me the supplement to believe what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing your hand, you are doing everything in my power to prevent you from being different. By making me the offer, you must have served your tenderness towards my family and can take possession of the Longbourn estate whenever it falls without reproach. This matter can therefore be regarded as definitively settled.' And while she was speaking like this, she would have calmed the room if Mr. Collins hadn't addressed her like this:
"The next time I have the honor of speaking to you about the subject, I hope to get a more favorable answer than you have given me now; although I am not accusing you of cruelty at the moment, because I know that it is customary among your gender to reject a man at the first application, and perhaps even now you have said as much to promote my complaint as would be logical with the true tenderness of the female character.'
"Really, Mr. Collins," Elizabeth exclaimed with some warmth, "you confuse me tremendously. If what I have said so far can seem like an encouragement to you, I do not know how to express my rejection in such a way that it convinces you that it is.'
"You must allow me to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your rejection of my addresses is, of course, just words. My reasons for believing this are briefly the following: it does not seem to me that my hand is unworthy of your assumption or that the facility I can offer would be anything but highly desirable. My life situation, my connections with the de Bourgh family and my relationship with your own are circumstances that are very much in my favor; and you should continue to consider that, despite your many charms, it is by no means certain that you will ever be offered a marriage offer again. Your share, unfortunately, is so small that it will in all likelihood negate the effects of your loveliness and your kind qualities. Since I must conclude that you are not serious about your rejection,
"I assure you, sir, that I have no claim whatsoever to this kind of elegance, which is to torment a decent man. I would rather receive the compliment that I am sincerely believed. I thank you again and again for the honour you have given me with your proposals, but it is absolutely impossible to accept them. My feelings forbid it in every way. Can I speak more clearly? Now think of me not as an elegant woman who intends to plague you, but as a rational being who speaks the truth from her heart.'
"You're charming throughout!" he shouted with a hint of awkward gallantry; "and I am convinced that my proposals, if approved by the express permission of your two excellent parents, will not fail to be acceptable."
Elizabeth did not respond to such persistence in deliberate self-deception and immediately and silently withdrew; determined, if he insisted on considering her repeated rejections as flattering encouragement, to turn to her father, whose denial could be so decisively expressed and whose behavior could at least not be confused with affectation and coquettishness of a woman elegant woman.
Chapter 85
It was not in Miss Dorset's power to persuade Esther to really forget what happened. When the evening was over, she went to bed full of it, her nerves still agitated by the shock of such an attack by her cousin?? Tom, who was so public and so persistent, and her mood sank under the unfriendly reflection and reproach of her aunt. To be taken note of in this way, to hear that it was only the prelude to something so infinitely worse to be told to her that she had to do what was so impossible, namely to act; and then to follow up with the accusation of stubbornness and ingratitude, reinforced with such a reference to the dependence of their situation, had been too embarrassing at the time to burden the memory of their loneliness much less, especially with the added fear of what the morning could produce in continuation of the theme. Miss Dorset had only temporarily protected her; and if with all the authoritative urgency that Tom and Maria were capable of, and Edmund perhaps gone, they were again approached to each other, what should she do? She fell asleep before she could answer the question and found it just as puzzling when she woke up the next morning. The small white attic that had continued her bedroom since she first joined the family proved incapable of suggesting an answer, and once dressed, she took refuge in another apartment that was more spacious and comfortable to walk around and think about, and about which she had been almost as mistress for some time now. It had been her classroom; so called, until Miss Schmidt no longer wanted to call it that, and as such was inhabited until a later time. Miss Lee had lived there, and there they had read and written, talked and laughed until she had calmed them down for the past three years. The room had then become useless and for some time completely abandoned, except by Esther, when she visited her businesses or wanted one of the books she still liked to keep there, for lack of space and accommodation in her small chamber upstairs: but gradually, as her value for the amenities in it increased, she had increased her possessions and spent more time there; and since she had nothing to oppose it, she had worked herself into it so naturally and so artlessly that it was now generally recognized as her property. The East Room, as it was said, since Maria Schmidt was sixteen years old, was now considered almost as decidedly Esther's room as the white mansard: the smallness of one made the use of the other so obviously reasonable that the Miss Schmidts, with every superiority in their own apartments, which could demand their own sense of superiority, completely approved of it; and Mrs. Norris, who had determined for Esther that there should never be a fire burning in it, was quite resigned to the fact that she could use what no one else wanted, although the terms she sometimes used to talk about the estate seemed to indicate that this was the best room in the house.
The appearance was so favorable that even without fire on some early spring and late fall mornings, it was habitable for such a willing spirit as Esther; and while there was a ray of sunshine, she hoped not to be completely driven away from it, even when winter came. The comfort in their leisure hours was extreme. She could go there after anything unpleasant and immediately find solace in any pursuit or obvious train of thought. Her plants, her books, of which she had been a collector from the very first hour since she owned a shilling, her desk and her charitable and inventive works were all within her reach; or when she was unable to work, if nothing was enough than reflection, she could hardly see an object in this room that was not associated with an interesting memory. Everything was a friend, or carry their thoughts to a friend; and although she had sometimes experienced much suffering; although their motives had often been misunderstood, their feelings disregarded and their understanding underestimated; although she had known the torments of tyranny, ridicule and neglect, almost every repetition of both had led to something comforting: her Aunt Schmidt had spoken for her, or Miss Lee had encouraged her, or, what happened more often, or even more, Edmund had been her advocate and her friend: he had supported her cause or explained her importance, he had told her not to cry, or had given her a proof of affection that made her tears delightful; and the whole thing was now so fused together, so harmonized by distance, that every previous ailment had its charm. She preferred the room, and she would not have exchanged its furniture for the most beautiful in the house, although what had originally been simple had suffered all the abuse of children; and his greatest elegance and embellishments were a faded footstool of Juliet's work, too badly made for the salon, three banners made in a rage for banners, for the three lower panes of a window where Tintern Abbey took his post between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles that were considered unworthy, To be somewhere else, above the mantelpiece and next to them and attached to the wall is a small sketch of a ship that four years ago departed from the Mediterranean Sea by William, with HMS Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as high as the main mast. although what had originally been simple had suffered all the abuse of children; and his greatest elegance and embellishments were a faded footstool of Juliet's work, too badly made for the salon, three banners made in a rage for banners, for the three lower panes of a window where Tintern Abbey took his post between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles that were considered unworthy, To be somewhere else, above the mantelpiece and next to them and attached to the wall is a small sketch of a ship that four years ago departed from the Mediterranean Sea by William, with HMS Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as high as the main mast. although what had originally been simple had suffered all the abuse of children; and his greatest elegance and embellishments were a faded footstool of Juliet's work, too badly made for the salon, three banners made in a rage for banners, for the three lower panes of a window where Tintern Abbey took his post between a cave in Italy and a moonlight lake in Cumberland, a collection of family profiles that were considered unworthy, To be somewhere else, above the mantelpiece and next to them and attached to the wall is a small sketch of a ship that four years ago departed from the Mediterranean Sea by William, with HMS Antwerp at the bottom, in letters as high as the large mast.
To this consolation nest, Esther now went down to try his influence on an excited, doubting mind, to see if she could understand any of his advice by looking at Edmund's profile, or by giving air to her geraniums, she could breathe in a breath of spirit itself power. But she had more to do than eliminate her own perseverance: she had begun to feel undecided about what to do; and as she walked around the room, her doubts increased. Was she right to reject what she was so warmly asked for, so desired – what could be so essential for a plan that some of those to whom she owed the greatest affection had put their hearts on? Wasn't it viciousness, selfishness and the fear of exposing oneself? And would Edmund's verdict, his conviction of Sir Thomas' disapproval of the whole thing, be enough to justify it in spite of everything in a firm rejection? It would be so terrible for her to act that she was inclined to doubt the truth and purity of her own scruples; and as she looked around, her cousins' claims to be obligated were reinforced by the sight of gift upon gift she had received from them. The table between the windows was covered with work boxes and net boxes that had been given to her at different times, mainly by Tom; and she became confused about the amount of debt that all these kind memories evoked. A knock on the door woke her up in the midst of this attempt to find her way to her duty, and her gentle "in" was answered by the appearance of someone before whom everyone used to lay their doubts. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Edmund.
"Can I talk to you for a few minutes, Esther?" he said.
"Yes, of course."
"I want to get advice. I want to hear your opinion."
"My opinion!" she shouted and shied away from such a compliment, as much as she was pleased.
"Yes, your advice and your opinion. I don't know what to do. This acting scheme is getting worse and worse, you see. They have chosen as bad a piece as they could, and now, in order to close the deal, they will ask for the help of a young man who is very little known to each of us. This is the end of all the privacy and decency that was initially talked about. I know of no harm from Charles Maddox; but the excessive intimacy that must arise from being admitted to us in this way is highly offensive, the more than intimacy – the familiarity. I can't think of it with patience; and it seems to me an evil of such ?? To be the extent that must be prevented as far as possible. Don't you see it in the same light?"
"Yes; but what can be done? Your brother is so determined."
"There's only one thing to do, Esther. I have to take a cue myself. I am well aware that nothing else will calm Tom down."
Esther could not answer him.
"It's not what I like at all," he continued. "No one likes to be driven into the appearance of such contradiction. Having been known from the beginning to oppose the plan, it is absurd to join them now that they surpass their first plan in every way; but I can't think of any other alternative. Can you, Esther?"
"No," Esther said slowly, "not immediately, but..."
I see, your judgment is not with me. Think about it a little. Perhaps you are not as aware as I am of the calamity that can arise, of the inconveniences that must arise when a young man is conceived in this way: domesticated with us; entitled to come to all hours, and suddenly put on a foundation that must remove all shackles. Just think of the freedom that each sample tends to produce. It's all very bad! Put yourself in Miss Dorset's shoes, Esther. Think about what it would be to play Amelia with a stranger. She has a right to be felt because she obviously feels for herself. I've heard enough of what she said to you last night to understand that she's not ready to play with a stranger; and since she probably got involved with the role with different expectations – perhaps without taking the topic into account enough to know what would probably be – it would be rude, it would be really wrong to expose her to it. Your feelings should be respected. Doesn't it seem like that to you, Esther? They hesitate."
"I'm sorry for Miss Dorset; but I am even more sorry to see that you are drawn to what you decided against, and what you are known to think will make my uncle uncomfortable. It will be such a triumph for the others!"
"They won't have much reason to triumph when they see how shameful I act. But there will certainly be triumph, and I have to defy that. But if I can be the means to restrict the publicity of the business, to limit the exhibition, to concentrate our folly, I will be well repaid. As I am now, I have no influence, I can do nothing: I have offended them, and they do not want to hear me; but if I have put them in a good mood through this concession, I am not without hope to persuade them to limit the representation to a much smaller circle than they are now on the high path. This will be a material gain. My goal is to limit it to Mrs. Rushmore and the Grants. Won't it be worth winning?"
"Yes, that's going to be a great point."
"But it still doesn't have your approval. Can you name another measure that gives me a chance to act just as well?"
"No, I can't think of anything else."
"Then give me your consent, Esther. I don't feel comfortable without it."
"Oh, cousin!"
"If you are against me, I should distrust myself, and yet – but it is absolutely impossible to let Tom continue like this, looking for someone who can be persuaded to act – no matter who: the appearance of a gentleman is enough. I thought you were more responsive to Miss Dorset's feelings."
"No doubt she will be very happy. It must be a great relief for them," Esther said, striving for more warmth.
"She has never seemed more gracious to you than last night. It gave her a very strong claim to my goodwill."
"She was indeed very friendly, and I am glad to have spared her" ...
She could not stop the generous effusion. Her conscience stopped her in the middle of it, but Edmund was satisfied.
"I'm going to go down right after breakfast," he said, "and I'm sure I'll be happy there. And now, dear Esther, I don't interrupt you anymore. They want to read. But I couldn't be easy until I talked to you and came to a decision. Sleeping or awake, my head was full of this thing all night. It's an evil, but I certainly do it less than it could be. When Tom is up, I will go straight to him and put it behind me, and when we meet at breakfast, we will all be in the best mood at the prospect of playing the fool together so unanimously. You'll take a trip to China in the meantime, I suppose. How does Lord Macartney continue?" – he opened a ribbon on the table and then recorded some others. "And here are Crabbe's Tales and The Idler to relieve you when you get tired of your great book. I greatly admire your little establishment; and as soon as I'm gone, you'll clear your head of all this nonsense of acting and sit comfortably at your table. But don't stay here to freeze."
He left; but there was no reading, no China, no serenity for Esther. He had told her the most extraordinary, the most unimaginable, the most unwelcome news; and she couldn't think of anything else. Be a spectacle! After all his objections – objections so fair and so public! After all this, she had heard him say and seen him look and knew he was feeling. Can it be possible? Edmund so contradictory! Wasn't he wrong? Wasn't he wrong? Oh! it was all the work of Miss Dorset. She had seen her influence in every speech and was unhappy. The doubts and concerns about her own behavior, which had previously tormented her and who had all slept while listening to him, had now become of little significance. This deeper fear devoured them. Things should take their course; she didn't care how it ended. Her cousins ???? could attack, but could hardly tease them. She was out of her reach; and when he finally had to give in – no matter – it was all misery now.
Chapter 86
Mr. Frank Curcelle did not come. As the proposed time approached, Mrs. Winstone's fears were justified by the arrival of a letter of apology. For the time being, he could not be spared, to his "very great humiliation and regret; but he was still looking forward to coming to Randalls in the not too distant future."
Mrs. Winstone was extraordinarily disappointed — much more disappointed even than her husband, even though she had relied so much on seeing the young man pay for his hopes through any adequate depression. She soon flies over the present failure and begins to hope again. For half an hour, Mr. Winstone was surprised and sad; but then he began to realize that the coming of Frank two or three months later would be a much better plan; better season; better weather; and that he could undoubtedly stay with them much longer than if he had come earlier.
These feelings quickly restored his comfort, while Mrs. Winstone, from a more anxious mood, foresaw nothing but a repetition of apologies and delays; and after all her concern for what her husband was to suffer, she herself suffered much more.
Emma wasn't in the mood at the time to really care that Mr. Frank Curcelle didn't come, except as a disappointment with Randalls. The current acquaintance had no attraction for her. Rather, she wanted to be calm and avoid temptation; but still, since it was desirable for her to appear in general as her usual selves, she endeavored to express as much sympathy for the circumstances and to respond as warmly to Mr. and Mrs. Winstone's disappointment as their friendship naturally belonged to it.
She was the first to tell Mr. Hill; and exclaimed quite as much as was necessary (or, playing a role, perhaps more) about the behavior of the Curcelles to keep him away. She then went on to say much more than she felt about the benefit of such an addition to her limited society in Surry; the pleasure of looking at someone new; the whole feast day to Highbury that his sight would have made; and ended with further reflection on the Curcelles, found himself directly involved in a disagreement with Mr. Hill; and, to her great amusement, she realized that she took the other side of the question from her real opinion and used Mrs. Winstone's arguments against herself.
"The Curcelles are very likely to blame," Mr. Hill said coolly; "but I dare say he could come if he wanted to."
"I don't know why you should say that. He wishes very much to come; but his uncle and aunt will not spare him."
"I can't believe he doesn't have the power to come if he values it. It's too unlikely to believe it without evidence."
"How strange you are! What did Mr. Frank Curcelle do to make you think he is such an unnatural being?"
"I don't consider him an unnatural being at all when I suspect that he may have learned to stand above his relationships and care very little about anything other than his own pleasure because he lived with those who have always set an example for him. It is much more natural than one might wish that a young man raised by proud, luxurious and selfish people should also be proud, luxurious and selfish. If Frank Curcelle had wanted to see his father, he would have made it up between September and January. A man his age – what is he? – three or twenty-four – cannot be without the means to do so much. It's impossible."
"This is easy to say and easy to feel for you, who have always been your own master. You are the worst judge in the world, Mr. Hill, on the difficulties of addiction. You don't know what it means to cope with temperament."
"It is inconceivable that a man of three or twenty-four years should not have so much mental or physical freedom. He can't want money – he can't want free time. On the contrary, we know that he has so much of both that he is happy to get rid of them in the most idle places of the kingdom. We hear about him forever in some seaside resort. Some time ago he was in Weymouth. This proves that he can leave the Curcelles."
"Yes, sometimes he can."
"And those times are whenever he thinks it's worth it; whenever there is a temptation of pleasure."
"It is very unfair to judge the behaviour of any body without knowing their situation exactly. No one who has not been inside a family can say what difficulties an individual of that family may have. We should know Enscombe and Mrs. Curcelle's temperament before pretending to decide what their nephew can do. Sometimes he can do much more than with others."
"There's one thing, Emma, ?? which a man can always do if he wants to, and that is his duty; not by maneuvering and finesse, but by strength and determination. It is Frank Curcelle's duty to pay this attention to his father. He knows it through his promises and messages; but if he wanted to, it could be done. A man who felt right would immediately, simply and resolutely, say to Mrs. Curcelle, "You will always find me ready to bring any sacrifice of mere pleasure to your convenience; but I have to go to my father immediately. I know that it would hurt him if I did not show him such respect on this occasion. So I'm going to set off tomorrow." – If he told her immediately, in the tone of determination to become a man, there would be no resistance to his departure."
"No," Emma said with a laugh; "But maybe you could change something about his return. To use such language for a completely dependent young man! - No one but you, Mr. Hill, would think it possible. But you have no idea what is required in situations that are directly opposite you. That Mr. Frank Curcelle gives such a speech to the uncle and aunt who raised him and are supposed to care for him! might! – How can you imagine such behavior to be practicable?"
"Rely on it, Emma, ?? a reasonable man would have no difficulty with it. He would feel right; and the explanation – as a reasonable man would do, of course, in an appropriate way – would do him more good, elevate him higher, direct his interest more to the people on whom he depends, than all these a series of shifts and tools can ever do. To affection comes respect. You would feel like you can trust him; that the nephew, who had done right with his father, would also do right with them; for they know as well as he does, as the whole world must know, that he should pay this visit to his Father; and while they collectively exert their power to delay it, they do not think better of him in their hearts because he submits to their whims. Respect for correct behavior is felt by everyone. If he were to act like that,
"I rather doubt that. You like very much to bend little spirits; but where small minds belong to rich people with authority, I think they have a knack for inflating until they are just as uncontrollable as big ones. I can imagine that you, as you are, Mr. Hill, would immediately be put in the situation of Mr. Frank Curcelle and put in a position that you would be able to say and do exactly what you recommended to him; and it could have a very good effect. The Curcelles, in turn, may not have a word to say; but then you wouldn't have habits of early obedience and long observation to break. For the one who has it, it may not be so easy to immediately break out into complete independence and destroy all their claims to his gratitude and respect. He may have such a strong sense of what would be right as you can have,
"Then it wouldn't be such a strong sense. If it didn't produce the same effort, it couldn't be the same belief."
"Oh, the difference between situation and habit! I wish you would try to understand what a kind young man is likely to feel when he directly opposes those he looked up to all his life as a child and boy."
"Our kind young man is a very weak young man when this is the first opportunity for him to make a decision to do the right thing against the will of others. It should have become a habit for him by now to follow his duty instead of relying on expediency. I can allow the child's fears, but not the man's. When he became reasonable, he should have picked himself up and shaken off everything that was unworthy of their authority. He should have resisted the first attempt to vilify him against his father. If he had started as he should, there would have been no more difficulties now."
"We will never agree on him," cried Emma; "But this is nothing out of the ordinary. I have not the slightest idea that he is a weak young man: I am convinced that he is not. Mr. Winstone would not be blind to foolishness, albeit with his own son; but he very likely has a more indulgent, docile, gentle manner than your ideas of the perfection of man would suit. I dare say he has; and although it may cut him off from some advantages, it will secure him many others."
"Yes; all the benefits of sitting still when he should be moving, and living a life of mere idle pleasure and imagining that he is an extremely experienced in making excuses for it. He can sit down and write a beautiful, blooming letter full of incantations and untruths and convince himself that he has come across the very best method in the world to keep the peace at home and prevent his father from having any right to complain. His letters disgust me."
"Your feelings are unique. They seem to satisfy everyone else."
"I suspect they don't satisfy Mrs. Winstone. They can hardly satisfy a woman with her common sense and quick feelings: they stand in the place of a mother, but without the affection of a mother who blinds her. It is thanks to her that Randall's attention is doubly due, and she must feel the omission twice. If she herself had been a person of importance, he would have come, I dare say; and it wouldn't have meant whether he did it or not. Can you lag your friend behind in such considerations? Don't you think she says all this to herself often? No, Emma, ?? your gracious young man can only be gracious in French, not in English. He can be very "amiable", have very good manners and be very pleasant; but he can't have an English sensitivity to other people's feelings: nothing really lovable about him."
"You seem determined to think badly of him."
"Me! - not at all," replied Mr. Hill rather dissatisfied; "I don't want to think badly about him. I should be as willing to acknowledge his merits as any other man; but I hear of none, except that which is only personal; that he is well grown up and handsome, with smooth, plausible manners."
"Well, if he has nothing else to recommend, he will be a treasure in Highbury. We do not often see beautiful young men, well-behaved and pleasant. We must not be nice and demand all virtues on top of that. Can't you imagine, Mr. Hill, what a sensation his coming will cause? In the parishes of Donwell and Highbury there will be only one topic; but an interest – an object of curiosity; it will all be Mr. Frank Curcelle; we will not think or speak of anyone else."
"You will apologize for being so overpowering. If I find him knowledgeable, I will be happy about his acquaintance; but if he's just a chattering bastard, he won't take up much of my time or thoughts."
"My idea of him is that he can adapt his conversation to the tastes of any body and has both the power and desire to be generally pleasant. To you he will speak of agriculture; for me drawing or music; and so on to any body that has this general information on all the issues that allow it to follow the lead or take the lead, as decency requires, and to express itself extremely well on each; that's my idea of him."
"And mine," Mr. Hill said heartily, "is that if he brings out something like this, he will be the most unbearable breathing person! What! to be, at twenty-three, the king of his society – the great man – the skilled politician who is to read the character of each person and to make the talents of each one flaunt his own superiority; hand out his flattery so that he can make everyone look like fools against him! My dear Emma, ?? your own common sense couldn't stand such a puppy when it mattered."
"I'm not going to say anything more about him," Emma shouted, "?" you make everything evil. We are both biased; thou, on the other hand, I for him; and we don't have a chance to agree until he's really here."
"Biased! I'm not biased."
"But I am very, and without being ashamed of it. My love for Mr. and Mrs. Winstone gives me a strong prejudice in his favor."
"He's a person I never think about from one month to the next," Mr. Hill said with a certain annoyance, which immediately led Emma to talk about something else, even though she couldn't understand why he should be angry.
Rejecting a young man only because he seemed to have a different disposition was unworthy of the real generosity that she always used to acknowledge to him; for for all the high opinion of him that she had often imputed to him, she had never believed for a moment before that it could make him unjust to someone else's credit.
Chapter 87
The Allens, Dorfmans, and Fenmores all met in the theater in the evenings; and when Catherine and Bella sat together, for the latter there was an opportunity to say a few of the many thousands of things that had accumulated in her for communication in the immeasurable period of time she had separated. "Oh, heaven! My beloved Catherine, did I finally catch you?" was her address when Catherine entered the lodge and sat next to her. "Well, Mr. Fenmore," for he was close to her on the other side, "I will not speak a word to you all evening; so I urge you not to expect it. My sweetest Catherine, how did you grow old for so long? But I don't need to ask you, because you look delightful. You have truly made your hair more heavenly than ever; you mischievous creature, do you want to attract everyone? I assure you, my brother is already completely in love with you; and as for Alsina-san – but this is a firm thing – even your modesty cannot now doubt his affection; his return to Bath makes it too clear. Oh! What would I give to see him! I'm really wild with impatience. My mother says he is the most adorable young man in the world; She saw him this morning, you know; You have to introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look around, for heaven's sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist until I see him." My mother says he is the most adorable young man in the world; She saw him this morning, you know; You have to introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look around, for heaven's sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist until I see him." My mother says he is the most adorable young man in the world; She saw him this morning, you know; You have to introduce him to me. Is he in the house now? Look around, for heaven's sake! I assure you, I can hardly exist until I see him."
"No," Catherine said, "he's not here; I can't see him anywhere."
"Oh, horrible! Should I never get to know him? How do you like my dress? I don't think it looks bad; The sleeves were my own idea. You know, I'm so sick of Bath; Her brother and I agreed this morning that although it is very good to be here for a few weeks, we would not live here for millions. We soon found that our tastes were exactly the same when it came to preferring the country to any other place; Really, our opinions were so exactly the same, it was pretty ridiculous! There was not a single point on which we differed; For nothing in the world I would have had you with me; You're such a smart thing, I'm sure you would have made one or two droll remarks about it."
"No, I really shouldn't."
"Oh yes, you would indeed; I know you better than you know yourself. You would have told us that we seemed to be born for each other, or some nonsense of this kind that would have tormented me beyond measure; My cheeks would have been as red as your roses; I wouldn't have had you with me for anything in the world."
"Verily, thou shalt wrong me; Under no circumstances would I have made such an inappropriate remark; and besides, I'm sure it would never have occurred to me."
Bella smiled in disbelief and talked to James for the rest of the evening.
Catherine's decision to make an effort to see Miss Alsina again continued the next morning with full force; and until the usual moment of going to the drinking room, she felt disturbed by the fear of a second prevention. But nothing of the sort happened, no visitor seemed to stop them, and all three made their way in time to the drinking hall, where the usual course of events and conversations took place; Mr Allen, after drinking his glass of water, joined some gentlemen to talk about the politics of the day and to compare the reports of their newspapers; and the ladies walked around together and noticed every new face and almost every new hood in the room. The female part of the Dorfman family, accompanied by James Fenmore, appeared in the crowd in less than a quarter of an hour, and Catherine immediately took her usual place at her friend's side. James, who was now constantly present, maintained a similar position, and by separating from the rest of their group, they went this way for a while, until Catherine began to doubt the luck of a situation that limited her entirely to herself friend and brother, gave her very little interest in notifying her of both. They were always involved in a sentimental discussion or lively argument, but their feelings were conveyed by such whispering voices, and their liveliness was accompanied by so much laughter that Catherine's supportive opinion was often demanded by one or the other, but she was never able to give anything because I have not heard a word about the subject. Finally, however, she was empowered to break away from her friend, by the declared need to talk to Miss Alsina, who saw her with great joy just entering the room with Mrs. Hughes, and whom she immediately joined, with a firmer determination to get to know her than she might have had the courage to command, if she hadn't been pushed by the disappointment of the previous day. Miss Alsina met her with great courtesy, responded to her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued to talk to each other as long as both parties remained in the room; and although in all likelihood neither an observation nor an expression has been used that has not been made and used a few thousand times before under this roof for each bathing season, the merit of them being pronounced with simplicity and truth, and without personal imagination, could be something unusual. which she saw most joyfully as she had just entered the room with Mrs. Hughes, and which she immediately joined, with a firmer determination to get to know each other than she would have had the courage to command, had she not been pushed by the disappointment of the previous day. Miss Alsina met her with great courtesy, responded to her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued to talk to each other as long as both parties remained in the room; and although in all likelihood neither an observation nor an expression has been used that has not been made and used a few thousand times before under this roof for each bathing season, the merit of them being pronounced with simplicity and truth, and without personal imagination, could be something unusual. which she saw most joyfully as she had just entered the room with Mrs. Hughes, and which she immediately joined, with a firmer determination to get to know each other than she would have had the courage to command, had she not been pushed by the disappointment of the previous day. Miss Alsina met her with great courtesy, responded to her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued to talk to each other as long as both parties remained in the room; and although in all likelihood neither an observation nor an expression has been used that has not been made and used a few thousand times before under this roof for each bathing season, the merit of them being pronounced with simplicity and truth, and without personal imagination, could be something unusual. when she might have had the courage to command, she would not have been pushed by the disappointment of the previous day. Miss Alsina met her with great courtesy, responded to her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued to talk to each other as long as both parties remained in the room; and although in all likelihood neither an observation nor an expression has been used that has not been made and used a few thousand times before under this roof for each bathing season, the merit of them being pronounced with simplicity and truth, and without personal imagination, could be something unusual. when she might have had the courage to command, she would not have been pushed by the disappointment of the previous day. Miss Alsina met her with great courtesy, responded to her advances with equal goodwill, and they continued to talk to each other as long as both parties remained in the room; and although in all likelihood neither an observation nor an expression has been used that has not been made and used a few thousand times before under this roof for each bathing season, the merit of them being pronounced with simplicity and truth, and without personal imagination, could be something unusual.
"How well your brother dances!" was a simple exclamation from Catherine towards the end of their conversation, which immediately surprised and amused her companion.
"Henry!" she replied with a smile. "Yes, he dances very well."
"He must have found it very strange to hear me say that I was engaged the night he saw me sitting. But I was really engaged to Mr. Dorfman all day." Miss Alsina could only bow. "You can't imagine," Catherine added after a moment of silence, "how surprised I was to see him again. I was so sure he was completely gone."
"When Henry had the pleasure of seeing you, he was only in Bath for a few days. He only came to take us a place to stay."
"That never occurred to me; and since I didn't see him anywhere, I naturally thought he had to be gone. Wasn't the young lady he danced with on Monday a Miss Smith?"
"Yes, an acquaintance of Mrs. Hughes."
"I dare say that she loved to dance. Do you think they're pretty?"
"Not very much."
"He never comes to the drinking hall, I suppose?"
"Yes sometimes; but he went out with my father this morning."
Mrs. Hughes joined them and asked Miss Alsina if she was ready to leave. "I hope I have the pleasure of seeing you again soon," Catherine said. "Will you be at the dance ball tomorrow?"
"Maybe we will – yes, I think we definitely will."
"I'm happy about that, because we will all be there." This courtesy was duly reciprocated; and they separated – on Miss Alsina's side with some knowledge of the feelings of their new acquaintance and on Catherine's side without the slightest awareness of having explained them.
She went home very happy. The morning had fulfilled all their hopes, and the evening of the following day was now the object of expectation, the future good. Which dress and headgear she should wear for the occasion became her main concern. It cannot be justified in this. Clothing is always a frivolous award, and excessive concern about it often destroys their own goal. Catherine knew all this very well; her great-aunt had only read her a lecture on this topic at Christmas; and yet, on Wednesday evening, she lay awake for ten minutes, debating between her spotted and her tambour muslin, and nothing but the shortness of time prevented her from buying a new one for the evening. This would have been a major, if not unusual, error of judgment, in which a member of the opposite sex rather than her own, a brother rather than a great-aunt, could have warned her, because only man can be aware of man's insensitivity to a new dress. It would be humiliating for the feelings of many ladies if they could understand how little the man's heart is touched by what is costly or new about their clothes; how little it is biased by the texture of its muslin and how insensitive to particular tenderness to the spotted, the sprigged, the gauze or the jackonet. The woman is doing well alone for her own satisfaction. No man will admire her anymore, no woman will like her more. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and something shabby or unseemly will be the most gracious to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm. It would be humiliating for the feelings of many ladies if they could understand how little the man's heart is touched by what is costly or new about their clothes; how little it is biased by the texture of its muslin and how insensitive to particular tenderness to the spotted, the sprigged, the gauze or the jackonet. The woman is doing well alone for her own satisfaction. No man will admire her anymore, no woman will like her more. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and something shabby or unseemly will be the most gracious to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm. It would be humiliating for the feelings of many ladies if they could understand how little the man's heart is touched by what is costly or new about their clothes; how little it is biased by the texture of its muslin and how insensitive to particular tenderness to the spotted, the sprigged, the gauze or the jackonet. The woman is doing well alone for her own satisfaction. No man will admire her anymore, no woman will like her more. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and something shabby or unseemly will be the most gracious to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm. how little it is biased by the texture of its muslin and how insensitive to particular tenderness to the spotted, the sprigged, the gauze or the jackonet. The woman is doing well alone for her own satisfaction. No man will admire her anymore, no woman will like her more. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and something shabby or unseemly will be the most gracious to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm. how little it is biased by the texture of its muslin and how insensitive to particular tenderness to the spotted, the sprigged, the gauze or the jackonet. The woman is doing well alone for her own satisfaction. No man will admire her anymore, no woman will like her more. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and something shabby or unseemly will be the most gracious to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm. and something of shabbiness or inappropriateness will be most amiable to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm. and something of shabbiness or inappropriateness will be most amiable to the latter. But none of these serious thoughts disturbed Catherine's calm.
On Thursday evening, she entered the rooms with completely different feelings than on the Monday before. She had been happy about her engagement to Dorfman at the time and was now mainly concerned with avoiding his sight so that he would not engage her again; for although she could not expect, Mr. Alsina dared to ask her to dance a third time, her wishes, hopes and plans focused on nothing less. Every young lady may feel with my heroine at this critical moment, because every young lady has experienced the same excitement at some point. Everyone was, or at least believed themselves, in danger because they were persecuting someone they wanted to avoid; and everyone was worried about the attention of someone they wanted to please. As soon as the Dorfmans had joined them, Catherine's torment began; she fidgeted around when John Dorfman approached her, hiding from his eyes as much as possible, and when he talked to her, she pretended not to hear him. The Kotillons were over, the country dances began, and she didn't see anything of the Alsinas.
"Don't be afraid, my dear Catherine," Bella whispered, "but I'm really going to dance with your brother again. I explain positively that it is quite shocking. I tell him to be ashamed, but you and John must stand up to us. Hurry, my dear creature, and come to us. John has just left, but he will be right back."
Catherine had neither time nor desire to answer. The others left, John Dorfman was still in sight, and she was lost. However, so that she did not seem to observe or expect him, she kept her eyes firmly pinned to her fan; and a self-condemnation for her stupidity when she assumed that they should even meet with the Alsinas among such a crowd. at any reasonable time, she had just gone through her head when she was suddenly approached by Mr. Alsina herself and asked to dance again. With what bright eyes and willing movements she complied with his request, and with what pleasant palpitations she went with him to the set, one can easily imagine. To escape, and, as she believed, to escape John Dorfman so narrowly, and to be asked so immediately after he joined her, asked by Mr. Alsina,
but no sooner had they fought for a quiet place when their attention was claimed by John Dorfman, who stood behind her. "Wedding, Miss Fenmore!" he said. "What is the meaning of this? I thought you and I would dance together."
"I wonder if you think so, because you never asked me."
"That's good, with Jupiter! I asked you as soon as I got into the room, and I just wanted to ask you again, but when I turned around, you were gone! That's a cursed shabby trick! I only came to dance with you, and I firmly believe that you have been engaged to me since Monday. Yes; I remember asking you while you were waiting in the lobby for your cape. And here I told all my acquaintances that I will dance with the prettiest girl in the room; and if they see that you are standing with someone else, they will ask me famously."
"Oh no; You will never think of me after such a description."
"By God, if they don't, I'm going to throw them out of the room for fools. What guy do you have there?" Catherine satisfied his curiosity. "Alsina," he repeated. "Hm – I don't know him. A good figure of a man; well put together. Does he want a horse? Here's a friend of mine, Sam Fletcher, who has one for sale that would suit anyone. A famous clever animal for the street – only forty guineas. I had fifty desires to buy it myself, because it is one of my maxims to always buy a good horse when I meet one; but it wouldn't serve my purpose, it wouldn't be enough for the field. For a really good hunter, I would give any money. I now have three, the best ever supported. I wouldn't take eight hundred guineas for that. Fletcher and I want to buy a house in Leicestershire for next season. It's so uncomfortable to live in an inn."
This was the last sentence with which he could tire of Catherine's attention, because he was just carried away by the irresistible pressure of a long line of passing ladies. Her partner came closer and said, "This gentleman would have put me out of patience if he had stayed with you for half a minute longer. He has no right to divert my partner's attention from me. We have concluded a contract of mutual compatibility for the duration of an evening, and all our tolerances belong only to each other for this time. No one can invoke the reference of one without violating the rights of the other. I consider a peasant dance to be a symbol of marriage. Loyalty and courtesy are the primary duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves have nothing to do with the partners or wives of their neighbors."
"But these are such different things!"
"- That you think they can't be compared."
"Of course not. People who get married can never separate, but have to move in together and run the household. People who dance face each other in a long room for only half an hour."
"And that's your definition of marriage and dancing. Seen in this light, their similarity is certainly not astounding; but I think I could put them in such a view. They will allow the man in both to have the advantage of choice, the woman only the power of refusal; that in both it is a union between man and woman formed for the benefit of each other; and that once they have been received, they belong exclusively to each other until the moment of their dissolution; that it is their duty to make an effort not to give the other a reason to wish that he or she had surrendered elsewhere, and that it is their best interest to stop their own imagination from wandering to the perfections of their neighbors or imagining that they should have them was better off with someone else. You're going to let it all happen?"
"Yes, of course, as you say, it all sounds very good; but they are so different. I can't look at them in the same light at all, nor can I believe that they are entitled to the same duties."
"In one respect, there is certainly a difference. In marriage, the man is to provide for the maintenance of the wife, the woman is to make the home pleasant for the man; he should deliver, and she should smile. But when dancing, their duties change exactly; the tolerability, the indulgence are expected from him, while she supplies the fan and the lavender water. That was, I suppose, the difference in duties that you noticed because it made conditions incomparable."
"No, really, I never thought about that."
"Then I'm pretty perplexed. However, there is one thing I have to keep in mind. This setting on your page is quite alarming. They completely reject any similarity of the obligations; and may I not conclude from this that your ideas about the duties of the dance state are not as strict as your partner might wish? Don't I have reason to fear that if the Lord who has just spoken to you would return, or if another gentleman approached you, nothing would stop you from talking to him for as long as you like?"
"Sir. Dorfman is such a special friend of my brother that I have to talk to him again when he talks to me; but apart from him, there are hardly three young men in the room that I know."
"And is that supposed to be my only security? Oh, oh!"
"No, I'm sure you can't have it any better; for if I know no one, it is impossible for me to speak to him; and besides, I don't want to talk to anyone."
"Now you have given me a security worth having; and I will continue courageously. Do you find Bath as pleasant as when I had the honour of making the request?"
"Yes, quite – even more."
"All the more! Watch out, or you'll forget to be tired at the right time. After six weeks, you should be tired."
"I don't think I should be tired if I stayed here for six months."
"Bath has little variety compared to London, and so everyone finds out every year." For six weeks, I admit, Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it's the most tiring place in the world." That's what people of all kinds would tell you, who come regularly every winter, extend their six weeks to ten or twelve, and eventually leave because they can afford not to stay any longer."
"Well, other people have to judge for themselves, and those who go to London may not think anything of Bath. But I, who live in a small remote village in the countryside, can never find greater uniformity in a place like this than in my own house; because here there are manifold pleasures, to see a variety of things and to do all day long, of which I can not know anything there."
"You don't like the country."
"Yes, I am. I have always lived there and have always been very happy. But certainly there is much more equality in a country life than in a bathing life. One day in the countryside is just like the other."
"But then you spend your time so much more sensibly in the countryside."
"Do I have to?"
"Isn't it?"
"I don't think there's much difference."
"Here you are all day just looking for entertainment."
"And that's how I'm at home – but I don't find so much of it. I walk around here and there too; but here I see different people in every street, and there I can only go and visit Mrs. Allen."
Mr. Alsina was very amused.
"Just go and call Mrs. Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of spiritual poverty! However, if you sink back into this abyss, you will have more to say. You will be able to speak of Bath and of everything you have done here."
"Oh! Yes. I will never again lack something that I talked about with Mrs. Everyone or anyone else can speak. I really think I'll always talk about Bath when I'm back home – I like it so much. If I could only have dad and mom and the others here, I would probably be too happy! James' coming (my eldest brother) is very delightful – and especially since it turns out that the very family we just got so intimate with are already his intimate friends. Oh! Who can ever get tired of Bath?"
"Not the ones who bring as fresh feelings of all kinds as you do. But dads and mums and brothers and close friends are long gone for most visitors to Bath – and the honest enjoyment of balls and games and everyday sights is over for them." This is where their conversation ended, the demands of the dance now became too intrusive for a divided attention.
Shortly after reaching the bottom of the set, Catherine noticed that she was being looked at seriously by a gentleman standing among the audience right behind her partner. He was a very handsome man of commanding appearance, beyond flowering, but not beyond the power of life; and with his gaze still on her, she saw him addressing Mr. Alsina in a familiar whisper. Confused by his message and blushing for fear that something was wrong with her appearance, she turned her head away. But while she was doing this, the Lord withdrew, and her partner came closer and said, "I see, you guess what I was just being asked. This gentleman knows your name, and you have a right to know his. It's General Alsina, my father."
Catherine's answer was just "Oh!" – but it was an "Oh!" to express everything necessary: attention to his words and complete confidence in her truth. With real interest and strong admiration, her gaze now followed the general moving through the crowd and said, "What a pretty family they are!" was her secret remark.
In conversation with Miss Alsina before the end of the evening, a new source of bliss awakened to her. Since her arrival in Bath, she had never taken a walk in the countryside. Miss Alsina, who was familiar with all the generally visited environments, spoke of them in expressions that made her eager to know them; and since she openly feared that she could not find anyone to go with her, it was suggested by the siblings that they should go for a walk one morning or another. "I will like it," she exclaimed, "above all else in the world; and let's not postpone it – let's go tomorrow." This was readily agreed to, only with Miss Alsina's condition that it would not rain, which Catherine certainly would not do. At twelve o'clock they were to pick them up at Pulteney Street; and "Remember - twelve o'clock" was her farewell speech to her new boyfriend. Of her other, her older, her more established friend Bella, whose loyalty and value she had enjoyed for fourteen days, she hardly saw anything during the evening. But although she longed to introduce her to her happiness, she happily acquiesced to Mr. Allen, who took her away quite early, and her spirits danced in her while she danced all the way home in her chair.
Chapter 88
Mrs. Hargrove was only surprised for a moment to see him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, the most natural of all things. Their joy and appreciation survived their amazement for a long time. He was warmly received by her; and shyness, coldness, restraint could not withstand such a reception. They had begun to disappoint him before he entered the house, and they were completely overwhelmed by the enchanting manners of Mrs. Hargrove. In fact, a man could not be very well in love with one of her daughters without extending the passion to her; and Eleanore had the satisfaction of seeing how he soon became more like him. His affection for all of them seemed to revive, and his interest in their well-being was felt again. However, he was not in the mood; he praised their house, admired its view, was attentive and friendly; but he was still not in the mood. The whole family noticed it, and Mrs. Hargrove, who attributed it to a lack of generosity from his mother, sat down at the table indignantly at all the selfish parents.
"What are Mrs. Gastonois' views for you, Edward?" she said when lunch was over and they had dragged themselves around the fire; "Do you still want to be a great speaker despite yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than the inclination towards public life!"
"But how is your fame to be justified? Because you have to be famous to satisfy your whole family; and without a propensity for spending, without affection for strangers, without a job and without self-confidence, you may find it difficult."
"I'm not going to try. I don't want to be awarded and have every reason to hope that I will never. Thank Heaven! I can't be forced into genius and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I know that very well. Your desires are all moderate."
"As moderate as the rest of the world, I think. Like everyone else, I wish to be perfectly happy; but like everyone else, it has to be in my own way. Greatness won't get me to do that."
"Strange that it would be like that!" cried Marianne. "What do wealth or greatness have to do with happiness?"
"Grandeur has little," Eleanore said, "but wealth has a lot to do with it."
"Eleanor, shame on you!" said Marianne, "Money can only make you happy where there is nothing else to give.
"Maybe," Eleanore said with a smile, "we can get to the same point. YOUR competence and MY wealth are very similar, dare I say; and without them, as the world is going now, we will both agree that any kind of ... external consolation must be missing. Their ideas are only nobler than mine. Come on, what is your competence?"
"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; no more than THAT."
Eleonore laughed. "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how it would end."
"And yet two thousand a year is a very modest income," Marianne said. "A family cannot be fed well with a smaller one. I am sure that I am not extravagant in my demands.
Eleanore smiled again when she heard her sister describe her future editions in Combe Magna so accurately.
"Hunter!" repeated Edward – "but why do you have to have hunters? Every body doesn't hunt."
Marianne blushed when she replied, "But most people do."
"I wish," margaret said, deleting a novel thought, "that someone would give us all a big fortune each!"
"Oh, they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with liveliness, and her cheeks glowing with delight at such imaginary happiness.
"We are all united in this desire, I suppose," Eleanore said, "despite the inadequacy of wealth."
"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what to do with it!"
Marianne looked like she had no doubt at this point.
"I would be surprised to spend such a large fortune myself," Said Mrs. Hargrove, "if my children all got rich without my help."
"You need to start making improvements to this house," Eleanore noted, "and your difficulties will soon go away."
"What great orders would travel to London from this family," Edward said, "in such a case! What a happy day for booksellers, music dealers and printers! They, Miss Hargrove, would give a general commission for anyone to send new earning prints – and as for Marianne, I know her emotional greatness, there wouldn't be enough music in London to satisfy her. And books! – Thomson, Cowper, Scott – she would buy them all I think she would buy up every copy to prevent it from falling into unworthy hands, and she would have every book telling her how to admire an old, crippled tree." Shouldn't you, Marianne? very cheeky. But I was ready to show you that I had not forgotten our old quarrels."
"I love being reminded of the past, Edward – whether it's melancholic or cheerful, I like to remember it – and you will never offend me by talking about earlier times. You are very right in your assumption that how my money would be spent – at least some of it – my loose money would certainly be used to improve my collection of music and books."
"And the majority of your assets would be invested in pensions to the authors or their heirs."
"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."
"Maybe then you would give it as a reward to the one who wrote the most capable defense of your favorite saying that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life – your opinion on this point is unchanged, I suppose?"
"Undoubtedly. At my time of life, opinions are tolerably fixed. It's not likely that I'll see or hear anything now to change them."
"Marianne is as steadfast as ever," Eleanore said, "she hasn't changed at all."
"She just got a little more serious than she was."
"No, Edward," Marianne said, "you don't have to blame me. You're not very happy yourself."
"Why would you think so!" he replied with a sigh. "But happiness was never a part of MY character."
"I don't think it's a part of Marianne either," Eleanore said; "I would hardly call her a lively girl - she is very serious, very eager in everything she does - sometimes she talks a lot and always lively - but she is not often really cheerful."
"I think you're right," he replied, "and yet I've always portrayed her as a lively girl."
"I've often discovered myself in such mistakes," Eleanore said, "at some point of complete character transgression: people being so much funnier or more serious, or more ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell you why or what the deception is due to. Sometimes you let yourself be guided by what they say about themselves, and very often by what other people say about them, without giving themselves time to think and judge.
"But I thought it was right, Eleanore," Marianne said, "to be guided entirely by other people's opinions. I thought our judgments were given to us only to be subject to those of our neighbors. That's always been your lesson, I'm sure."
"No, Marianne, never. My teaching was never aimed at the submission of the mind. All I ever tried to influence was the behavior. You must not confuse me. I confess, I owe it to have wished you many times to treat our acquaintances in general with greater attention; but when did I advise you to accept their feelings or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?
"You were not able to get your sister to your plan of general politeness," Edward told Eleanore, "are you not gaining ground?"
"My judgment," he replied,
"is entirely on your side on this issue, but I'm afraid my practice is much more on your sister's side. if I am held back only by my natural awkwardness. I have often thought that I must be naturally destined to like low company, I feel so uncomfortable among strangers of nobility!"
"Marianne is not afraid to apologize for her inattention," Eleanore said.
"She knows her own value too well to be wrongly ashamed," Edward replied. "Shyness is just the result of a feeling of inferiority in one way or another.
"But you'd still be reserved," Marianne said, "and that's even worse."
Edward started – "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"
"Yes, very much."
"I don't understand you," he replied, dying. "Reserved! - how, in what way? What can I tell you? What can you guess?"
Eleanore seemed surprised by his emotion; but trying to laugh at the subject, she said to him, "Don't you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? adorable like her?"
Edward gave no answer. His seriousness and thoughtfulness returned to him in full – and he sat there quietly and bluntly for some time.
Chapter 89
Mr. Collins was not long left to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Mitchell, who had strolled around in the vestibule to wait for the end of the conference, barely saw Elizabeth open the door and walk past her to the stairs with quick steps when she entered the breakfast room and congratulated him and him warmly on the happy view or their closer connection. Mr. Collins received these congratulations with equal pleasure and returned them, and then proceeded to recount the details of their conversation, with the result, the result of which, he believed, he had every reason to be satisfied, since the rejection that his cousin had steadfastly given him would of course flow from her shy modesty and the genuine tenderness of her character.
However, this information frightened Mrs. Mitchell; she would have been glad to be equally pleased that her daughter wanted to encourage him by protesting his proposals, but she did not dare to believe it and could not help but say it.
"But rely on Mr. Collins," she added, "to bring Lizzy to his senses. I will address it directly to you. She's a very stubborn, foolish girl and doesn't know her own interests, but I'll get her to know.'
'Excuse me for the interruption you, madam,' shouted Mr Collins; "but if she is really stubborn and foolish, I don't know if she would even be a very desirable wife for a man in my position, who of course seeks his happiness in marital status. So if she actually insists on rejecting my application, perhaps it would be better not to force her to accept me, because if she were exposed to such character flaws, she might not contribute much to my happiness.'
"Sir, you get me wrong," Mrs. Mitchell said worriedly. Lizzy is only stubborn in such things. In everything else, she is as good-natured a girl as ever. I'm going to contact Mr. Mitchell directly, and we'll settle it with her very soon, I'm sure."
She didn't give him time to answer, but immediately rushed to her husband and shouted when she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Mitchell, you will be sought immediately; we are all in turmoil. You have to come and get Lizzy to marry Mr. Collins, because she swears she won't have him, and if you don't hurry, he will change his mind and not have YOU."
Mr. Mitchell lifted his gaze from his book when she entered and pointed it at her face with calm carelessness, which was not changed in the slightest by her message.
"I don't have the pleasure of understanding you," he said as she finished her speech. What are you talking about?"
"By Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy explains that she won't have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he won't have Lizzy.'
"And what should I do on this occasion? It seems like a hopeless business.'
"Talk to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist she will marry him."
"Let them be called down. Let her hear my opinion."
Mrs. Mitchell rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was called to the library.
"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. I have sent to you about an important matter. As far as I know, Mr. Collins made you a marriage offer. Is it true?' Elizabeth replied that it was. "All right – and you turned down this marriage offer?"
"I did, sir."
'Very good. We now get to the point. Your mother insists that you accept it. Isn't that the case, Mrs. Mitchell?"
'Yes, or I will never see them again.'
"An unfortunate alternative lies ahead of you, Elizabeth. From that day on, you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do NOT marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you do."
Elizabeth had to smile at such a conclusion to such an beginning, but Mrs. Mitchell, who had persuaded herself that her husband was looking at the matter the way she wished, was extremely disappointed.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Mitchell, when you speak like that? They promised me to INSIST that she marry him."
"My dear," her husband replied, "I would like to ask for two small favors. Firstly, that you will allow me to use my understanding freely on this occasion; and secondly, from my room. I will be glad to have the library to myself as soon as possible."
But despite her disappointment with her husband, Mrs. Mitchell didn't give up the point yet. She kept talking to Elizabeth; persuaded and threatened her alternately. She tried to secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all the possible leniency, refused to interfere; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real seriousness, and sometimes with joking cheerfulness, responded to her attacks. Their nature was different, but their determination was never.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, meditated lonely on what had happened. He thought too well of himself to understand the motives for which his cousin might reject him; and although his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His consideration for them was quite imaginary; and the possibility that she deserved her mother's reproach prevented him from feeling remorse.
While the family was in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was received in the vestibule by Linda, who flew towards her and shouted with half a whisper: "I'm glad you came, because there's so much fun here! What do you think happened this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she doesn't want him."
Charlotte barely had time to answer when Kitty joined them, who came to share the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast room where Mrs. Mitchell was alone when she also began the topic by asking Miss Lucas for her sympathy and begging her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with her family wishes. "Please do it, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholic tone, "because no one is on my side, no one is joining me. I am used cruelly, no one cares about my poor nerves.'
Charlotte's answer was spared by the entry of Jane and Elizabeth.
"Yes, there she comes," Mrs. Mitchell continued, "looks as carefree as possible and cares for us no more than if we were in York, provided she can prevail. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy – if you put it in your head to continue to reject any marriage offer in this way, you won't get a man at all – and I'm sure I don't know who should take care of you when your father is dead. I won't be able to hold you – and that's why I warn you. I have done with you from that day on. I told you in the library that I should never talk to you again, and you will keep me as I promise. I don't enjoy talking to innocent children. Not that I enjoy talking to anyone. People who, like me, suffer from nervous ailments may not have much inclination to talk. No one can say what I am suffering! But it's always like that. Those who do not complain will never be pitied.'
Her daughters listened silently to this effusion and were aware that any attempt to argue with her or calm her down would only increase the anger. She continued to talk without interruption until Mr. Collins joined them, who entered the room with a more handsome face than usual, and when she noticed who, she said to the girls, "Well, I insist that you, all of you, shut up and let me and Mr. Collins talk a little."
Elizabeth quietly walked out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Linda remained steadfast, determined to hear everything she could; and Charlotte, who was first held up by the courtesy of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries about her and her whole family were very meticulous, and then by a little curiosity, was content to go to the window and pretend not to hear anything. With a sad voice, Mrs. Mitchell began the planned conversation: "Oh! Mr Collins!'
'My dear Madam,' he replied, "let us remain silent about this point forever. It is far from me," he continued immediately afterwards with a voice expressing his displeasure at "annoying your daughter's behavior. Resignation to inevitable evils is the evil duty of all of us; the special duty of a young man who was as lucky as I was in early promotion; and I trust that I am resigned. Perhaps no less out of doubt about my positive happiness, my beautiful cousin had honored me by hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never as perfect as when the denied blessing begins to lose some of its value in our assessment. I hope you will not consider me disrespectful to your family, madam, by withdrawing my claims to your daughter's favor without adding to myself and Mr. Mitchell the addition of asking you to use your authority on my behalf. My behavior, I'm afraid, might be offensive because I accepted my dismissal from your daughter's mouth instead of your own. But we are all subject to error. I'm sure I meant the whole thing just well. My goal was to secure a gracious companion, with due regard for the benefit of your whole family, and if my manner was reprehensible at all, I apologize here.'
Chapter 90
Emma and Harriet had gone for a walk together one morning and, in Emma's opinion, had talked enough about Mr. Alton for that day. She could not imagine that Harriet's comfort or her own sins demanded more; and she was therefore diligent to get rid of the subject when they came back; – but it broke out again when she believed it had succeeded, and after talking for some time about what the poor have to suffer in winter, and received no other answer than a very complaining - "Lord. Alton is so good to the poor!" She felt that something else had to be done.
They were approaching the house where Mrs. and Miss Bates lived. She decided to call her and look for security in numbers. There have always been enough reasons for such attention; Mrs. and Miss Bates loved to be called, and she knew that by the very few who presumed to ever see imperfection in her, she was seen as quite negligent in this regard and did not comfort what she was supposed to contribute to the survival of her poor.
She had received many hints from Mr. Hill and some from her own heart about her lack – but no one could counter the belief that it was very unpleasant – a waste of time – tiring women – and all the horror of it was she was in danger of coinciding with the second and third class Highburys who visited her forever, and therefore she rarely came close to them. But now she made the sudden decision not to walk past her door without going inside – and noticed, when she suggested it to Harriet, that as far as she could calculate, they were pretty safe from every letter from Jane Saxon right now.
The house belonged to businessmen. Mrs. and Miss Bates occupied the salon floor; and there, in the very modest apartment that was everything to them, the visitors were warmly and even gratefully welcomed; the quiet, well-groomed old lady who sat in the warmest corner with her knitwear and even wanted to leave her place to Miss Lodge, and her livelier, talking daughter, almost ready to overwhelm her with care and kindness, thanked her for her visit, taking care of her shoes, anxious inquiries about Mr. Lodge's health, cheerful messages about her mother's and sweet cakes from the beautiful – "Mrs. Cole had just been there, had just stopped by for ten minutes and had been kind enough to sit with them for an hour, and she had taken a piece of cake and said so kindly that she liked it very much; and therefore,
the mention of the Cole's was certainly followed by that of Mr. Alton. There was intimacy between them, and Mr. Cole had heard of Mr. Alton since his departure. Emma knew what was coming; they must have the letter again and determine how long he was gone and how busy he was in company and what a favorite he was, wherever he went, and how full the master of ceremonies' ball had been; and she went through it very well, with all the interest and praise that might be required, and always mindful that Harriet was not forced to say a word.
She had been prepared for this when she entered the house; but once he had persuaded him well, he did not want to be disturbed by any annoying topic and wander around at large between all the mistresses and misses of Highbury and their card parties. She had not been prepared to appoint Jane Saxon to succeed Mr. Alton; but he was actually chased away by Miss Bates, she finally abruptly jumped away from him to the Coles to bring in a letter from her niece.
"Oh! yes – Mr. Alton, I understand – certainly as far as dancing is concerned – Mrs. Cole told me that dancing in the rooms of Bath – Mrs. Cole was kind enough to sit with us for some time and talk about Jane; because as soon as she came in, she started to inquire about her, Jane is so very popular there. Whenever she is with us, Mrs. Cole does not know how to show her kindness enough; and I have to say that Jane deserves it as much as anyone else. And so she started to inquire about her right away and said, "I know you haven't heard from Jane lately because it's not her time to write;" and when I immediately said, "But we actually did, we got a letter this morning," I don't know if I've ever seen a more surprised body. 'Have you, in your honor?' she said; "Well, that's pretty unexpected. Let me hear what she says.'"
Emma's courtesy was right on the spot, with smiling interest –
"Have you heard of Miss Saxon lately? I am very happy. I hope she's doing well?"
"Thank you. You're so nice!" replied the happily deceived aunt as she eagerly searched for the letter. – "Oh! Here it is. I was sure it couldn't be far; but I had put my housewife on it, you see, without knowing it, and so it was pretty hidden, but I had it so late in my hand that I was almost sure it had to be on the table. I read it to Mrs. Cole, and since she was gone, I read it to my mother again, because it's so ?? a joy – a letter from Jane – that she can never hear it often enough; so I knew it couldn't be far, and here it's just below my housewife – and since you're kind enough to hear what she says – but first of all, to do justice to Jane, excuse me. because she writes such a short letter – you only see two pages – hardly two – and in general she fills out the whole sheet and crosses out half of it. My mother is often surprised that I can make it out so well. She often says when the letter is first opened, "Well, Hetty, I think you're going to be busy doing all the check work now." – And then I tell her, I'm sure she would be able to decipher it herself if she had no one to do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! I just wish my eyes could last so long.'" She often says when the letter is first opened, "Well, Hetty, I think you're going to be busy doing all the check work now." – And then I tell her, I'm sure she would be able to decipher it herself if she had no one to do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! I just wish my eyes could last so long.'" She often says when the letter is first opened, "Well, Hetty, I think you're going to be busy doing all the check work now." – And then I tell her, I'm sure she would be able to decipher it herself if she had no one to do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! I just wish my eyes could last so long.'" now, I think, you have to decipher all the checkerboard pattern." – isn't it, madam? – And then I tell her, I'm sure she would manage to decipher it herself if she didn't do it to anyone who would do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! I just wish my eyes could last so long.'" now, I think, you have to decipher all the checkerboard pattern." – isn't it, madam? – And then I tell her, I'm sure she would manage to decipher it herself if she didn't do it to anyone who would do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! – I just wish my eyes could last so long Good.'" if she had no one to do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! – I just wish my eyes could last so long Good.'" if she had no one to do it for her – every word of it – I'm sure she would ponder it until she had deciphered every word. And indeed, although my mother's eyes are no longer so ?? are as good as before, thank God she can still see amazingly well! with the help of glasses. It's such a blessing! My mother's are really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! – I just wish my eyes could last so long Good.'" it's really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! – I just wish my eyes could last so long Good.'" it's really very good. Jane often says when she's here, "I'm sure, grandma, you must have had very strong eyes to see like this – and as much good work as you did! I just wish my eyes could last so long.'"
All this, spoken extremely quickly, forced Miss Bates to take a breath; and Emma said something very polite about the excellence of Miss Saxon's handwriting.
"They are extraordinarily nice," Miss Bates replied with delight; "You, who are such a judge and write so beautifully yourself. I'm sure there's no praise that could give us as much joy as Miss Lodge's. My mother does not hear; She's a bit deaf, you know. Ma'am," she said, "have you heard what Miss Lodge has to say so courteously about Jane's handwriting?"
And Emma had the advantage of hearing her own stupid compliment repeated twice before the good old lady could comprehend it. She, meanwhile, was thinking about the possibility of escaping Jane Saxon's letter without appearing very rude, and had almost decided to rush right away with a slight apology when Miss Bates turned back to her and caught her attention.
"My mother's deafness is very insignificant, you see – just nothing. By just raising my voice and saying something two or three times, she will surely hear it; but then she got used to my voice. But it is very remarkable that she always hears Jane better than me. Jane speaks so clearly! However, she will not find her grandmother deaf than she did two years ago; that says a lot about my mother's lifetime - and it's really been a full two years since she was here. We have never seen them for so long, and as I told Mrs. Cole, we will hardly know how to do them enough now."
"Are you expecting Miss Saxon here soon?"
"Oh yes; next week."
"Indeed! – that must be a great pleasure."
"Thank you. You are very nice. Yes, next week. Every body is so surprised; and everyone says the same pleasing things. I'm sure she'll be as excited to see her friends in Highbury as they can be to see them. Yes, Friday or Saturday; she can't tell because one day Colonel Campbell wants to have the carriage himself. Very nice of them to send them all the way! But they always do, you know. Oh yes, next Friday or Saturday. She writes about it. That's why she writes outside the rule, as we call it; because in general we shouldn't have heard from her before next Tuesday or Wednesday."
"Yes, that's what I imagined. I was afraid that I would hardly be able to hear from Miss Saxon today."
"So accommodating of you! No, we would not have heard without this particular circumstance that she would come here so soon. My mother is so delighted! – because she should be with us for at least three months. Three months, she says positively, as I will have the pleasure of reading to you. The case is, see that the Campbells are going to Ireland. Mrs. Dixon persuaded her father and mother to come and see her directly. They hadn't planned to go over before the summer, but she's so impatient to see them again – because until her marriage last October, she was never even a week away from them, which must make it very strange to be here different kingdoms, I wanted to say, but whatever different countries, and so she wrote a very urgent letter to her mother – or father, I explain, I don't know which one it was, but we'll see in Jane's letter in a moment – written both in Mr. Dixon's name and in her own, to push her coming directly, and they would give them the meeting in Dublin and take them back to their country estate, Baly-craig, a beautiful place, I think. Jane has heard a lot about its beauty; of Mr. Dixon, I mean – I don't know if she would ever have heard of it from anyone else; but it was quite natural, you know, that he wanted to talk about his own apartment while paying for his addresses – and since Jane used to go out with them very often – because Colonel and Mrs. Campbell put a lot of emphasis on their own apartment Daughter doesn't often go out with Mr. Dixon, for which I don't blame them at all; of course, she heard everything he could tell Miss Campbell about his own home in Ireland; and I think she wrote to us that he had shown them some drawings of the place, views that he had made himself. He's a very kind, charming young man, I think. Jane longed very much to go to Ireland, for his portrayal of things."
At that moment, a brilliant and stimulating suspicion penetrated Emma's brain regarding Jane Saxon, this charming Mr. Dixon and not traveling to Ireland, she said with the insidious plan to make further discoveries,
"You must feel very lucky that Miss Saxon is allowed to come to you at such a time. Given the special friendship between her and Mrs. Dixon, you couldn't have waited for her to be excused by the company of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."
"Very true, very true, in fact. Exactly what we have always been quite afraid of; because we wouldn't have liked to have had them so far away from us for months – we couldn't come if something happened. But you see, it's all turning out for the better. They want them (Mr. and Mrs. Dixon) to pass excessively with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell; depend entirely on it; nothing can be friendlier or more urgent than their joint invitation, Jane says, as you'll hear in a moment; Mr. Dixon does not seem to be backward in any way. He is a very charming young man. Since the service he rendered to Jane in Weymouth when they were on the water with this group and she would have been immediately thrown into the sea by the sudden whirling of anything between sails and it was actually far from gone if he hadn't,
"But despite all the urgency of her friends and her own desire, To see Ireland, Miss Saxon prefers to dedicate the time to you and Mrs. Bates?"
"Yes – all their own work, their own choice; and Colonel and Mrs. Campbell think that she is doing quite right, exactly what they should recommend; and in fact, they especially want her to try her home air, as she hasn't been doing quite as well as usual lately."
"I'm worried to hear about it. I think they judge wisely. But Mrs. Dixon must be very disappointed. Mrs. Dixon, as far as I know, has no remarkable level of personal beauty; is by no means comparable to Miss Saxon."
"Oh! No. They are very accommodating to say such things – but certainly not. There is no comparison between them. Miss Campbell has always been absolutely simple – but extremely elegant and amiable."
"Yes, of course."
"Jane caught a bad cold, the poor thing! as long ago as on November 7 (as I'll read to you in a moment) and since then it has never been healthy again. A long time, isn't it, for a cold that sticks to you? She never mentioned it before because she wouldn't worry us. Just like you! so considerate! - But she is anything but good that her friendly friends think the Campbell should come home and try an air that always agrees with her; and they have no doubt that three or four months in Highbury will completely heal her – and it's certainly much better for her to come here than to go to Ireland when she's not feeling well. No one could care for them as we should."
"It seems to me to be the most sought-after arrangement in the world."
"So she will come to us next Friday or Saturday, and the Campbells will leave town the following Monday and make their way to Holyhead – as you can see from Jane's letter. So suddenly! – You can imagine, dear Miss Lodge, the excitement this has left me in! If it weren't for the disadvantage of her illness – but I'm afraid we have to expect her to become lean and look very bad. I have to tell you what a misfortune has happened to me in this regard. I always make sure to read Jane's letters to myself first before reading them out loud to my mother, you know, for fear that anything in it might worry her. Jane wanted me to do it as I always do: and so today I started with my usual caution; but as soon as I came up with the mention of her discomfort, I burst out in shock: "Be blessed! poor Jane is sick!' – which my mother, who was keeping watch, clearly heard and was sadly frightened by it. However, as I read on, I found that it wasn't nearly as bad as I had first imagined; and I'm making it so easy for her now that she doesn't think much about it. But I can't imagine how I could have been so unprepared. If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't let it happen, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her." and was sadly worried. However, as I read on, I found that it wasn't nearly as bad as I had first imagined; and I'm making it so easy for her now that she doesn't think much about it. But I can't imagine how I could have been so unprepared. If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't let it happen, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her." and was sadly worried. However, as I read on, I found that it wasn't nearly as bad as I had first imagined; and I'm making it so easy for her now that she doesn't think much about it. But I can't imagine how I could have been so unprepared. If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't let it happen, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her." I found it wasn't nearly as bad as I first thought; and I'm making it so easy for her now that she doesn't think much about it. But I can't imagine how I could have been so unprepared. If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't let it happen, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her." I found it wasn't nearly as bad as I first thought; and I'm making it so easy for her now that she doesn't think much about it. But I can't imagine how I could have been so unprepared. If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't tolerate it, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her." If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't tolerate it, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her." If Jane doesn't get well soon, we call Mr. Perry. The costs are not taken into account; and even though he's so liberal and loves Jane so much that I dare say he wouldn't charge anything for participation, we couldn't let it happen, you know. He has his wife and family to feed and should not give away his time. Well, now I've just given you a hint of what Jane is writing about, we're going to turn to her letter, and I'm sure she's telling her own story much better than I can tell for her."
"I'm afraid we have to run away," Emma said to Harriet with a glance and began to get up – "My father will be waiting for us. I had no intention, I thought I had no strength to stay longer than five minutes when I first entered the house. I only called because I didn't want to go through the door without inquiring about Mrs. Bates; but I have been so pleasantly stopped! But now we have to wish you and Mrs. Bates a good morning."
And not everything that could be pushed to hold them was successful. She returned to the streets, happy that although much had been forced on her against her will, even though she had actually heard the full contents of Jane Saxon's letter, she was able to escape the letter herself.
Chapter 91
Eleanore saw with great discomfort the dejection of her friend. His visit gave her only a very partial satisfaction, while his own joy in it seemed so imperfect. It was obvious that he was unhappy; she wished it was equally obvious that he still showed the same affection that had undoubtedly inspired her; but so far the continuation of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the restraint of his kind towards her contradicted for a moment, which a more vivid look had hinted at the previous ones.
The next morning he joined her and Marianne in the breakfast room before the others were downstairs; and Marianne, who always strived to promote her happiness as much as possible, soon left her to herself. But before she was half up, she heard the salon door open, and when she turned around, she was amazed to see Edward come out himself.
"I go to the village to see my horses," he said, "as you are not ready for breakfast yet; I'll be right back."
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration for the surrounding land; on his walk to the village he had seen many parts of the valley with advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher position than the hut, provided a general overview of the whole thing, which he had liked extraordinarily. This was a topic that secured Marianne's attention, and she began to describe her own admiration for these scenes and to ask him in more detail about the objects that had particularly impressed him when Edward interrupted them by saying, "You must not also ask far away, Marianne – remember, I have no idea about the picturesque, and I will offend you by my ignorance and lack of taste, if we get to the details: I will call hills steep, which should be bold, surfaces foreign and uncouth, what it should be irregular and robust; and distant objects out of sight, which should only be indistinct by the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. They must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very beautiful country – the hills are steep, the forests seem to be full of fine wood, and the valley looks cozy and cozy – with lush meadows and some pretty farmhouses scattered here and there. It corresponds exactly to my idea of a beautiful country because it combines beauty with usefulness – and I dare say it is also a picturesque one because you admire it; I can easily believe that it is full of rocks and headlands, grey moss and scrub, but all this has escaped me. I don't know the picturesque." I call it a very beautiful country – the hills are steep, the forests seem to be full of fine wood, and the valley looks cozy and cozy – with lush meadows and some pretty farmhouses scattered here and there. It corresponds exactly to my idea of a beautiful country because it combines beauty with usefulness – and I dare say it is also a picturesque one because you admire it; I can easily believe that it is full of rocks and headlands, grey moss and scrub, but all this has escaped me. I don't know the picturesque." I call it a very beautiful country – the hills are steep, the forests seem to be full of fine wood, and the valley looks cozy and cozy – with lush meadows and some pretty farmhouses scattered here and there. It corresponds exactly to my idea of a beautiful country because it combines beauty with usefulness – and I dare say it is also a picturesque one because you admire it; I can easily believe that it is full of rocks and headlands, grey moss and scrub, but all this has escaped me. I don't know the picturesque." because you admire it; I can easily believe that it is full of rocks and headlands, grey moss and scrub, but all this has escaped me. I don't know the picturesque." because you admire it; I can easily believe that it is full of rocks and headlands, grey moss and scrub, but all this has escaped me. I don't know the picturesque."
"I'm afraid it's just too true," Marianne said; "but why should you boast about it?"
"I suspect," Eleanore said, "that Edward is falling into another here to avoid one kind of affectation. Because he believes that many people claim more admiration for the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted by such claims, he shows greater indifference and less judgment when he looks at them himself than he possesses. He is demanding and will have his own airs."
"It is very true," Marianne said, "that admiration of the landscape has become mere jargon. Each body pretends to feel and describe with the taste and elegance of the one who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I abhor the jargon of every kind, and sometimes I kept my feelings to myself because I couldn't find any language to describe it other than the one that was worn out and hackneyed, without any sense or sense."
"I'm convinced," Edward said, "that you really feel all the joy of a good view that you pretend to feel. But in return, your sister must allow me not to feel more than I affirm. I like a good view, but not according to picturesque principles. I don't like crooked, curved, devastated trees. I admire them much more when they are high, straight and blooming. I don't like dilapidated, tattered huts. I don't like nettles or thistles, or heather flowers. I enjoy a cozy farmhouse more than a watchtower – and I like a bunch of clean, cheerful villages better than the best bandits in the world."
Marianne looked at Edward in amazement, her sister full of compassion. Eleonore just laughed.
The issue was not continued; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent until suddenly a new object caught her attention. She sat next to Edward, and when he received his tea from Mrs. Hargrove, his hand passed so directly in front of her that a ring with a hair braid in the middle was created very conspicuously on one of his fingers.
"I've never seen you wear a ring, Edward," she shouted. "Is this Esther's hair? I remember she promised to give you something. But I should have thought her hair was darker."
Marianne ruthlessly expressed what she really felt – but when she saw how much she had hurt Edward, her own anger at her lack of thought could not be surpassed by his. He dyed very intensely and gave Eleanore a glimpse and replied, "Yes, it's my sister's hair.
Eleanore had encountered his gaze and also looked conscious. That the hair was her own was immediately as comfortable to her as Marianne; The only difference in her conclusions was that what Marianne considered a free gift from her sister, Eleanore was aware that it must have been obtained through a theft or an invention unknown to her. However, she was not in the mood to take it as an insult and pretended not to pay attention to what had happened by immediately speaking of something else, and inwardly decided to seize every opportunity from now on to look at the hair and satisfy herself, without any doubt that it was exactly the shadow of her own.
Edward's embarrassment lasted for some time and ended in an even firmer thoughtlessness. He was particularly serious throughout the morning. Marianne reprimanded herself strictly for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might have been quicker if she had known how little she had offended her sister.
Before noon they visited Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who, after hearing about the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to examine the guest. With the help of his mother-in-law, Sir John did not discover for long that the name Gastonois began with an F, and this prepared a future joke pit against the devoted Eleanore, who was nothing but the novelty of her acquaintance with Edward could have prevented her from being jumped immediately. But only from a few very meaningful glances did she learn how far her penetration, based on Margaret's instructions, extended.
Sir John never came to the Hargrove's without either inviting them to dinner in the park the next day or drinking tea with them that evening. On this occasion, he wanted to engage them for both of them in order to better entertain their visitor, to whose amusement he felt obliged.
"You MUST drink tea with us tonight," he said, "because we will be all alone – and tomorrow you absolutely have to eat with us, because we will be a great company."
Mrs. Jennings forced necessity. "And who knows, but you can elevate a dance," she said. "And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne."
"A dance!" shouted Marianne. "Impossible! Who should dance?"
"Who! why yourself and the Careys and Whitakers to be sure. - What! They thought no one could dance because a certain person who is supposed to be nameless has left!"
"I wish with all my heart," cried Sir John, "that Warwick would be with us again."
This and Marianne's blushing made Edward suspect new. "And who is Warwick?" he said in a low voice to Miss Hargrove, with whom he was sitting.
She gave him a short answer. Marianne's face was more communicative. Edward saw enough to understand, not only the meaning of others, but also those of Marianne's facial expressions that had previously confused him; and when her visitors left her, he immediately walked around her and said in a whisper, "I guessed. Should I tell you my guess?"
"What do you think?"
"Shall I tell you."
"Definitely."
"Well then; I suspect That Mr. Warwick is hunting."
Marianne was surprised and confused, but could not resist a smile at the quiet impudence of his kind, and after a moment of silence she said:
"Oh, Edward! How can you? – But the time will come, I hope ... I'm sure you'll like him."
"I don't doubt it," he replied, quite amazed at her seriousness and warmth; for if he had not considered it a joke for the sake of their acquaintance in general, based only on a something or nothing between Mr. Warwick and her, he would not have dared to mention it.
Chapter 92
The discussion of Mr. Collins' offer was now almost over, and Elizabeth only had to suffer from the unpleasant feelings that inevitably came with it, and occasionally some annoying allusions to her mother. As for the Lord Himself, His feelings were mainly expressed not in embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid it, but in stiffness and angry silence. He hardly ever spoke to her, and the zealous attentions he had been so empathetic to himself were transferred to Miss Lucas for the rest of the day, whose courtesy to listen to him was a timely relief for all of them and especially for her friend.
The morning produced no reduction in Mrs. Mitchell's bad mood. or illness. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment would shorten his visit, but his plan didn't seem to be affected in the slightest. He should have always left on Saturday, and he wanted to stay until Saturday.
After breakfast, the girls went to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Waterhouse had returned and to complain about his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them as they entered the city and accompanied them to their aunt, where his regret and anger and concern of all were well discussed. However, he voluntarily admitted to Elizabeth that the necessity of his absence had been self-imposed.
"I realized," he said, "as the time approached that I had better not meet Drury-san; that it could be more than I could bear to be in the same room with him for so many hours, at the same party, and that scenes could arise that are more uncomfortable than I am.'
She very much welcomed his forbearance, and they had time for an in-depth discussion about it and for all the praise they politely bestowed upon each other when Waterhouse and another officer went back to Longbourn with them, and during the walk he took special care of her. That he accompanied them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered her, and it was a most acceptable opportunity to introduce him to her father and mother.
Shortly after her return, Miss Mitchell was delivered a letter; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, small, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's beautiful, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's face change as she read it, and saw her eagerly linger over some particular passages. Jane soon remembered, put the letter away and tried to fit into the general conversation with her usual cheerfulness; but Elizabeth felt a concern about the subject that distracted her attention even from Waterhouse; and no sooner had he and his companion said goodbye when a glance from Jane asked them to follow her upwards. When they moved into their own room, Jane took out the letter and said,
"This is from Caroline Woodland; What it contains surprised me a lot. Meanwhile, the whole group has left Netherfield and is on their way to the city – and without the intention of coming back. Thou shalt hear what she says."
Then she read out loud the first sentence, which contained the information that they had just decided to follow their brother directly into town, and that they intended to dine on Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next one read in these words: "I do not pretend to regret anything I will leave in Hertfordshire except your company, my dearest friend; but we will hope to enjoy at a later date many repetitions of this delightful dealing we have known, and in the meantime we can alleviate the pain of separation through a very frequent and extremely unreserved correspondence. I rely on you for that.' Elizabeth listened to these high-flying expressions with all the insensitivity of mistrust; and although the suddenness of her removal surprised her, she saw nothing really to complain about; it was not to be assumed that her absence of Netherfield would prevent Mr. Woodland's presence; and as for the loss of her company, she was convinced that Jane must stop considering it for his pleasure.
"It's a misfortune," she said after a short pause, "that you can't see your friends before they leave the country. But can't we hope that the time of future happiness that Miss Woodland is looking forward to will come sooner than she realizes, and that the delightful intercourse you have come to know as friends will be renewed as sisters with even greater satisfaction? Mr. Woodland is not being held in London by them.'
Caroline says firmly that no one from the group will return to Hertfordshire this winter. I'll read it to you:.'
"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the deal that took him to London could be done in three or four days; but since we are sure that it cannot be so, and at the same time we are convinced that Charles, when he comes to the city, will not be in a hurry to leave it again, we have decided to follow him there so that he does not have to be forced to spend his money free hours in a desolate hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already wintering there; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest friend, intended to join the crowd – but I despair of that. I sincerely hope that your Christmas in Hertfordshire will be rich in the cheerfulness that this time of year generally brings, and that your admirer will be so numerous that you will not feel the loss of the three we will deprive you of.'
"From this," Jane added, "it's clear that he's not coming back this winter."
"It's just obvious that Miss Woodland doesn't think he SHOULD."
"Why do you think that? It must be his own work. He is his own master. But you don't know ALL. I WILL read to you the passage that particularly pains me. I will have no reserves from YOU.'
'Lord. Drury is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth, WE are hardly less eager to see them again. I really don't think Georgiana Drury equals beauty, elegance and achievements; and the affection she arouses in Lois and me is heightened to something even more interesting by the hope we dare to harbor that she will later be our sister. I do not know if I have ever mentioned to you my feelings about this; but I will not leave the country without trusting them, and I trust that you will not consider them unreasonable. My brother already admires her very much; he will now often have the opportunity to see them in the most intimate way; their relatives all want the union as much as their own; and the partiality of a sister does not deceive me, I think, when I call Charles, he is best able to conquer the heart of every woman. With all these circumstances favoring attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, when I give in to the hope of an event that will secure the happiness of so many?'
"What do you think of THIS sentence, my dear Lizzy?" said Jane when she was done. "Isn't it clear enough? Does not explicitly state that Caroline neither expects nor desires me to be her sister; that she is completely convinced of her brother's indifference; and that when she senses the nature of my feelings for him, she (kindly!) intends to be on my guard? Can there be a different opinion on this subject?'
"Yes, it can; because mine is very different. Will you hear it?'
"With pleasure."
"You will have it in a few words. Miss Woodland sees that her brother is in love with you and wants him to marry Miss Drury. She follows him to the city, hoping to keep him there, and tries to convince you that he doesn't care about you."
Jane shook her head.
"In fact, Jane, you should believe me. No one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Woodland certainly can't. It is not such a simple brush. If she had only been able to see half as much love in Drury-san for herself, she would have ordered her wedding dresses. But the case is this: we are not rich enough or great enough for them; and she is all the more worried about getting Miss Drury for her brother, from the idea that if there has been ONE mixed marriage, she might have less difficulty achieving a second; there is certainly a certain ingenuity in it, and I dare say that it would succeed if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you can't seriously imagine that because Miss Woodland tells you that her brother admires Miss Drury very much, he is less aware of your merits than when he said goodbye on Tuesday,
"If we thought of Miss Woodland the same way," Jane replied, "your portrayal of all this could be very easy for me. But I know that the basis is unjust. Caroline is unable to deliberately deceive anyone; and all I can hope for in this case is that she is cheating on herself.'
'That's right. You couldn't have had a happier idea because you won't console yourself in mine. In any case, believe that she is being deceived. You have now done your duty to her and no longer have to be angry.'
"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even assuming the best of accepting a man whose sisters and friends all want him to marry elsewhere?"
"You have to decide for yourself," Elizabeth said; 'and if, after careful consideration, you find that the misery of refusing to obey his two sisters is more than equal to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you in any case to reject it.'
'How can you talk like that?' said Jane, smiling weakly. 'They must know that I could not hesitate, although I should be extremely saddened by their disapproval.'
"I wouldn't have thought that; and with that in mind, I can't look at your situation with much compassion.'
"But if he doesn't return this winter, my choice will never be necessary. A thousand things can be created in six months!'
Elizabeth no longer treated the idea of his return with the utmost contempt. It seemed to her only the hint of Caroline's interested desires, and she could not assume for a moment that these desires, however open or artful they may be, could influence a young man who was so completely independent of everyone.
She presented to her sister as vividly as possible what she felt about it, and soon had the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temperament was not depressed, and she was gradually led to hope, although the restraint of affection sometimes outweighed the hope that Woodland would return to Netherfield and fulfill every wish of her heart.
They agreed that Mrs. Mitchell should only hear about the family's departure without being alarmed by the Lord's behavior; but even this partial communication worried her greatly, and she lamented it as extremely unfortunate that the ladies were just leaving when they all became so intimate with each other. However, after lamenting it extensively, she had the consolation that Mr. Woodland would soon be back downstairs and soon dine in Longbourn, and the conclusion of everything was the convenient explanation that he had only been invited to a family dinner, she would make sure to have two full courses.
Chapter 93
It was indeed a triumphant day for Mr. Schmidt and Maria. Such a victory over Edmund's discretion had exceeded their hopes and was most delightful. Nothing bothered them anymore in their sweet project, and they quietly congratulated each other on the jealous weakness to which they attributed the change, with all the joy of feelings satisfied in every way. Edmund still wanted to look serious and say that he did not like the scheme in general and he had to disapprove of the piece in particular; Their point was reached: He was to act, and he was driven to do so only by the power of selfish inclinations. Edmund had descended from this moral elevation that he had previously maintained, and they were both all the better than the happier about the descent.
However, they behaved very well towards him on this occasion, did not betray any cheers beyond the lines around the corners of their mouths and seemed to consider it as great an escape possibility to be spared the penetration of Charles Maddox, as if they had been forced to take him in against their inclination. "They had particularly wished to have it in their own family circle. A stranger among them would have been the destruction of all their comfort"; and when Edmund, who pursued this idea, gave an indication of his hope regarding the limitation of the audience, they were ready to promise everything in the favor of the moment. It was all good mood and encouragement. Mrs. Norris offered to invent his dress, Mr. Yates assured him that Anhalt's final scene with the Baron allowed for a lot of action and emphasis, and Mr.
"Maybe," Tom said, "Esther is now more willing to obey us. Maybe you can persuade them."
"No, she's pretty determined. It will certainly not act."
"Oh! very good." And not another word was spoken; but Esther felt in danger again, and her indifference to danger began to leave her.
There was no less smile in the rectory than in the park about this change in Edmund; Miss Dorset looked very pretty in hers and went into the whole affair with such an instantly renewed cheerfulness that she could only have one effect on him. "He was certainly right to respect such feelings; he was glad he had chosen to do so." And the morning passed in very sweet, if not very healthy, satisfaction. There was an advantage for Esther: at Miss Dorset's serious request, Mrs. Grant had agreed with her usual good mood to take on the role for which Esther had been sought; and this was all she could think of during the day to please her heart; and even this, when Edmund announced it, brought with it a pain, for it was Miss Dorset to whom she was committed – it was Miss Dorset whose kind efforts were to arouse her gratitude, and about whose merit they were spoken with a glimmer of admiration. She was safe; but peace and security were disjointed here. Her spirit had never been further from peace. She could not feel that she herself had done wrong, but she was worried in every other way. Her heart and judgment were equally opposed to Edmund's decision: she could not absolve his insecurity, and his happiness over it made her unhappy. She was full of jealousy and excitement. Miss Dorset came to herself with cheerful looks that seemed like an insult, with friendly expressions to which she could hardly answer calmly. Everyone around them was cheerful and busy, wealthy and important; everyone had their interest, their role, their clothes, their favorite scene, their friends and allies: all found employment in consultations and comparisons, or distraction in the playful ideas they proposed. She alone was sad and insignificant: she had no part in anything; she could leave or stay; she could be in the middle of her noise or retreat from it into the solitude of the east room without being seen or missed. She could almost think that everything would have been preferable to her. Mrs. Grant was significant: her good-naturedness had honorable mention; their taste and time were taken into account; their presence was desired; she was sought, visited and praised; and Esther was at first in some danger of envying her for the character she had assumed. But reflection brought better feelings and showed her that Mrs. Grant was entitled to respect that could never have belonged to her; and that if she had received even the greatest, it would never have been easy for her to join a program that,
Esther's heart, was absolutely not the only sad among them, as she soon began to admit to herself. Julia also suffered, although not quite as blamelessly.
Henry Dorset had played with their feelings; but she had allowed and even sought his attention for a very long time, with a jealousy of her sister that was as reasonable as her healing should have been; and now that the conviction of his fondness for Mary had been imposed on her, she submitted to her without any concern about Mary's situation or any effort for reasonable rest for herself. She either sat in a gloomy silence, enveloped in such seriousness that nothing could suppress, touched no curiosity, no joke amused; or to allow the attention of Yates-san meant just talking to him with forced cheerfulness and making fun of the actions of others.
For a day or two after the insult had been given, Henry Dorset had tried to eliminate it through the usual attack of gallantry and compliments, but he had not cared enough to hold out against a few rejections; and soon too busy with his playing to have time for more than one flirtation, he became indifferent to the argument, or he considered it a happy incident rather than tacitly putting an end to what had long been expectations in more than Mrs. Grant. She didn't like to see Julia left the play excluded and sitting unnoticed; but since it wasn't really about her happiness, since Henry himself had to be the best judge, and since he assured her with an extremely convincing smile that neither he nor Julia had ever seriously thought of each other On the other hand, she could only renew her former caution towards the older sister,
"I rather wonder if Julia is not in love with Henry", was her remark to Mary.
"I dare say she is," Mary replied coldly. "I suppose both sisters are."
"Both! no, no, that must not be the case. Don't give him any hint. Think of Mr. Rushmore!"
"You'd better tell Miss Schmidt to think of Mr. Rushmore. It could do her good. I often think of Mr. Rushmore's ownership and independence and wish it into other hands; but I never think about him. A man could represent the county with such a property; a man could escape a profession and represent the county."
"I dare say that he will soon be in parliament. When Sir Thomas comes, dare I say that he will be in some community, but no one has stopped him from doing anything."
"Sir Thomas will achieve many great things when he comes home," Mary said after a break. Remember Hawkins Browne's 'Address to Tobacco' inspired by Pope?—
Blessed Leaf! their aromatic storms renounce
To Templar's modesty, to Parson's sense.
I will parody them—
Blessed Knight! Their dictatorial gazes are devoid
of the prosperity of the children, the Rushmore feeling.
Isn't that enough, Mrs. Grant? Everything seems to depend on Sir Thomas' return."
"You will find his consistency very just and reasonable if you see him in his family, I assure you. I don't think we'll do so well without him. He has a fine, dignified manner that corresponds to the boss of such a house, and keeps everyone in their place. Lady Schmidt now looks more like a cipher than at home; and no one else can keep Mrs. Norris in order. But, Mary, don't imagine that Maria Schmidt cares about Henry. I'm sure Julia doesn't, otherwise she wouldn't have flirted like she did last night with Yates-san; and although he and Maria are very good friends, I think she likes Sotherton too much to be volatile."
"I wouldn't give much for Mr. Rushmore's chance if Henry stepped in before the articles were signed."
"If you have such a suspicion, something needs to be done; and as soon as the piece is over, we will talk to him seriously and give him his own opinion; and if he means nothing, we send him away for a while, even though he's Henry."
However, Julia suffered, even though Mrs. Grant did not notice it and although many of her own family had also missed it. She had loved, she still loved, and she had all the suffering that a warm temperament and a good spirit would likely endure under the disappointment of an expensive, if irrational, hope with a strong sense of abuse. Her heart was sore and angry, and she was only capable of angry comfort. The sister with whom she had once felt comfortable now became her greatest enemy: they were estranged from each other; and Julia was not superior to the hope of an embarrassing end to the attentions that were still going on there, of a punishment of Mary for her so ?? shameful behavior toward both himself and Mr. Rushmore. Without significant temperamental errors or disagreements, to prevent them from becoming very good friends, even though their interests are the same, the sisters in such a trial did not have enough affection or principles to make them merciful or just, to show them honor or compassion. Mary felt her triumph and pursued her goal, without regard for Juliet; and Julia could never see Mary being honored by Henry Dorset without trusting that this would provoke jealousy and eventually cause a public uproar.
Esther saw and regretted much of it in Julia; but there was no external community between them. Julia did not communicate, and Esther did not take any liberties. They were two lonely sufferers or connected only by Esther's consciousness.
The inattention of the two brothers and the aunt to Julia's confusion and their blindness to the true cause must be attributed to the fullness of their own thoughts. They were totally busy. Tom was engrossed in the affairs of his theater and saw nothing that was not directly related to it. Edmund was equally inattentive between his theatrical and real roles, between Miss Dorset's claims and his own behavior, between love and consistency; and Mrs. Norris was too busy inventing and directing the general little affairs of society, supervising her various clothes with frugal means, for which no one thanked her, and with delighted integrity saving half a crown here and there for the absent Lord Thomas to have leisure, observe the behavior or guard the happiness of his daughters.
Chapter 94
Jane Saxon was an orphan, the only child of Mrs. Bates' youngest daughter.
The wedding of Leut. Saxon of the Infantry Regiment and Miss Jane Bates had had their day of glory and pleasure, hope and interest; but now there was nothing left but the melancholic memory of his death abroad – of his widow, who soon afterwards sank into vertigo and grief – and this girl.
From birth she belonged to Highbury: and when at the age of three, when she lost her mother, she became the property, the burden, the comfort, the foundling of her grandmother and aunt, it seemed very likely that she would be permanently fixed there; that she was taught only what very limited means could command, and that she grew up without benefits of connection or improvement to graft on what nature had given her in a pleasant person, a good understanding, and a warm-hearted, well-meaning relationship.
But the compassionate feelings of a friend of her father changed her fate. This was Colonel Campbell, who had greatly appreciated Saxon as an excellent officer and highly deserving young man; and moreover, during a severe camp fever, he had been indebted for such attentions that he believed had saved his life. These were claims that he did not learn to overlook, although a few years passed after the death of poor Saxon, before his own return to England brought anything into his power. When he returned, he went to see the child and noticed it. He was a married man with only one living child, a girl, about Jane's age: and Jane became her guest, paid them long visits, and became popular with everyone; and before she was nine years old, his daughter's great affection for her and his own desire to be a true friend united to present an offer from Colonel Campbell to take full responsibility for her education. It was accepted; and since that time Jane belonged to the family of Colonel Campbell, lived completely with them and visited her grandmother only from time to time.
The plan was that she should be raised to educate others; the few hundred pounds she had inherited from her father made independence impossible. Providing for them elsewhere was beyond the power of Colonel Campbell; for although his income was respectable by salary and appointments, his fortune was modest and had to belong entirely to his daughter; but by giving her an education, he hoped to provide the funds for a respectable livelihood for later.
That was the story of Jane Saxon. She had fallen into good hands, had experienced nothing but kindness from the Campbells and had received an excellent education. Constantly living with sincere and well-informed people, her heart and understanding had received all the benefits of discipline and culture; and since Colonel Campbell was in London, every lighter talent had been given full justice by the presence of first-class masters. Their disposition and abilities were equally worthy of all that friendship could do; and at eighteen or nineteen, as far as such an early age can be qualified for the care of children, she herself was fully qualified for the office of education; but she was too loved to part with her. Neither father nor mother could promote, and the daughter could not bear it. The bad day was postponed. It was easy to decide that she was still too young; and Jane stayed with them and, like another daughter, shared all the reasonable pleasures of an elegant company and a reasonable mix of home and pleasure, with the only downside of the future, the sobering hints of her own good understanding to remind her that this could all be over soon.
The affection of the whole family, especially the warm affection of Miss Campbell, was all the more honorable for each party as Jane was decidedly superior in both beauty and possession. The fact that nature had given her face could not remain hidden from the young woman, and her higher mental powers could not be callous to her parents. However, they worked together with undiminished devotion, until the wedding of Miss Campbell, which by this coincidence, that happiness that so often defies anticipation in marriage matters and attracts the moderate rather than the higher, the affection of Mr. Dixon, a young man, rich and pleasant, almost as soon as they had met; and was settled legitimately and happily, while Jane Saxon still had to earn her living.
This event had only recently taken place; too late to be tempted by her less fortunate friend to enter her obligatory path; although she had now reached the age that had set her own judgment for the beginning. She had long planned that one and twenty should be the period. With the power of a devoted novice, at twenty-one she had decided to complete the sacrifice and turn forever to all the joys of life, reasonable intercourse, equal society, peace and hope, repentance and killing.
The common sense of Colonel and Mrs. Campbell could not oppose such a decision, but their feelings could. As long as they lived, it would take no effort, their home could belong to them forever; and for their own convenience they would have kept them entirely; but that would be selfishness: – what must finally be, should be better soon. Perhaps they began to believe that it would have been friendlier and wiser to resist the temptation of delay and spare her the foretaste of such pleasures of convenience and leisure that she now had to give up. Still, the affection was happy to find every reasonable excuse for not rushing to the miserable moment. Since her daughter's marriage, she had never really been well again; and until she should have fully regained her usual strength, they must forbid her from fulfilling duties which,
with regard to the fact that she did not accompany her to Ireland, her report to her aunt contained nothing but truth, although there may be some truths that were not told. It was their own decision to leave Highbury the time of their absence; perhaps to spend her last months of complete freedom with those friendly relatives whom she so ?? and the Campbells, whatever their motivation or motivation, whether single, double or triple, gave their willing consent to the arrangement, saying that they needed more of a few months in their home air to restore their health than anything else. What was certain was that she would come; and that Highbury, instead of welcoming the perfect novelty that had been promised to him for so long – Mr. Frank Curcelle – must first come to terms with Jane Saxon, who was only sorry for the freshness of a two-year-old
Emma – having to show politeness to a person she didn't like for three long months! – Always doing more than she wanted, and less than she should! Why she didn't like Jane Saxon might be a hard question to answer; Mr. Hill had once told her that it was because she saw in her the truly accomplished young woman she herself wanted to be mistaken for; and although the accusation had been eagerly refuted at the time, there were moments of self-examination when her conscience could not completely acquit her. But "she could never get to know her: she didn't know what it was like, but there was so much coldness and restraint – so obvious indifference, whether she liked it or not – and then her aunt was such an eternal gossiper! – and she was it made so much of a fuss about every body! – and it had always been imagined that they would be so intimate – because they were the same age, everyone had assumed that they liked each other so much." Those were her reasons – she didn't have any better ones.
It was such an unfairly aversion - every attributed mistake was magnified by imagination to such an extent that for the first time after a considerable absence, she never saw Jane Saxon without feeling that she had hurt her; and now, when she was given the visit she deserved after a two-year hiatus, she was particularly impressed by the appearance and manners she had belittled throughout those two years. Jane Saxon was very elegant, remarkably elegant; and she herself had the highest value for elegance. Their size was pretty, just as almost anyone would think big, and no one could think very tall; her figure particularly graceful; their size was an extremely decent remedy between thick and thin, although a slight semblance of illness seemed to indicate the most likely evil of the two. Emma couldn't help but feel it; and then, her face – her facial features – there was more beauty in it than she remembered; it was not regular, but it was very pleasant beauty. Her eyes, a deep gray, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows, had never been denied her praise; but the skin she used to nag about as a lack of color had a purity and tenderness that really didn't need a fuller flower. It was a style of beauty whose predominant character was elegance, and as such she had to admire it in honor according to all her principles: elegance in which she, be it the person or the spirit, saw so little Highbury. It was, not to be vulgar, distinction and merit. but the skin she used to nag about as a lack of color had a purity and tenderness that really didn't need a fuller flower. It was a style of beauty whose predominant character was elegance, and as such she had to admire it in honor according to all her principles: elegance in which she, be it the person or the spirit, saw so little Highbury. It was, not to be vulgar, distinction and merit. but the skin she used to nag about as a lack of color had a purity and tenderness that really didn't need a fuller flower. It was a style of beauty whose predominant character was elegance, and as such she had to admire it in honor according to all her principles: elegance in which she, be it the person or the spirit, saw so little Highbury. It was, not to be vulgar, distinction and merit.
In short, she sat there during the first visit and looked at Jane Saxon with double complacency; the feeling of pleasure and the feeling of doing justice and was determined to no longer like them. When she absorbed her story, even her situation, as well as her beauty; When she pondered what all this elegance was meant for, what she would sink into, how she would live, it seemed impossible to feel anything other than compassion and respect; especially when, in addition to every well-known peculiarity that justified her interest, there was the most likely circumstance of affection for Mr. Dixon, which she had so naturally begun for herself. In this case, nothing could be more pathetic or honorable than the sacrifices she had chosen to make. Emma was now very willing to acquit her for seducing Mr. Dixon. s actions of his wife, or of anything mischievous that had first hinted at her imagination. If it were love, it could be a simple, single, unsuccessful love alone on their side. She may have unconsciously sucked in the sad poison while sharing his conversation with her friend; and for the best, purest motives, she could now refuse this visit to Ireland and decide to effectively part with him and his connections by soon starting her career of arduous duty.
By and large, Emma left her with such mild, charitable feelings that she looked around on the way home and lamented that Highbury did not have a young man worth giving her independence; no one she wanted to intrigue for her.
These were enchanting feelings – but not permanently. Before she committed herself to Jane Saxon through any public commitment to eternal friendship, or had done more to eliminate past prejudices and errors than to say to Mr. Hill, "She's really handsome; she is more than handsome!" Jane had spent an evening in Hartfield with her grandmother and aunt, and everything fell back to its usual state. Earlier provocations resurfaced. The aunt was as annoying as ever; more tiring, because now the admiration of their powers was joined by the concern for their health; and they had to listen carefully to the description of how little bread and butter she ate for breakfast and how little mutton for dinner, as well as see exhibits of new caps and new work bags for their mother and herself; and Jane's offenses rose again. They had music; Emma had to play; and the gratitude and praise that necessarily followed appeared to her as a semblance of openness, as a touch of greatness that only meant flaunting her own very superior performance in a higher style. Besides, what was the worst thing, she was so cold, so careful! Her true opinion could not be shaken. Wrapped in a cloak of politeness, she seemed determined not to risk anything. She was disgusting, suspiciously reserved.
If anything else could be where everything mattered most, she was more reserved about Weymouth and the Dixon's than anything else. She seemed intent on not giving any real insight into Mr. Dixon's character or her own value to his company or her opinion about the suitability of the game. It was all general approval and smoothness; nothing demarcated or excellent. However, it did her no service. Their caution was thrown overboard. Emma recognized his cunning and returned to her first guesses. There was probably more to hide than their own preference; Mr. Dixon may have been on the verge of exchanging one friend for the other, or he might have been fixated on Miss Campbell only because of the future twelve thousand pounds.
There was similar reluctance on other issues. She and Mr. Frank Curcelle had been in Weymouth at the same time. It was known that they knew each other a little; but no syllable of real information could get Emma about what he really was. "Was he handsome?" – "She thought he was a very fine young man." "Was he pleasant?" – "That was generally accepted." "Does he appear a reasonable young man; a young man with information?" – "In a pub or with an ordinary London acquaintance, it was difficult to make a decision on such points. Manners were all that could be safely judged if you knew Mr. Curcelle much longer than they had before. She thought everyone liked their manners." Emma could not forgive her.
Chapter 95
The morning brought a very sober-looking morning, the sun made little effort to appear, and Catherine prophesied from it everything that pleased her best. A bright morning so early in the year, she admitted, would generally turn into rain, but a cloudy morning predicted improvement throughout the day. She asked Mr. All to confirm their hopes, but Mr. All those who did not have their own sky and barometer with them refused to give an absolute promise of sunshine. She applied to Mrs. Allen, and Mrs. Allen's opinion was more positive. "She had no doubt that it would be a very beautiful day if only the clouds would dissolve and the sun would stay out."
Around eleven o'clock, however, a few small raindrops on the windows aroused Catherine's watchful eye, and "Oh! Dear, I think it will be wet," she interrupted in a highly desperate tone.
"I thought it was going to be like," Mrs. Allen said.
"No walk for me today," sighed Catherine; "but maybe it will become nothing, or it will last until twelve."
"Maybe, but then, my dear, it will be so dirty."
"Oh! That means nothing; I don't mind dirt."
"No," her friend replied very calmly, "I know you don't mind dirt."
After a short pause "It's always faster!" said Catherine as she stood at a window and watched.
"It does indeed. If it continues to rain, the roads get very wet."
"Four umbrellas have already been set up. How I hate the sight of an umbrella!"
"There are unpleasant things to wear. I prefer to take a chair at any time."
"It was such a beautiful morning! I was so convinced it would be dry!"
"Indeed, everyone would have thought that. There will be very few people in the drinking hall if it rains all morning. I hope Mr. Everyone will put on his coat when he leaves, but I dare to say that he will not do that, for he would rather do everything in the world than go out in a coat; I wonder if he shouldn't like it, it has to be so comfortable."
It continued to rain – quickly, if not strongly. Catherine went to the clock every five minutes and threatened every time she returned that she would give it up as hopeless if it rained for another five minutes. The clock struck twelve, and it was still raining. "You won't be able to leave, my dear."
"I'm not completely desperate yet. I'm not going to give it up before quarter past twelve. This is exactly the time of day when it clears up, and I think it looks a little brighter. There it is twenty minutes after twelve, and now I will give it up completely. Oh! That we had such a weather here as in Udolpho or at least in Tuscany and the south of France! – the night poor St. Aubin died! – such beautiful weather!"
At half past one, when Catherine's anxious attention to the weather was over and she could no longer claim any credit from his change, heaven began to clear up voluntarily. A ray of sunshine completely surprised her; she looked around; the clouds divided, and she immediately returned to the window to observe and encourage the cheerful appearance. Ten more minutes made sure that a bright afternoon would succeed, and justified the opinion of Mrs. To all those who "always thought it would clear up". But whether Katharina was still allowed to count on her friends, whether there had not been too much rain for Miss Alsina to have dared, that must still be a question.
It was for Mrs. Too dirty for everyone to accompany her husband to the drinking hall; Accordingly, he set off on his own, and Catherine had barely watched him down the road when her attention was caught by the approach of the same two open carriages with the same three people who had surprised her so much a few mornings ago.
"Bella, my brother, and Mr. Dorfman, I explain! You may come because of me – but I won't leave – I actually can't leave because you know Miss Alsina can still call." Mrs. Everyone agreed. John Dorfman was soon with them, and his voice was with them even earlier, because on the stairs he called out to Miss Fenmore to hurry. "Hurry up! Hurry up!" as he tore open the door. "Put on your hat right away – there's no time to lose – we're going to Bristol. How are you, Mrs. Allen?"
"To Bristol! Isn't that a great way? But I can't go with you today because I'm engaged; I'm expecting a few friends every moment." Of course, this was vehemently talked down as no reason at all; Mrs. Everyone was asked to support him, and the other two came in to provide their help. "My sweetest Catherine, isn't that delightful? We will have a heavenly ride. You must thank your brother and me for the plan; it shot into our minds at breakfast, I truly believe at the same moment; and we would have left two hours ago if it hadn't been for this heinous rain. But it doesn't mean the nights are moonlight, and we will act delightfully. Oh! I am so ecstatic at the thought of a little country air and peace! So much better than going to the Lower Rooms. We drive straight to Clifton and eat there; and when dinner is over, head to Kingsweston when there's time for that."
"I doubt we can do that much," Fenmore said.
"You croaking guy!" shouted Dorfmann. "We will achieve ten times as much. Kingsweston! Yes, and also Blaize Castle and everything else we can hear about; but here your sister says she won't leave."
"Blaize Castle!" shouted Catherine. "What is it?"
"The most beautiful place in England – it's always worth driving fifty miles to see it."
"What, is it really a castle, an old castle?"
"The oldest in the kingdom."
"But is it the way you read?"
"Exactly – exactly the same."
"But now really - are there towers and long galleries?"
"By dozens."
"Then I would like to see it; but I can't – I can't leave."
"Don't go! My beloved creature, what do you mean by that?"
"I can't leave because" – she looked down as she spoke, for fear of Bella's smile – "I expect Miss Alsina and her brother to ask me to go for a walk in the countryside. They promised to come at twelve, but it was raining; but now that it's so beautiful, dare I say they'll be here soon."
"Not them really," shouted Dorfman; "Because when we turned into Broad Street, I saw them – isn't he driving a phaeton with bright chestnuts?"
"I really don't know."
"Yes, I know he does; I saw him. You're talking about the man you danced with last night, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Well, I saw him at that moment driving up Lansdown Road and driving a fancy looking girl."
"Did you actually have?"
"Has damaged my soul; knew him right away, and he also seemed to have very pretty cattle."
"It's very strange! But I suppose they thought it was too dirty for a walk."
"And well, they could, because I've never seen so much dirt in my life. Walk! You couldn't walk any more than you could fly! It wasn't that dirty all winter; it's ankle-deep everywhere."
Bella confirmed: "My dearest Catherine, you can't imagine the dirt; come, you must go; you can't refuse to leave now."
"I want to see the castle; but are we allowed to go through everything? Are we allowed to go up every flight of stairs and into every suite of rooms?"
"Yes, yes, every hole and every corner."
"But if they only go out for an hour until it's drier, and call little by little?"
"Calm down, there is no danger because I heard Alsina riding towards a man who was just passing by on horseback that they wanted to go all the way to Wick Rocks."
"Then I will. Shall I go, Mrs. Allen?"
"As you please, my dear."
"Woman. Everyone, you have to persuade them to leave," was the general cry. Mrs. Allen was not inattentive: "Well, my dear," she said, "suppose you leave." And in two minutes they were gone.
Catherine's feelings were in a very restless state when she got into the car; divided between the regret of losing a great pleasure and the hope of soon being able to enjoy another one, which is almost the same in scale, but different in kind. She couldn't think of the Alsinas. had done quite well on her by giving up her engagement so willingly without sending her an apology. It was now only an hour later than the time set for the start of their walk; and despite what she had heard about the tremendous accumulation of dirt over the course of that hour, from her own observation she could not help but think that they might have left with very little inconvenience. Feeling offended by them was very painful. On the other hand, the joy of exploring a building like Udolpho, as she depicted Blaize Castle in her imagination,
you quickly walked down Pulteney Street and through Laura Place without exchanging many words. Dorfman talked to his horse, and she took turns meditating on broken promises and broken bows, phaetons, and false hangings that of Alsina. and trapdoors. However, when they entered the Argyle buildings, she was awakened by this speech of her companion: "Who is the girl who stared at you as she walked by?"
"WHO? Where from?"
"On the right sidewalk – it must now be almost out of sight." Catherine looked around and saw Miss Alsina leaning on her brother's arm and slowly walking down the street. She saw how they both looked back at her. "Stop, stop, Mr. Dorfman," she shouted impatiently; "it is Miss Alsina; It is indeed. How could you tell me they were gone? Stop, stop, I'll get out and go to them immediately." But to which ?? Purpose did she speak? Dorfman only whipped his horse into a brisk trot; the Alsinas, who had soon stopped caring for her, were out of sight around the corner of Laura Place the next moment, and the next moment she herself was thrown into the marketplace. Nevertheless, and during the length of another street, she begged him to stop. "Pray, pray, stop, Mr. Dorfman. I can't go on. I will not continue. I have to go back to Miss Alsina." But Mr. Dorfman just laughed, hit the whip, encouraged his horse, made strange noises, and drove on; and Catherine, angry and upset as she was, since she had no strength to get away, had to give up the point and submit. However, she was not spared her accusations. "How could you deceive me like that, Mr. Dorfman? How could you say you saw them driving up Lansdown Road? I wouldn't have let it happen around the world. You must find it so strange, so rude of me! To pass them by without saying a word! You don't know how upset I am; I won't like Clifton or anything else. I should rather, rather ten thousand times, get out now and go back to them. How can you say you saw them pull out in a Phaeton?" Dorfman defended himself very vigorously, stating that he had never seen two men so similar in his life.
Their drive, even when this topic was over, was probably not very pleasant. Catherine's complacency was no longer what she had been on her previous show. She listened reluctantly, and her answers were short. Blaize Castle remained her only consolation; she still liked to look in between; although she would not have been disappointed by the promised walk and, above all, would not have been treated badly by the Alsinas, she would have willingly given up all the happiness that its walls could offer – the happiness of progress through a long series of tall rooms exhibiting the remains of magnificent furniture, although they have now been abandoned for many years - the happiness, to be stopped by a low, barred door on their way through narrow, winding vaults; or even that their lamp, their only lamp, is extinguished by a sudden gust of wind, and to be left in complete darkness. In the meantime, they continued their journey without any misfortune and were within sight of the town of Keynsham when a hello from Fenmore, who was behind them, caused his friend to stop to know what was going on. Then the others came close enough to talk, and Fenmore said, "We'd better go back, Dorfman; today it is too late to continue; Her sister thinks as well as I do. We came from Pulteney Street for exactly an hour, barely more than seven miles; and I suspect we still have at least eight ahead of us. It will never work. We left much too late. We'd much better postpone it to another day and turn it around." when a hello from Fenmore, who was behind them, made his friend stop to know what was going on. Then the others came close enough to talk, and Fenmore said, "We'd better go back, Dorfman; today it is too late to continue; Her sister thinks as well as I do. We came from Pulteney Street for exactly an hour, barely more than seven miles; and I suspect we still have at least eight ahead of us. It will never work. We left much too late. We'd much better postpone it to another day and turn it around." when a hello from Fenmore, who was behind them, made his friend stop to know what was going on. Then the others came close enough to talk, and Fenmore said, "We'd better go back, Dorfman; today it is too late to continue; Her sister thinks as well as I do. We came from Pulteney Street for exactly an hour, barely more than seven miles; and I suspect we still have at least eight ahead of us. It will never work. We left much too late. We'd much better postpone it to another day and turn it around." very little more than seven miles; and I suspect we still have at least eight ahead of us. It will never work. We left much too late. We'd much better postpone it to another day and turn it around." very little more than seven miles; and I suspect we still have at least eight ahead of us. It will never work. We left much too late. We'd much better postpone it to another day and turn it around."
"For me, it's all one," Dorfman replied quite angrily; and immediately he turned his horse and they were on their way back to Bath.
"If your brother hadn't gotten such a display animal to drive," he said soon after, "we might have done very well. My horse would have trotted to Clifton within an hour if it had been left to its own devices, and I almost broke my arm when I pulled it into the pace of this cursed, windy jade. Fenmore is a fool because he doesn't have his own horse and no gig."
"No, he isn't," Catherine said warmly, "because I'm sure he couldn't afford it."
"And why can't he afford it?"
"Because he doesn't have enough money."
"And whose fault is that?"
"Nobody, as far as I know." Dorfman then said something in the noisy, incoherent way he had often resorted to, that it was ad-thing to be stingy; and if people who brought in money couldn't afford things, he didn't know who could do it, which Catherine didn't even try to understand. Disappointed by what should have been the consolation for her first disappointment, she was less and less inclined to either be pleasant herself or to find her companion that way; and they returned to Pulteney Street without speaking twenty words.
When she entered the house, the servant told her that a gentleman and a lady had called a few minutes after her departure and asked about her; when he told them that she had gone out with Mr. Dorfman, the lady asked if a message had been left for her; and when he said no, she had been looking for a card, but said she had none with her, and left. Catherine pondered this heartbreaking news and slowly went upstairs. At her head she met Mr. To all those who, when he heard the reason for their imminent return, said: "I am glad that your brother had so much understanding; I am glad that you have come back. It was a strange, wild plan."
They all spent the evening together at Dorfman. Catherine was distraught and beside herself; but Bella seemed to find a business whose fate she shared through private partnership with Fenmore, a very good equivalent for the quiet and rural atmosphere of an inn in Clifton. Their satisfaction at not being in the Lower Rooms has also been expressed more than once. "How I pity the poor creatures who go there! How glad I am not to be among them! I wonder if it will be a full ball or not! They haven't started dancing yet. I wouldn't be there for the whole world. It's so wonderful to have an evening to yourself every now and then. I dare say it won't be a very good ball. I know the Mitchells won't be there. I'm sure I pity everyone who is. But I dare say, Fenmore-san, you long to be there, don't you? I'm sure you do. Well, please don't let anyone here limit you. I dare say that we could do very well without you; but you men consider yourselves to be such consequences."
Catherine could almost have accused Bella of lacking tenderness for herself and her worries, so little did they seem to be in her head, and so inappropriate was the comfort she offered. "Don't be so boring, my favorite creature," she whispered. "You will break my heart. It was amazingly shocking to be sure; but the Alsinas. were entirely to blame. Why weren't they more punctual? It was indeed dirty, but what did that mean? I'm sure John and I shouldn't have objected. I don't mind going through anything when it comes to a friend; that's my predisposition, and John is the same; He has incredibly strong feelings. Good heavens! What an adorable hand you have! Kings, I swear! I have never been so happy in my life! I'd love you to have them fifty times over myself."
And now I can release my heroine on the sleepless couch, which is the part of the true heroine; to a pillow strewn with thorns and wet with tears. And she can count herself lucky if she gets a good night's sleep over the next three months.
Chapter 96
Captain Cambridge had come to Kellynch as if in a home to stay as long as he wanted, as he was as thoroughly the subject of the admiral's fraternal kindness as his wife's. On his first arrival, he had intended to travel to Shropshire very soon and visit the brother living in that country, but the attraction of Uppercross caused him to postpone this. There was so much kindness and flattery and everything charming in his reception there; the old were so hospitable, the young so pleasant that he couldn't decide to stay where he was and take all the charm and perfection of Edward's wife on credit for a little longer.
Soon it was uppercross with him almost every day. The Cumberlands could hardly be more willing to invite than he was, especially in the morning when he didn't have a companion at home, because the Admiral and Mrs. Field were usually outdoors together, interested in their new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling around in a way that is unbearable for a third person, or driving out in a gig, which has recently been added to their facility.
Until now, there had been only one opinion about Captain Cambridge among the Cumberlands and their dependencies. There was unchanging, warm admiration everywhere; but this familiar stand was nothing more than established when a certain Charles Hayter returned under her to be quite disturbed and to think very much in the way of Captain Cambridge.
Charles Hayter was the oldest of all cousins?? and a very gracious, likeable young man between whom and Grace had a considerable semblance of connection before the introduction of Captain Cambridge. He was fine; He had a pastor in the neighborhood where no residence was required and lived in his father's house, just two miles from Uppercross. A brief absence from home had left his beauty unguarded by his attentions during this critical time, and when he returned, he had the pain of finding very altered manners and seeing Captain Cambridge.
Mrs. Cumberland and Mrs. Hayter were sisters. They had both had money, but their marriages had made a significant difference in their significance. Mr. Hayter had something of his own, but it was insignificant compared to Mr. Cumberlands; and while the Cumberlands belonged to the first class of the country's society, the young Hayters would hardly have been in any class because of the inferior, withdrawn and unpolished way of life of their parents and their own lack of education, but for their association with Uppercross, except, of course, this eldest son, who had chosen to become a scholar and a gentleman, and who was very superior to all others in sophistication and manners.
The two families had always gotten along very well, there was no pride on one side and no envy on the other, and only such a sense of superiority in Miss Cumberlands that they enjoyed having their cousins ???? to improve. Charles' attentions to Grace had been observed by her father and mother without any disapproval. "It wouldn't suit her well, but if Grace liked him," – and Grace seemed to really like him.
Grace thought it wholeheartedly before Captain Cambridge arrived; but from that time on, Cousin Charles had been greatly forgotten.
Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Cambridge was still quite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation was enough. Grace was perhaps the prettiest one, Lois had the higher spirits; and she didn't know now whether the gentler or the livelier character would attract him best.
Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland, either because they saw little, or because they fully trusted the discretion of their two daughters and all the young men who came close to them, seemed to leave everything to try his luck. In the mansion there was not the slightest semblance of concern or remark about them; but in the cottage it was different: the young couple there tended to speculate and wonder; and Captain Cambridge had been in Miss Cumberlands' company no more than four or five times, and Charles Hayter had just reappeared when Anne had to listen to her siblings' opinions on who loved it most. Charles was there for Lois, Mary for Grace, but agreed that it could be extremely delightful to get him married.
Charles had never seen a more pleasant man in his life, and from what he had once heard Captain Cambridge say himself, he was very sure that he had earned no less than twenty thousand pounds by the time of the war. Here was immediately a fortune; moreover, there would be the possibility of what could be done in a future war, and he was sure that Captain Cambridge would be just as likely to be a man who would excel as any other officer in the Navy. Oh, it would be a good match for one of his sisters."
"At my word it would," Mary replied. If he were to ascend to any very great honors! If he were ever to be appointed Baronet! 'Lady Cambridge' sounds very good. That would indeed be a noble thing for Grace! She would then take my place, and Grace would not dislike that. Sir Frederick and Lady Cambridge! However, it would only be a new creation, and I never think much of your new creations."
It suited Mary best to think that Grace was the one who was preferred to Charles Hayter because of Charles Hayter, whose presumptions she wanted to see put an end to. She looked down on the Hayters very decisively and thought it would be quite unfortunate if the existing connection between the families were renewed – very sad for her and her children.
"You know," she said, "I can't think of him as a suitable opponent for Grace at all, and given the alliances the Cumberlands have made, she has no right to throw herself away. I do not believe that a young woman has a right to make a choice that may be uncomfortable and uncomfortable for the main part of her family, and to create bad connections with those who are not used to it. And please, who is Charles Hayter? Nothing but a country priest inappropriate game for Miss Cumberland of Uppercross."
However, her husband would not agree with her here; because apart from appreciating his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw things himself like an eldest son.
"Now you're talking nonsense, Mary," was his answer. "It wouldn't be a good game for Grace, but Charles has a very good chance through the Spicers to get something from the bishop over the course of a year or two; and you will please remember that he is the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he enters very pretty property. The Property in Winthrop is no less than two hundred and fifty acres, apart from the farm near Taunton, which is one of the best estates in the country. I admit that to each of them except Charles would be a very shocking match for Grace, and it really couldn't be; he is the only one that would be possible; but he's a very good-natured, good guy; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he will make a different kind of place out of it and live in a very different way; and with this property he will never be a despicable man – good property. No, no; Grace could do worse than marry Charles Hayter; and if she has him and Lois can get Captain Cambridge, I will be very satisfied."
"Charles may say what he wants," Mary called out to Anne as soon as he was out of the room, "but it would be shocking to have Grace Marry Charles Hayter; a very bad thing for them and even worse for me; and that's why it's very much to be hoped that Captain Cambridge will soon drive him completely out of their heads, and I have very little doubt that he has. She paid little attention to Charles Hayter yesterday. I wish you had been there to see your behavior. And as for Captain Cambridge, who likes both Lois and Grace, it's nonsense to say that; because he certainly likes Grace by far the most. But Charles is so positive! I wish you had been with us yesterday, because then you could have chosen between us, and I'm sure you would have thought like me if you hadn't been determined to give it against me.
A dinner with Mr. Cumberland had been the occasion where Anne should have seen all these things; but she had stayed at home, under the mixed pretext of her own headache and a renewed malaise of little Charles. She had only thought of avoiding Captain Cambridge; but in addition to the advantages of a quiet evening, there was now the escape from the call as a referee.
As for Captain Cambridge's views, she thought it was more important that he know his own thoughts early enough so as not to jeopardize the happiness of one of the two sisters or to denounce his own honor than to prefer Grace to Lois or Lois Grace. Both would in all likelihood make him a loving, cheerful wife. With regard to Charles Hayter, she had sensitivity, which had to be pained by any reckless behavior of a well-meaning young woman, and a heart to empathize with each of the sufferings it caused; but if Grace was wrong in the nature of her feelings, the change could not be understood too soon.
Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his cousin's behavior. She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly estranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and leave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross: but there was such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain Cambridge was to be regarded as the probable cause. He had been absent only two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead. It had then seemed the object nearest her heart, that Dr Shirley, the rector, who for more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties of his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should be quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as good as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the promise of it. The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross, instead of going six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better curacy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr Shirley's being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get through without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to Lois, but had been almost everything to Grace. When he came back, alas! the zeal of the business was gone by. Lois could not listen at all to his account of a conversation which he had just held with Dr Shirley: she was at a window, looking out for Captain Cambridge; and even Grace had at best only a divided attention to give, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the negotiation.
"Well, I'm really very happy: but I always thought you would have it; I always thought you would be safe. It didn't seem to me that – in short, Dr. Shirley must have a vicar, and you had promised his worried. Is he coming, Lois?"
One morning, very soon after dinner at Cumberlands, where Anne was not present, Captain Cambridge entered the cottage's salon, where only she and little sick Charles were lying on the sofa.
The surprise of being almost alone with Anne Hightower took away his usual composure from his manners: he winced and could only say, "I thought Miss Cumberlands had been here: Mrs Cumberland told me to find her here", before he went to the window to reflect and feel how he should behave.
"You're upstairs with my sister: you'll be down in a few moments, dare I say," Anne's response had been in all the confusion that was natural; and if the child hadn't called her to come and do something for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment, releasing Captain Cambridge and herself.
He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, "I hope the little boy is better," he remained silent.
She had to kneel down next to the sofa and stay there to satisfy her patient; and so they walked on for a few minutes when, to their great satisfaction, she heard another person crossing the small vestibule. She hoped, as she turned her head, to see the master of the house; but it turned out to be one that was much less focused on making things simple – Charles Hayter, who probably wasn't at all happy about the sight of Captain Cambridge when Captain Cambridge had been at the sight of Anne.
She was just trying to say, "How are you? Don't want to sit down? The others will be right here."
However, Captain Cambridge came from his window, apparently not averse to a conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to his attempts by sitting next to the table and picking up the newspaper; and Captain Cambridge returned to his window.
Another minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a strikingly stocky, forward-looking child of two who had been opened the door by someone outside, appeared resolutely among them and went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and sat down in his claim to all the good that could be given away.
Since there was nothing to eat, he could only play something; and since his aunt didn't let him tease his sick brother, he began to cling to her so much as she knelt that she couldn't shake him off, as busy as she was with Charles. She approached him, ordered, pleaded and insisted in vain. Once she managed to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure of getting right back on her back.
"Walter," she said, "come down immediately. You are extremely annoying. I'm very angry with you."
"Walter," cried Charles Hayter, "why don't you do what you are told? Don't you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin Charles."
But Walter didn't move a bit.
At another moment, however, she was in a state of liberation from him; someone took it away from her, even though he had bent her head down so much that his little strong hands detached from her neck, and he was resolutely carried away before she knew Captain Cambridge had done it.
Her feelings at the discovery left her completely speechless. She couldn't even thank him. She could only overhang little Charles with the most disorderly feelings. His kindness when he confronted her, the way, the silence in which it had passed, the small details of the circumstances, with the conviction that he soon imposed on her by the noise he eagerly made with the child he wanted to avoid hearing her gratitude and rather to testify that her conversation was his last need, created such a confusion of varying but very painful excitement from which she could not recover until she was made possible by the entry of Mary and Miss Cumberlands, take her little patient into her care and leave the room. She couldn't stay. It could have been an opportunity to observe the love and jealousy of the four – they were now together; but she couldn't stay for any of it. It was obvious that Charles Hayter was not very fond of Captain Cambridge. She had a strong impression that he had said in an angry tone after captain Cambridge's interference: "You should have taken care of me, Walter; I told you not to annoy your aunt;" and could understand his regret that Captain Cambridge should do what he should have done himself. But neither charles Hayter's feelings nor anyone's feelings could interest her until she had arranged her own a little better. She was ashamed, very ashamed to be so nervous, so overwhelmed by such a trifle; but so it was,
Chapter 97
Edward stayed in the cottage for a week; he was seriously urged by Mrs Hargrove to stay longer; but as if he was only out for self-mortification, he seemed determined when his pleasure among his friends was at its peak. His mood improved during the last two or three days, although still very unequal, considerably – he was more and more attracted to the house and the surrounding area – never talked about leaving without a sigh – declared his time completely detached – even doubted where to go when he left it – but he had to leave anyway. Never before had a week passed so quickly – he could hardly believe that it was over. He said it repeatedly; also other things he said, which marked the turn of his feelings and his actions belied. He had no pleasure in Norland; he loathed being in the city; but either to Norland or London, he has to go. He valued their kindness above all else, and his greatest happiness was to be with them. Nevertheless, he has to leave her at the end of a week, despite her and his wishes and without any restriction of his time.
Eleanore attributed everything astonishing about this kind of action to his mother; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character she liked so ?? it was imperfectly known that she was the general excuse for everything strange about her son. Disappointed and angry as she was, and sometimes dissatisfied with his insecure behavior against herself, she was by and large very inclined to look at his actions with all the sincere gratifications and generous restrictions that had been wrested from her a little more painfully, for Warwick's service, from her mother. His lack of temperament, openness, and consistency was most often attributed to his lack of independence and better knowledge of Mrs. Gastonois' disposition and plans. The brevity of his visit, the permanence of his resolution to leave her, arose from the same bound inclination, the same inevitable need to stay with his mother for a time. The old, well-founded complaint of duty against will, parents against child, was the cause of everything. She would have liked to know when these difficulties would stop, when this opposition would give in – when Ms. Gastonois would reform and her son would be happy. But by such vain desires, she was forced to turn comfortingly to the renewal of her trust in Edward's affection, to the memory of every look or word of respect he gave during his time at Barton, and above all to this flattering proof of what he constantly wore around his finger. Parents against child, was the cause of everything. She would have liked to know when these difficulties would stop, when this opposition would give in – when Ms. Gastonois would reform and her son would be happy. But by such vain desires, she was forced to turn comfortingly to the renewal of her trust in Edward's affection, to the memory of every look or word of respect he gave during his time at Barton, and above all to this flattering proof of what he constantly wore around his finger. Parents against child, was the cause of everything. She would have liked to know when these difficulties would stop, when this opposition would give in – when Ms. Gastonois would reform and her son would be happy. But by such vain desires, she was forced to turn comfortingly to the renewal of her trust in Edward's affection, to the memory of every look or word of respect he gave during his time at Barton, and above all to this flattering proof of what he constantly wore around his finger.
"I think Edward," Mrs. Hargrove said as they sat at breakfast the last morning, "You would be a happier man if you had a profession to invest your time and take an interest in your plans and actions. Some inconveniences your friends might result from this – you wouldn't be able to devote so much of your time to them, but (with a smile) you would benefit materially from it at least in one point – you would know where to go when you go to you."
even in this less abstruse study of it that my family approved. As for the Navy, she had fashion on her side, but I was too old when the subject started to enter it – and finally, since there was no need at all to have a profession at all, as I could be dashing and expensive without a red skirt on my back like with one, idleness was generally called highly beneficial and honorable, and a young man of eighteen is generally not so serious about being busy that he would resist calls on his part to friends to do nothing. I was therefore enrolled in Oxford and have been really idle ever since." since I didn't need to have a profession at all, since without a red skirt on my back I could be as sassy and expensive as with one, idleness as a whole was declared to be the most advantageous and honorable, and a young man of eighteen is generally not so serious about to be busy resisting his friends' requests to do nothing. I was therefore enrolled in Oxford and have been really idle ever since." since I didn't need to have a profession at all, since without a red skirt on my back I could be as sassy and expensive as with one, idleness as a whole was declared to be the most advantageous and honorable, and a young man of eighteen is generally not so serious about to be busy resisting his friends' requests to do nothing. That's why I was enrolled in Oxford and have been really idle ever since."
"The consequence of this, I suppose," said Mrs. Hargrove, "since leisure has not fostered your own happiness, your sons will be raised to as many occupations, occupations, professions, and trades as Columellas."
"They will be educated," he said with a serious accent, "so that they are as dissimilar to me as possible.
"Come, come, this is all an effusion of immediate lack of whims, Edward. You are in a melancholic mood and imagine that someone other than you must be happy every body sometimes, whatever its education or status may be. Recognize your own happiness. You want nothing but patience – or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will, over time, secure the independence you are anxious; it is their duty and will be, it must soon become their happiness to prevent all their youth from being wasted in dissatisfaction. How much can't a few months do?"
"I think," Edward replied, "that I can brave many months to produce something good for myself."
This discouraged attitude, although unable to be communicated to Mrs. Hargrove, caused them all the extra pain at the farewell that took place shortly thereafter, and left an unpleasant impression, especially on Eleanore's feelings, which took some effort and time to suppress him. But since it was her determination to tame it and prevent it from appearing that she would suffer more than her whole family suffered from his departure, she did not adopt the method marianne so wisely used on a similar occasion to multiply and lift her grief by seeking silence, loneliness and idleness. Their means were as diverse as their goals and equally suitable for promoting them.
Eleanore, as soon as he was out of the house, sat down at her drawing table, occupied himself diligently all day, did not seek and avoid mentioning his name, seemed almost as interested as always in the general concerns of the family, and if she did not reduce her own grief through this behavior, he was at least saved from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much care for her.
Such behavior, so exactly the opposite of her own, did not seem more meritorious to Marianne than her own had seemed flawed to her. She did the business of self-control very easily; - with strong inclinations it was impossible, with quiet it could have no value. That her sister's affection was calm, she did not dare to deny, although she blushed to acknowledge it; and of her own strength she gave a very impressive proof by still loving and respecting this sister despite this humiliating conviction.
Without shutting herself off from her family or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake all night to indulge in meditation, Eleanore found enough leisure every day to think of Edward and Edward's behavior, diversity in every way that the different state of her mood could produce at different times, - with tenderness, pity, approval, reproach and doubt. There were moments galore when, if not because of the absence of their mother and sisters, then at least because of the nature of their occupation, conversation among them was forbidden and any effect of loneliness was created. Their minds were inevitably free; their thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, with such an interesting subject, must lie before her, must force her attention and take up her memory, her reflection,
From such a reverie she was awakened, when she sat at her drawing table, one morning, shortly after Edward had left her, by the arrival of company. She happened to be all alone. Closing the small gate at the entrance of the green courtyard in front of the house drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large group walking towards the door. Among them were Sir John and Lady Mideltown and Mrs. Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and a lady, who were completely unknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John noticed her, he left the rest of the company to the ceremony of knocking on the door, and when he stepped across the lawn, he forced her to open the window sash to talk to him The distance between door and window was so small,
"Well," he said, "We brought you some strangers. How do you like them?"
"Still! they will hear you."
"Never mind if they do. It's just Palmifer's. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you that.
Since Eleanore was sure to see her in a few minutes without taking this freedom, she apologized.
"Where is Marianne? Did she run away because we came? I see their instrument is open."
"She's leaving, I think."
They were now accompanied by Mrs. Jennings, who did not have enough patience to wait for the door to open before telling HER story. She came to the window screaming, "How are you, my dear? How is Mrs. Hargrove doing? And where are your sisters? What! All alone! my other son and my other daughter to see you. Just remember that they come so suddenly! I thought I had heard a carriage last night while we drank our tea, but it never occurred to me that they could be. I thought of nothing else as if it could not be Colonel Bridgerton who comes back; so I said to Sir John, I think I hear a carriage; maybe it's Colonel Bridgerton who comes back" –
Eleanore had to turn away from her in the middle of her narrative in order to receive the rest of society; Lady Mideltown introduced the two strangers; Mrs. Hargrove and Margaret came down the stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at each other, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she walked through the corridor into the salon, accompanied by Sir John.
Mrs. Palmifer was a few years younger than Lady Mideltown and completely dissimilar to her in every way. She was small and rounded, had a very pretty face and the most beautiful expression of good mood. ==References== Her manners were by no means as elegant as her sister's, but they were much more engaging. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she left. Her husband was a serious-looking young man of five or twenty-six years, with a more fashionable and reasonable demeanor than his wife, but less willing to please or be satisfied. He entered the room with a confident look, slightly bowing to the ladies, without saying a word, and after briefly inspecting them and their apartments, took a newspaper off the table and read it as long as he continued to set.
Mrs. Palmifer, on the other hand, who was naturally gifted with a tendency to be evenly polite and cheerful, barely sat when her admiration for the living room and everything in it erupted.
"Well, what a delightful room this is! I've never seen anything so lovely! Just think, mom, how it has improved since I was last here! I always thought it was so cute, Ma'am! (to Mrs. Hargrove), but you made it so lovely! Just see, sister, how delightful everything is! How would I like such a house for myself! Shouldn't you, Mr. Palmifer?"
Mr. Palmifer gave her no answer and did not even lift his gaze from the newspaper.
"Mr. Palmifer doesn't hear me," she said with a laugh; "Sometimes he never does. It's so ridiculous!"
That was a whole new idea for Mrs. Hargrove; she had never been used to finding jokes in the inattention of anyone, and couldn't help but look at them both surprised.
Mrs. Jennings continued to talk as loudly as she could and continued her account of her surprise the night before when they saw their friends without stopping until everything was said. Mrs. Palmifer laughed heartily at the memory of her amazement, and everyone agreed two or three times that it had been a pretty pleasant surprise.
"You can believe how happy we all were to see her," Mrs. Jennings added, leaning forward to Eleanore and speaking in a low voice, as if she did not want to be heard by anyone else, even though they were sitting on different sides of the room; "but I can't help but wish they hadn't traveled quite as fast, nor had they had such a long journey behind them, because they came all over London for business reasons, as you know (he nods tellingly and points to their daughter), it was wrong in their situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"
Ms. Palmifer laughed and said it wouldn't hurt her.
"She expects to be locked up in February," Mrs. Jennings continued.
Lady Mideltown could no longer stand such a conversation and therefore tried to ask Mr. Palmifer if there was any news in the newspaper.
"No, none at all," he replied and read on.
"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Well, Palmifer, you're going to see a monstrous pretty girl."
He immediately went into the hallway, opened the front door and led it in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her as soon as she showed up if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmifer laughed so heartily at the question to show that she understood. Mr. Palmifer looked up as she entered the room, stared at her for a few minutes, and then turned back to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmifer's gaze now fell on the drawings hanging in the room. She stood up to examine them.
"Oh! how beautiful they are! Now! how delightful! Just look, Mom, how cute! I explain, they are quite adorable; I could look at them forever." And when she sat down again, she very quickly forgot that there were such things in the room.
When Lady Mideltown got up to leave, Mr. Palmifer also got up, put down the newspaper, stretched out and looked at them all.
"My dear, did you sleep?" his wife said with a laugh.
He gave her no answer; and only noticed after re-examining the room that it was very low and that the ceiling was crooked. Then he made his bow and left with the others.
Sir John had urged them all to spend the next day in the park. Mrs. Hargrove, who did not choose to dine with them more often than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; their daughters could do whatever they wanted. But they weren't curious to see Mr. and Mrs. Palmifer eating their dinner, and didn't expect any other pleasure from them. They therefore also tried to apologise; the weather was uncertain and probably not good. But Sir John was not satisfied – the carriage was to be sent after them, and they had to come. Lady Mideltown, although she did not harass her mother, also harassed her. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmifer joined their requests, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family celebration; and the young ladies had to give in.
"Why would they ask us?" marianne said as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is supposed to be low; but we have it in very harsh conditions when we are supposed to dine in the park whenever someone lives with them or with us."
"They don't want to be less polite and kind to us now," Eleanore said, "through these frequent invitations than through the ones we received from them a few weeks ago. The change is not in them when their parties have become boring and boring. We have to look for change elsewhere."
Chapter 98
The Mitchells had arranged to have dinner with the Lucases, and during the day Miss Lucas was again kind enough to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took the opportunity to thank her. "That keeps him in a good mood," she said, "and I'm more committed to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction of being useful, and that it paid her back abundantly for the small sacrifice of her time. This was very gracious, but Charlotte's kindness extended further than Elizabeth had any idea of it; her purpose was nothing more than to protect her from any return of Mr. Collins' addresses by committing them for herself. That was Miss Lucas' plan; and the appearance was so favorable that she almost felt safe when she said goodbye at night if he hadn't left Hertfordshire so soon. But here she did an injustice to the fire and independence of his character, because that led to him fleeing Longbourn House the next morning with admirable cunning and rushing to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the attention of his cousins, as he was convinced that if they saw him leave, they would suspect his intention, and he was not willing to make the attempt known until his success would also be known; although he felt almost safe, and for good reason, because Charlotte had been quite encouraging, he had been relatively reserved since Wednesday's adventure. However, his reception was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas noticed him from an upper window as he approached the house and immediately set out to meet him by chance in the alley.
In as short a time as Mr Collins' long speeches allowed, everything between them was done to the satisfaction of both; and when they entered the house, he earnestly asked them to name the day that would make him the happiest of men; and although such a request had to be waived for the time being, the lady felt no inclination to play with his luck. The stupidity with which he was favored by nature had to protect his courtship from any stimulus that could make a woman wish for its continuation; and Miss Lucas, who accepted it only out of the pure and altruistic desire of an establishment, did not care how quickly this establishment was won.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were quickly asked for their consent; and it was gifted with a most joyful zeal. Mr Collins' current circumstances made it a highly suitable match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects for future wealth were extraordinarily fair. Lady Lucas immediately began to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever aroused before, how many years Mr. Mitchell would probably live; and Sir William gave it as his firm opinion that whenever Mr Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be most expedient that both he and his wife should appear at St. James's. In short, the whole family was overjoyed about this occasion. The younger girls were hoping to come out a year or two earlier than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were freed from their fear that Charlotte would die an old maiden. Charlotte herself was quite composed. She had reached her point and had time to think about it. Their considerations were generally satisfactory. Mr Collins, of course, was neither reasonable nor pleasant; his company was troublesome, and his affection for it must be conceited. But still, he would be her husband. Without attaching much importance to men or marriage, marriage had always been their goal; it was the only care for well-educated young women with low net worth, and as insecure as they may be to give happiness, their most pleasant protection from lack must be. She had now obtained this preservative; and at the age of twenty-seven, without ever having been handsome, she felt all the happiness. The least pleasant circumstance in the business was the surprise that Elizabeth Mitchell had to cause, whose friendship she valued more than any other person. Elizabeth would wonder and probably blame her; and although their resolve should not be shaken, their feelings had to be hurt by such disapproval. She decided to give her the information herself, so asked Mr. Collins not to give any indication of what had happened in front of one of the family members on his return to Longbourn for dinner. Of course, a commitment of secrecy was made very dutifully, but could not be easily adhered to; for the curiosity aroused by his long absence broke out on his return in such direct questions that it took some ingenuity to dodge, and at the same time he practiced great self-denial, because he longed to publish his successful love.
Since he was supposed to start his journey too early the next morning to see anyone from the family, the farewell ceremony was performed as the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Mitchell said with great courtesy and warmth how happy they should be to see him again in Longbourn whenever his commitments would allow him to visit them.
"My dear wife," he replied, "I am particularly pleased with this invitation, for I had hoped to receive it; and you can be very sure that I will use it as soon as possible.'
They were all amazed; and Mr. Mitchell, who could not wish for such a quick return, immediately said:
"But isn't there a danger of disapproval of Lady Catherine, sir? You'd better neglect your relationships than take the risk of insulting your patron.'
"My dear Sir," Mr. Collins replied, "I am especially attached to you for this kind caution, and you can rest assured that I will not take such an important step without the consent of your ladyhood."
"You can't be too wary. Risk everything rather than their displeasure; and if you think it is likely that you will come back to us, which I would consider extremely likely, stay at home quietly and be satisfied that WE will not take offense.'
'Believe me, my dear Lord, my gratitude is warmly aroused by such loving attention; and count on it, you will soon receive a letter of thanks from me for this and for any other sign of your respect during my stay in Hertfordshire. What my beautiful cousins?? I will now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, although my absence will not be long enough to make it necessary and my cousin Elizabeth will not accept.'
With appropriate courtesy, the ladies then withdrew; everyone was equally surprised that he was thinking about a quick return. Mrs. Mitchell wanted to understand that he was thinking of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary could have been made to accept him. She valued his abilities much higher than anyone else; there was a solidity in his reflections that she often noticed, and although by no means as clever as she herself, she thought that he could become a very pleasant companion if he was encouraged to read and improve by such an example. But the next morning, any hope of this kind was dashed. Miss Lucas called shortly after breakfast and told Elizabeth about the previous day's event in a private meeting.
The possibility that Mr. Collins might fall in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth in the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far away as she could encourage him herself, and her amazement was consequently so great that she first overcame the limits of decency, and she could not help screaming,
"Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte – impossible!"
The calm face that Miss Lucas had ordered when telling her story gave way to a momentary confusion when she received such a direct reproach; However, since it was no more than she had expected, she soon regained her composure and calmly replied,
"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it's incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to get a woman's good opinion because he wasn't so happy to be successful with you?'
But Elizabeth had now gathered herself again, and by making a strong effort to do so, she was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was very grateful to her and that she wished her all possible happiness.
"I understand what you're feeling," Charlotte replied. You must be surprised, very surprised – so the other day when Mr. Collins wanted to marry you. But if you've had time to think about it, hopefully you'll be happy with what I've done. I'm not romantic, you know; I was never. I'm just asking for a cozy home; and given Mr. Collins' character, connection, and life situation, I am convinced that my chance of becoming happy with him is as fair as most people can boast of entering the marital state."
Elizabeth replied quietly, 'Undoubtedly;' and after an embarrassing pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte didn't stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left behind to reflect on what she had heard. It took her a long time to come to terms with the idea of such an inappropriate match. The strange thing that Mr. Collins had made two marriage offers within three days was nothing compared to the fact that he was now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of marriage wasn't quite her own, but she hadn't thought it possible that when she was called to action, she sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte, the wife of Mr. Collins, was an extremely humiliating image! And to the pain of a friend who embarrassed herself and sunk in her appreciation,
Chapter 99
Everything was now in a regular move: theater, actors, actresses and clothes, everyone was moving forward; but although no other major obstacles emerged, before many days had passed, Esther found that it was not just an uninterrupted treat for the party itself, and that she did not have to witness the continuation of such unanimity and joy for which it had been almost too much at first. Everyone started to have their anger. Edmund had many. Completely against his verdict, a stage painter came from the city and set to work, much to the increase in costs and, even worse, the scandal of their proceedings; and his brother, instead of really letting himself be guided by him regarding the privacy of the representation, gave an invitation to every family that came in his way. Tom himself began to be annoyed by the slow progress of the scene painter, and to feel the misery of waiting. He had learned his role – all his roles, because he took every little thing that could be combined with the butler and began to act impatiently; and every day, so unemployed, he tended to increase his sense of the insignificance of all his roles together and to regret him more readily for not choosing another piece.
Esther, who was always a very polite listener and often the only listener, came in for the complaints and concerns of most of them. She knew that Yates-san generally scolded for terrible; that Mr. Yates was disappointed by Henry Dorset; that Tom Schmidt spoke so quickly that he would be incomprehensible; that Mrs. Grant spoiled everything by laughing; that Edmund was behind with his role and that it was miserable to have anything to do with Mr. Rushmore, who wanted to have a souffleur with every speech. She also knew that poor Mr. Rushmore could rarely get anyone to rehearse with him: his complaint came before her as well as the others; and so decisive in her eyes was the avoidance of her cousin Maria of him, and so unnecessarily often the rehearsal of the first scene between her and Mr. Dorset that she soon had all the horror of other complaints from him. Far from being satisfied and rejoicing, she found that everyone needed something they didn't have and gave the others cause for dissatisfaction. Everyone had a part either too long or too short; no one would participate as they should; No one would remember which side they should be on; no one but the complainant would follow instructions.
Esther believed she was pulling as much innocent pleasure out of the play as everyone else; Henry Dorset played well, and it was a pleasure for her to sneak into the theater and attend the rehearsal of the first act, despite the feelings it evoked for Mary in some speeches. Maria, she also thought, played well, too well; and after the first one or two rehearsals, Esther was her only listener; and sometimes as a souffleur, sometimes as a spectator, was often very useful. As far as she could tell, Mr. Dorset was by far the best actor of all: he had more confidence than Edmund, more judgment than Tom, more talent and taste than Yates-san. She didn't like him as a man, but she has to admit that he was the best actor, and on this point there weren't many who differed from her. Mr. Yates actually exclaimed against his tameness and blandness; and finally, the day came when Mr. Rushmore turned to her with a sinister look and said, "Do you think there is something so beautiful about all this? For my life and soul, I cannot admire him; and said among us, to see such an undersized, small, mean-looking man destined for a good actor is, in my opinion, very ridiculous.
From that moment on, his former jealousy returned, which Mary, from growing hopes for Dorset, tried with little effort to eliminate; and Mr. Rushmore's chances of ever coming to knowledge of his forty-two speeches became much smaller. Of the fact that he ever made anything bearable out of them, no one but his mother had the slightest idea; she actually regretted that his role was not more significant, and postponed coming to Mansfield until they were forward in their rehearsal enough to comprehend all his scenes; but the others strove for nothing more than that he remembered the cue and the first line of his speech and could follow the souffleur through the rest. Esther, in her compassion and kindness, went to great lengths to teach him how to learn, and gave him all the help and instructions in her power,
Many unpleasant, anxious, anxious feelings she certainly had; but with all these and other demands on her time and attention, she was as far from finding herself among them without occupation or benefit, as without a companion in discomfort; far from having no claim to their leisure as well as to their compassion. The gloom of their initial expectations proved unfounded. It was occasionally useful for everyone; she was perhaps as peaceful as everyone else.
In addition, there was a lot of manual work to be done where their help was needed; and that Mrs. Norris found her as wealthy as the others was evident in the way she claimed it — "Come, Esther," she exclaimed, "these are good times for you, but you don't always have to walk from one room to another, and watch comfortably that way; I want you here. I toiled until I could barely stand to think of Mr. Rushmore's cloak without sending for more satin; and now I think you can help me assemble. There are only three seams; You can do them in no time. It would be fortunate for me if I only had the executive part to do. You're best off, I can tell you, but if no one has done more than you, we shouldn't move forward very quickly."
Esther took the job very calmly, without defending herself; but her kind aunt Schmidt remarked for her –
"One can't be surprised, sister, that Esther is delighted: it's all new to her, you know; You and I used to love acting theatre myself, and I still am; and as soon as I have a little more leisure, I also want to stop by their rehearsals. What is the play about, Esther? you never told me."
"Oh! Sister, please don't ask her now; because Esther is not one of those who can speak and work at the same time. It's about vows of love."
"I think," Esther said to her aunt Schmidt, "tomorrow night three acts will be rehearsed, and that gives you the opportunity to see all the actors at once."
"You better stay until the curtain is hung," Mrs. Norris interjected; "The curtain will be hung up in a day or two - it makes very little sense to play a piece without a curtain - and I'm very mistaken if you don't find it pulled together into very beautiful garlands."
Lady Schmidt seemed to have come to terms with the wait. Esther did not share her aunt's composure: she thought a lot about tomorrow, because when the three acts were rehearsed, Edmund and Miss Dorset would perform together for the first time; the third act would bring between them a scene that interested her most and that she longed for and was afraid to see how they would behave. The whole theme was love – a love marriage should be described by the Lord, and a declaration of love by the lady.
She had read and read the scene with many painful, many miraculous emotions and was looking forward to portraying it as an almost too interesting circumstance. She didn't think they had rehearsed it before, not even privately.
Morning came, the plan for the evening continued, and Esther's reflection on it became no less excited. She worked very diligently under her aunt's instructions, but her diligence and silence concealed a very absent, anxious spirit; and around noon she fled with her work to the east room, so as not to worry about another and, as she thought, highly unnecessary rehearsal of the first act, which Henry Dorset had just proposed and immediately wished to have time for himself and avoid the sight of Mr. Rushmore. A fleeting glance as she walked through the hall, at the two ladies who came up from the rectory, did not change her desire to withdraw, and she worked and meditated undisturbed for a quarter of an hour in the east room when it was bright The knock on the door was followed by the entry of Miss Dorset.
"Am I right? Yes; this is the east room. My dear Miss Price, I beg your pardon, but I deliberately made my way to you to ask you for help."
Esther, quite surprised, tried to show herself as the mistress of the room through her courtesy, and looked anxiously at the bright bars of her empty fireplace.
"Thank you; I am very warm, very warm. Allow me to stay here for a little while and have the goodness to listen to my third act. I brought my book with me, and if you were just rehearsing it with me, I would be very attached to you! I came here today to rehearse it with Edmund – alone – in the evening, but he is not in the way; and if he were, I don't think I could go through it with him until I hardened myself a little; because really there are one or two speeches. You're going to be so good, aren't you?"
Esther was very polite in her assurances, although she could not give them in a very firm voice.
"Have you ever looked at the part I mean?" Miss Dorset continued, opening her book. "Here it is. At first I didn't think much about it – but at my word. There, watch this speech and this and that. How am I ever supposed to look him in the face and say things like that? Could you do it? But then he's your cousin, which makes all the difference. You have to rehearse it with me so that I feel you for him and progress little by little. Look at him sometimes."
"Did I? I will do my best with the utmost willingness; but I have to read the part because I can say very little about it."
"None of that, I suppose. Of course, you should have the book. Now to that. We have to have two chairs ready that you can bring to the front of the stage. Since - very good classroom chairs, not made for the theater, dare I say; much more suitable for little girls to sit and kick it with their feet when they learn a lesson. What would your governess and uncle say if they saw that they were being used for such a purpose? If Sir Thomas could stop by right now, he would bless himself, because we rehearse all over the house. Yates storms away into the dining room. I heard him when I came up, and the theater is of course occupied by these tireless rehearsals, Agatha and Frederick. If they are not perfect, I will be surprised. By the way, I stopped by their house five minutes ago, and it happened at exactly one of those times when they were trying not to hug each other, and Mr. Rushmore was with me. I found that he started to look a little strange, so I turned it off as best I could by whispering to him, "We're going to have an excellent Agatha; there is something so maternal in her way, so completely maternal in her voice and face.' Wasn't that well done by me? It brightened up directly. Now to my monologue."
It began, and Esther joined in with all the humble feeling that the idea of representing Edmund was to evoke so strongly; but with appearance and voice that are so truly feminine that they do not give a very good picture of a man. With such a stop, however, Miss Dorset had courage enough; and they had gone through half the scene when a knock on the door brought a break and Edmund's entry picked it all up the next moment.
Surprise, awareness and pleasure appeared in each of the three at this unexpected meeting; and since Edmund had come for the same matter that Miss Dorset had brought, consciousness and pleasure were probably more than temporary in them. He also had his book and sought Esther to ask her to rehearse with him and help him prepare for the evening, not knowing that Miss Dorset was in the house; and great was the joy and liveliness of being thrown together in this way, comparing plans, and empathizing in the praise of Esther's kind services.
She couldn't do the same in warmth. Her mood sank under the glow of hers, and she felt that she became almost nothing for both of them to console herself in the fact that she had been sought after by both. They now have to rehearse together. Edmund suggested, pushed, begged it until the lady, who was not very reluctant at first, could no longer refuse and Esther should only be asked and watched. She was, in fact, endowed with the office of judge and critic and sincerely wished to exercise it and tell them all her mistakes; but every feeling in her shied away from it – she could, wanted to, did not dare: if she had otherwise been able to criticize, her conscience would have prevented her from venturing into disapproval. She thought she felt too much of it overall, for honesty or security in detail. It must be sufficient for it to be initiated; and it was sometimes more than enough; for she could not always pay attention to the book. When she watched her, she forgot about herself; and, excited by the increasing spirit of Edmund's kind, had once closed the page and turned away, just as he wanted help. It was attributed to a very reasonable fatigue, and it was thanked and pitied; but she deserved her pity more than she hoped they would ever suspect. Finally, the scene was over, and Esther forced herself to add her praise to the compliments they gave each other; and when she was again alone and able to remember the whole thing, she was inclined to believe that her performance would actually have such a nature and feeling in it that they would have to secure their recognition and make it a very suffering exhibition for themselves. Whatever its effect,
the first regular rehearsal of the first three acts was certainly to take place in the evening: Mrs. Grant and the Dorset's were obliged to return for this purpose as soon as possible after dinner; and everyone involved was looking forward to it. On this occasion, general cheerfulness seemed to be widespread. Tom enjoyed such progress towards the end; Edmund was in a good mood from the morning rehearsal, and small upsets seemed to be eliminated everywhere. Everyone was vigilant and impatient; the ladies soon moved, the gentlemen soon followed them, and with the exception of Lady Schmidt, Mrs. Norris and Julia, all were in the theater at an early hour; and after he set it on fire and admitted its unfinished state, they waited only for the arrival of Mrs. Grant and the Dorset's to begin.
They didn't wait long for the Dorsets, but there was no Mrs. Grant. She could not come. Dr. Grant, who confesses to a disease for which he had little merit in his beautiful sister-in-law, could not spare his wife.
"DR. Grant is sick," she said with playful solemnity. He has been sick since he did not eat any of the pheasant today. He thought it was hard, sent his plate away and has been suffering ever since."
Here was disappointment! Mrs. Grant's non-appearance was indeed sad. Their pleasant manners and cheerful conformity always made them valuable among them; but now it was absolutely necessary. They couldn't play without them, they couldn't rehearse with satisfaction. The coziness of the whole evening was destroyed. What was to be done? Tom was desperate as a cottager. After a stunned pause, some eyes turned to Esther and one or two voices said, "If Miss Price were kind enough to read the role." She was immediately surrounded by supplications; everyone asked it; even Edmund said, "Do it, Esther, if you're not very uncomfortable."
But Esther still held back. She couldn't stand the thought of it. Why shouldn't Miss Dorset also apply? Or why hadn't she gone to her own room because she felt safest instead of attending the rehearsal at all? She had known that it would irritate and worry her; she had recognized it as her duty to stay away. She was properly punished.
"You just need to read the part," Henry Dorset said with another request.
"And I think she can say every word about it," Maria added, "because she was able to correct Mrs. Grant in twenty places the other day. Esther, I'm sure you know the role."
Esther could not disagree; and since they all persevered when Edmund repeated his wish, and with a glance of even tender dependence on their good-naturedness, she had to give in. She would do her best. Everyone was satisfied; and she was left to the trembling of a most beating heart as the others prepared to begin.
They started; and because they were too busy with their own noise to be surprised by an unusual noise in the other part of the house, they had walked a path when the door of the room was torn open and Julia appeared on it with a horrified face, shouting, "My father has come! He's in the hall at this moment."
Chapter 100
Emma could not forgive her; but since neither provocation nor resentment was perceived by Mr. Hill, who had been from the party, and had seen only adequate attention and pleasant behavior on both sides, he expressed his approval of the whole thing the next morning, when he was in Hartfield again on business with Mr. Lodge; not as openly as he would have if her father hadn't been in the room, but he spoke clearly enough to make Emma very understandable. He had been used to finding her unfair to Jane and now had great pleasure in noticing an improvement.
"A very pleasant evening," he began, as soon as Mr. Lodge had been persuaded, understood and the papers swept away; "particularly pleasant. She and Miss Saxon gave us very good music. I know of no more luxurious condition, sir, than to be comfortable being entertained for an entire evening by two such young women; sometimes with music and sometimes with conversations. I'm sure Miss Saxon must have found the evening pleasant, Emma. You didn't leave anything unfinished. I was glad you let her play so much, because not having an instrument with her grandmother must have been a real treat."
"I'm glad you agreed," Emma said with a smile; "but I hope I'm not often inadequate in what the guests in Hartfield are entitled to."
"No, my dear," her father said immediately; "I am convinced that you are not. No one is half as attentive and polite as you. If anything, you're too attentive. The muffin last night – if it had been passed around once, I think it would have been enough."
"No," Mr. Hill said almost simultaneously; "You're not often deficient; not often deficient, neither in nature nor in understanding. I think that's why you understand me."
A mischievous look expressed, "I understand you well enough;" but she just said, "Miss Saxon is reserved."
"I've always told you that they – a little; but you will soon overcome all the part of their restraint that should be overcome, anything based on mistrust. What arises from discretion must be rewarded."
"You think they're shy. I don't see it."
"My dear Emma," he said, stepping from his chair into one next to her, "hopefully you won't tell me you didn't have a pleasant evening."
"Oh! No; I was pleased with my own persistence in asking questions; and amused to think about how little information I received."
"I'm disappointed," was his only answer.
"I hope everyone had a pleasant evening," said Mr. Lodge in his quiet manner. Once I felt the fire a little too much; but then I moved my chair back a little, a very little, and it didn't bother me. Miss Bates was very talkative and in a good mood, as she always is, although she speaks a little too fast. However, she is very pleasant, and so is Mrs. Bates in a different way. I like old friends; and Miss Jane Saxon is a very pretty young lady, really a very pretty and very well behaved young lady. She must have found the evening pleasant, Mr. Hill, because she had Emma."
"True, sir; and Emma, ?? because she had Miss Saxon."
Emma saw his fear and wanted to appease her, at least for the moment, and said with a sincerity that no one could question:
"She is a kind of elegant creature from which you can not avert your eyes. I always watch them to admire them; and I feel sorry for her from the bottom of my heart."
Mr. Hill looked like he was happier than he wanted to express; and before he could answer, Mr. Lodge, whose thoughts were
with the Bates, said,
"It's a shame that their circumstances are so cramped! really a pity! and I've often wished – but it's so little you can dare – small, insignificant gifts of something unusual – Now we've slaughtered a pig, and Emma is thinking of sending them a loin or a leg; it's very small and tender – Hartfield pork isn't like any other pork – but it's still pork – and, my dear Emma, ?? unless you could be sure that they make it into steaks, nicely fried, fried like ours, without the slightest fat, and not frying, because no stomach can tolerate roast pork – I think we better send the leg – don't you think, my dear?"
"My dear dad, I sent the whole hindquarters. I knew you would like it. There will be the leg that needs to be salted, you know what is so very beautiful, and the loin that has to be prepared directly the way you want it to be."
"That's right, my dear, very right. I hadn't thought about it before, but that's the best way. You must not oversalt the leg; and then, if it is not too heavily salted and cooked very thoroughly, just like Serle cooks with us and is eaten very moderately, with a boiled beet and a little carrot or parsnip, I do not consider it unhealthy. "
Emma," Mr. Hill finally said, "I have news for you. You like news – and I've heard an article along the way here that I think will interest you."
"News! Oh! Yes, I always like news. What is that? – why do you smile like that? – where did you hear it? – at Randalls?"
He only had time to say,
"No, not with Randalls; I wasn't near Randalls" when the door was torn open and Miss Bates and Miss Saxon entered the room. Full of gratitude and news, Miss Bates didn't know what to give the fastest. Mr. Hill soon realized that he had lost his moment and that no other syllable of communication could rest with him.
"Oh! My dear Sir, how are you doing this morning? My dear Miss Lodge – I come quite overwhelmed. Such a beautiful hindquarter of the pig! You are too generous! Have you heard the news? Mr. Alton will get married."
Emma hadn't even had time to think about Mr. Alton, and she was so completely surprised that she couldn't avoid a little fright and a slight blush at the sound.
"There's my news: - I thought you'd be interested," Mr. Hill said with a smile that hinted at a belief in part of what had happened between them.
"But where could you hear it?" cried Miss Bates. "Where could you hear it, Mr. Hill? Because less than five minutes have passed since I received Mrs. Cole's message – no, it can't be more than five – or at least ten – because I had put on my cap and my Spencer and was about to come out – I was just talking down again with Patty about the pork – Jane was standing in the aisle – wasn't it, Jane? – because my mother was so afraid that we didn't have a salt pan big enough. So I said I'd go down and check, and Jane said, 'Should I go down instead? because I think you have a little cold, and Patty has rinsed the kitchen." – "Oh! my love," I said – well, and there came the note. A Miss Hawkins – that's all I know. A Miss Hawkins from Bath. But, Mr. Hill, how could you have heard that? Mr. Cole told Mrs. Cole about it at the moment, she sat down and wrote to me. A Miss Hawkins...""
I was with Mr. Cole on business an hour and a half ago. He had just read Alton's letter when I was let in and handed it to me directly."
"Fountain! that's quite – I suppose there was never a message that was generally more interesting. My dear sir, you are really too generous. My mother wishes her very best compliments and greetings and a thousand thanks and says you really depress her a lot."
"We look at our Hartfield pork," Mr. Lodge replied– "in fact, it's so superior to all other pork that Emma and I can't have more pleasure than –"
My dear Lord, as my mother says, our friends are only too good to us. If ever there were people who, without having much wealth of their own, had everything they could wish for, then I'm sure we are. We can certainly say that "our lot falls into a good heritage". Well, Mr. Hill, and you actually saw the letter; Good-"
"It was short – just to announce it – but cheerful, cheering of course." – Here was a stealthy look at Emma. "He was so lucky that he – I forget the exact words – you don't need to remember them. The information was, as you say, that he would be married to a Miss Hawkins. According to his style, I should imagine that it has simply been taken care of."
"Sir. Alton will get married!" said Emma, ?? as soon as she could speak. "He will have all the wishes for his happiness."
"He is still very young to settle down," was Mr. Lodge's observation. "He had better not be in a hurry. He seemed to me to be very wealthy as he was. We were always happy to see him in Hartfield."
"A new neighbor for all of us, Miss Lodge!" said Miss Bates happily; "my mother is so pleased! – she says she can't bear to have the poor old rectory without a lover. This is indeed great news. Jane, you've never seen Mr. Alton! – no wonder you're so curious to see him."
Jane's curiosity didn't seem to be of this absorbent nature to keep her completely occupied.
"No – I've never seen Alton-san," she replied and began with this request; "Is he – is he a great man?"
"Who should answer this question?" cried Emma. "My father said 'yes', Mr. Hill said 'no'; and Miss Bates and I that he is just the golden mean. If you're here a little longer, Miss Saxon, you'll understand that Alton-san is the measure of perfection in Highbury, both personally and mentally."
"Very true, Miss Lodge, she will. He's the very best young man – But, my dear Jane, if you remember, I told you yesterday that he was just as tall as Mr. Perry. Miss Hawkins, dare I say, an excellent young woman. His extreme attention to my mother – he wanted her to sit in the pew of the rectory so she could hear better, because my mother is a little deaf, you know – is not much, but she doesn't hear very quickly. Jane says that Colonel Campbell is a bit deaf. He said bathing could do him good – the warm bath – but she says it didn't bring him any lasting benefit. Colonel Campbell, you know, is our angel. And Mr. Dixon seems to be a very charming young man who is quite worthy of him. It's so fortunate when good people come together – and they always do. Well, here will be Mr. Alton and Miss Hawkins; and there are the Cole's, so very good people; and the Perrys – I suppose there has never been a happier or better couple than Mr. and Mrs. Perry. I say, sir," turning to Mr. Lodge, "I think there are few places with as much company as Highbury. I always say we are very blessed in our neighbors. – My dear Lord, if my mother loves something more than the other, it is pork – a roast pork –
"Who or what Miss Hawkins is or how long he has known her," Emma said, ?"?" can probably not be known. You can feel that it can't be a very long acquaintance. He's only been gone for four weeks."
No one had information to give; and after a few more questions, Emma said,
"You're silent, Miss Saxon – but I hope you want to be interested in this news. You who have heard and seen so much about these issues lately, who must have gotten so deep into the business because of Miss Campbell's account – we will not excuse your indifference to Mr. Alton and Miss Hawkins."
"If I've seen Alton-san," Jane replied, "I'd probably say I'll be interested, but I think that requires it for me. And since it's been a few months since Miss Campbell got married, the impression might be a bit worn out."
"Yes, he is, as you noted, Miss Lodge, only gone for four weeks," said Miss Bates, "four weeks yesterday. – A Miss Hawkins! not that I ever – Mrs. Cole once whispered to me – but I immediately said, "No, Mr. Alton is a very worthy young man – but" – In short, I don't think I'm particularly quick at such discoveries. I'm not saying it. What lies ahead of me, I see. At the same time, no one could have wondered if Alton-san should have aspired to it – Miss Lodge makes me babble on in such a good mood. She knows that I wouldn't offend for anything in the world. How is Miss Smith doing? She seems to have recovered quite a bit by now. Have you heard of Mrs. John Hill lately? Oh! they love small children. Jane, you know, I always like Mr. Dixon like Mr. John Hill. I mean personally – big,
"Completely wrong, my dear aunt; there is no similarity at all."
"Very weird! but one never forms a just idea of any body beforehand. You take an idea and run away with it. Mr. Dixon, you say, is not strictly speaking handsome?"
"Good looking! Oh! no – far from it – certainly clear. I told you it was simple."
"My dear, you said Miss Campbell would not allow him to be open, and you yourself..."
As for me, my judgment is worth nothing. Where I have a respect, I always think that a person looks good. But I gave what I believed the general opinion when I just called him."
"Well, my dear Jane, I think we have to run away. The weather does not look good, and grandma will be restless. You are too pleasing, my dear Miss Lodge; but we really have to say goodbye. This was indeed highly pleasing news. I'm just going to pass by Mrs. Cole's; but I'm not going to stop for three minutes: and, Jane, you'd better go straight home – I wouldn't let you in the shower! – We think it's already better for Highbury. Thank you, indeed we do. I'm not going to try to see Mrs. Goddard, because I really believe that nothing else is important to her other than boiled pork: if we prepare the leg, it will be a different thing. Good morning, sir. Oh! Mr. Hill is coming too. Well, that's so much! – I'm sure when Jane is tired, you'll be kind enough to give her your arm. Alton and Miss Hawkins! – Good morning."
Emma?? who was alone with her father, had wanted half of her attention from him, while he lamented that young people were in such a hurry to get married – and also to strangers – and the other half she could devote to her own view of the subject. It was amusing and very welcome news for herself, as she proved that Mr. Alton could not have suffered for long; but she felt sorry for Harriet: Harriet had to feel it – and all she could hope for was by giving the first information herself to keep her from suddenly hearing it from others. It was now time for her to probably call. If she met Miss Bates on her way! – and when it started to rain, Emma had to expect that the weather would stop her at Mrs. Goddard's and that the news would undoubtedly come to her without preparation.
The shower was heavy but short; and no more than five minutes had passed since Harriet came in, with the very heated, excited look you probably get when you rush there with all your heart; and the "Oh! Miss Lodge, what do you think happened!" which immediately erupted, had all the signs of a corresponding disturbance. When the blow was given, Emma felt that she could not show greater kindness now than by listening; and Harriet went through what she had to say unchecked. "She had left half an hour ago from Mrs. Goddard – she had been afraid it would rain – she had been afraid it would rain at any moment – but she thought she could arrive in Hartfield first – she was able to hurry on as quickly as possible; but then, as she walked past the house where a young woman sewed a dress for her, she thought she would just step in and see how it went on; and although she did not seem to stay there for half a moment, soon after she came out, it began to rain, and she did not know what to do; so she ran straight on as fast as she could, and sought shelter from Ford's." – Ford's was the most important wool, linen and haberdashery store combined; the first store in size and fashion in the village. – "And there she had sat down, without any idea of anything in the world, a full ten minutes, maybe – if suddenly someone should come in – to be sure, it was so strange! – but they always acted at Ford – who should come in if not Elizabeth Martin and her brother! – Dear Miss Lodge! Just think. I thought I should have fainted. I didn't know what to do. I sat next to the door – Elizabeth saw me directly; But he didn't; he was busy with the umbrella. I'm sure she saw me, but she looked right away and didn't notice; and they both went to the very other end of the store; and I stayed near the door! – Oh! Dear; I was so unhappy! I'm sure I must have been as white as my dress. I couldn't leave because of the rain; but I wished so everywhere in the world as there. – Oh! Dear, Miss Lodge – finally, I think, he looked around and saw me; because instead of continuing with their shopping, they began to whisper to each other. I'm sure they were talking about me; and I couldn't help but think that he was persuading her to talk to me – (do you think it was him, Miss Lodge?) – because soon she stepped up – came all the way up to me and asked me how I was doing, and seemed ready to shake hands if I wanted to. She did none of this in the same way she used to; I could see that it was changed; but she seemed to make an effort to be very kind, and we shook hands and talked for some time; but I don't remember what I said – I was in such a ?? Tremble! which I found almost too nice! My dear, Miss Lodge, I was absolutely unhappy! At that point, it started to hold, and I was determined that nothing should stop me from getting away – and then – just think! – I noticed that he also approached me – slowly, you know, and as if he did not quite know what to do; and so he came and spoke, and I answered —and I stood there for a minute, feeling terrible, you know, you can't say how; and then I took courage and said, it does not rain, and I must go; and so I set out; and I was not yet three meters from the door when he came after me, only to say: if I wanted to go to Hartfield, he thought I had much better pass by Mr. Cole's stables, because I would find the nearby path quite washed up by this rain. Oh! Dear, I thought it was my death! So I said I was very attached to him: you know I couldn't do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I walked by the stables —I think I did—but I barely knew where I was, or anything about it. Oh! Miss Lodge, I would rather do anything than let it happen, and yet, you know, it was a kind of satisfaction to see him so pleasant and friendly. And so does Elisabeth. Oh! Miss Lodge, talk to me and make me comfortable again." So I said I was very attached to him: you know I couldn't do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I walked by the stables —I think I did—but I barely knew where I was, or anything about it. Oh! Miss Lodge, I would rather do anything than let it happen, and yet, you know, it was a kind of satisfaction to see him so pleasant and friendly. And so does Elisabeth. Oh! Miss Lodge, talk to me and make me comfortable again." So I said I was very attached to him: you know I couldn't do less; and then he went back to Elizabeth, and I walked by the stables —I think I did—but I barely knew where I was, or anything about it. Oh! Miss Lodge, I would rather do anything than let it happen, and yet, you know, it was a kind of satisfaction to see him so pleasant and friendly. And so does Elisabeth. Oh! Miss Lodge, talk to me and make me comfortable again." Oh! Miss Lodge, talk to me and make me comfortable again." Oh! Miss Lodge, talk to me and make me comfortable again."
Emma wished it very sincerely; but it was not immediately in their power. She had to stop and think. She herself didn't really feel comfortable. The behavior of the young man and his sister seemed to be the result of real feelings, and she couldn't help but feel sorry for them. As Harriet described it, her behavior had had an interesting mix of offended affection and genuine tenderness. But she had previously thought of them as well-meaning, worthy people; and what difference did this make in the evils of connection? It was foolish to be bothered by it. Of course, he must be sorry to lose them – they must all feel sorry for them. Ambition and love had probably been killed. They could all have hoped to rise through Harriet's acquaintance: and besides, what was the value of Harriet's description? – So slightly pleased – so little astute;
She made an effort and tried to make her comfortable by considering everything that had happened as a trifle and quite unworthy to think about,
"It might be troubling at the moment," she said; "but you seem to have behaved very well; and it's over – and maybe never – can never happen again, like a first encounter, and that's why you don't need to think about it."
Harriet said, "Very true," and she "wouldn't think about it"; but she still spoke of it – still she could not speak of anything else; and Emma finally, in order to banish the Martins from her head, had to hurry up with the news she had tried to deliver with so much tender caution; She herself hardly knew whether she should rejoice in such a state of mind of poor Harriet or annoy, be ashamed or just amuse – such a conclusion of Mr. Alton's meaning for her!
However, Mr Alton's rights gradually revived. Although she did not feel the first intelligence as she might have done the day before or an hour before, her interest soon increased; and before her first conversation was over, she had talked herself into all the sensations of curiosity, wonder and regret, pain and pleasure regarding this happy Miss Hawkins, which could help to subordinate the Martins appropriately in her imagination.
Emma learned to be quite happy that there had been such a meeting. It had proven successful to dampen the initial shock, but without retaining an alarming influence. Since Harriet was now alive, the Martins could not get to her without seeking her, where they previously needed either the courage or condescension to seek her; because since their rejection of the brother, the sisters had never been with Mrs. Goddard; and a twelve month could pass without them being thrown together again, with any necessity or even any linguistic power.
Chapter 101
When the Miss Hargroves entered the park's salon the next day, Mrs. Palmifer came running in at the other door and looked as cheerful and cheerful as before. She lovingly took them all by the hand and expressed great joy to see them again.
"I'm so glad to see you!" she said, sitting between Eleanore and Marianne, "because it's such a bad day that I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing as we leave tomorrow. We have to go, because the Winstones have come to us." next week you know. It came quite suddenly that we came, and I didn't know about it until the carriage was at the door, and then Mr. Palmifer asked me if I would go to Barton with him drollig! He never tells me anything! I am so sorry that we cannot stay longer; but we will see each other again in the city very soon, I hope."
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
"Don't go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmifer laughing, "I'd be pretty disappointed if you didn't. I could get you the most beautiful house in the world, right next to ours, on Hannoverplatz. You really have to come Surely I am very happy to look after you until my delivery at any time if Mrs. Hargrove does not want to go out in public."
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all their requests.
"Oh, my dear," Mrs. Palmifer shouted to her husband, who was just entering the room—"You have to help me persuade Miss Hargroves to go to town this winter."
Their love did not answer; and after bowing slightly to the ladies, he began to complain about the weather.
"How terrible it all is!" he said. "Such weather makes everything and everyone disgusting. Dullness is created by rain both inside and outside doors. It makes you abhor all acquaintances. What the hell does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? Like few know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather."
The rest of the company soon joined in.
"I'm afraid Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you couldn't take your usual walk to Allenham today."
Marianne looked very serious and said nothing.
"Oh, don't be so smart in front of us," ms. Palmifer said; "Because we know everything about it, I assure you, and I admire your taste very much, because I think it is extraordinarily handsome. We live not far from him in the countryside, you know. No more than ten miles, dare I say."
"Much closer to thirty," her husband said.
"Ah, good! there is not much difference. I was never in his house; but they say it's a cute, pretty place."
"Such a hideous spot as I've never seen in my life," Palmifer said.
Marianne was completely silent, although her facial expression betrayed her interest in what was said.
"Is it very ugly?" Mrs. Palmifer continued— "then it must be another place that's so pretty, I suppose."
As they sat in the dining room, Sir John noted with regret that they were only eight in total.
"My dear," he said to his lady, "it is very provocative that we are so few. Why didn't you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"
"Didn't I tell you, Sir John, when you talked to me earlier about it not being possible? They ate with us last."
"You and I, Sir John," Mrs. Jennings said, "should not stand for such a ceremony."
"Then you would have been very badly behaved," shouted Mr. Palmifer.
"My dear, you contradict every body," his wife said with her usual laugh. "Do you know you're pretty rude?"
"I didn't know I was contradicting anyone when I called your mother badly behaved."
"Yes, you can insult me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "You took Charlotte out of my hands and can't give her back. So I have the whip hand from you."
Charlotte laughed heartily at the thought that her husband couldn't get rid of her; and said jubilantly that she didn't care how angry he was with her, because they had to live together. No one could be more good-natured or determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmifer. Her husband's rehearsed indifference, impudence and dissatisfaction did not cause her any pain; and when he insulted or cursed at her, she was very scattered.
"Mr. Palmifer is so droll!" she said to Eleanore in a whisper. "He's always humorless."
Eleanore, after a little observation, was not inclined to give him credit for being as sincerely and unartificially wicked or badly behaved as he wanted to appear. Perhaps his temperament was a little upset when he, like many others of his sex, realized that he was the husband of a very stupid woman due to an inexplicable inclination in favor of beauty – but she knew that these kinds of mistakes happened all too often that every reasonable man is permanently hurt by it. she believed, who provoked his contemptuous treatment of every body and his general abuse of all things before him. It was the desire to appear superior to others. The motive was too ordinary to wonder about it; but the means, however successful they may be, by establishing his superiority in poor upbringing, would probably not bind anyone but his wife to him.
"Oh, my dear Miss Hargrove," Mrs. Palmifer said shortly afterwards, "I have to ask you and your sister for such a favor. Are you going to come and spend some time at Christmas in Cleveland? Come while the Winstones are with us. You can't imagine how happy I will be! It will be very delightful!
"Sure," he replied with a sneering grin— "I came to Devonshire without any other prospects."
"So," said his lady, "you see, Mr. Palmifer is waiting for you; So you can't refuse to come."
Both eagerly and resolutely declined their invitation.
"But you must and will come. I'm sure you'll like it of all things. The Winstones will be with us, and it will be very delightful. You can't imagine what a cute place Cleveland is, and we're so cheerful now, because Mr. Palmifer always goes around the country to campaign against the election, and so many people came to us that I've never seen before, it's quite delightful! is forced to make every body like him."
Eleanore could hardly maintain her stance when she agreed to the harshness of such a commitment.
"How lovely it will be," Charlotte said, "when he's in parliament! – isn't it? How I will laugh! , he says he will never frank for me? He declares that he will not do it. Isn't it, Mr. Palmifer?"
Mr. Palmifer did not pay attention to them.
"He can't stand the writing, you know," she continued — "he says it's pretty shocking."
"No," he said, "I have never said anything so unreasonable.
"There, you see how stupid he is. That's how he always is! Sometimes he doesn't talk to me for half a day, and then he comes out with something so stupid, about everything in the world."
She surprised Eleanore a lot when they returned to the salon by asking her if she didn't like Mr. Palmifer too much.
"Sure," Eleanore said; "he seems to be very pleasant."
"Well, I'm so glad you do. I thought you would, he's so nice, and Palmifer-san is extraordinarily pleased with you and your sisters, I can tell you that, and you can't imagine how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland. – I can't imagine why you should object."
Eleanore had to decline her invitation again; and by changing the subject, you put an end to their pleading. She thought it was likely that Mrs. Palmifer, since they lived in the same county, might be able to give a more accurate account of warwick's general character than could be gained from Mideltown's partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to obtain from anyone such a confirmation of his merits that could take away Marianne's fear. She began by asking if they had seen much of Mr. Warwick in Cleveland and if they were familiar with him.
"Oh dear, yes, I know him very well," replied Mrs. Palmifer; "Not that I ever talked to him, but I've seen him in the city forever. Somehow I was never there Barton when he was in Allenham. Mom has seen him here before – but I was with my uncle in Weymouth. However, I dare say that we would have seen a lot of him in Somersetshire if it hadn't been very unfortunate that we should never have been together in the countryside. He's very small in Combe, I think, but if he were there even that much, I don't think Mr. Palmifer would visit him, because he's in opposition, you know, and besides, it's so far away. I know very well why you are asking for him; your sister should marry him. I'm tremendously happy about it, because then I'll have her as the neighbor you know."
"At my word," Eleanore replied, "you know much more about the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."
"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know everyone is talking about it. I assure you that I heard about it on my way through the city."
"My dear Mrs. Palmifer!"
"On my honor, I have. I met Colonel Bridgerton on Bond Street on Monday morning, just before we left town, and he told me directly."
"They surprise me a lot. Colonel Bridgerton told you! You must be wrong. Giving such intelligence to a person who might not be interested in doing so, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Bridgerton to do."
"But I assure you that it was still so, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned around and walked with us, and so we started talking about my brother and sister, and about one thing and another, and I said to him, 'Well, Colonel, a new family has come to Barton Cottage, as I hear, and Mom told me that they are very pretty and that one of them with Mr. Warwick from Combe Magna. Is it true, do you pray? Because of course you need to know as you've been to Devonshire lately.'"
"And what did the Colonel say?"
"Oh, he didn't say much; but he looked like he knew it was true, so I set it as safe from that moment on. It will be very delightful, I explain! When should it take place?"
"Mr. Bridgerton was doing very well, I hope?"
"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praise, he did nothing but say beautiful things about you."
"I feel flattered by his praise. He seems to be an excellent man, and I find him unusually pleasant."
"Me too. – He is such a charming man that it is a pity that he is so serious and so boring. Mom says HE was also in love with your sister. – I assure you, it was a great compliment when he was, because he hardly ever falls in love with a body."
"Is Mr Warwick very well known in your part of Somersetshire?" said Eleonore.
"Oh! yes, very good; that is, I don't think many people are familiar with him because Combe Magna is so far away; but they all consider it to be extremely pleasant, I assure you. No one is more popular than Mr. Warwick wherever he goes, and you can tell your sister, she is a tremendously happy girl to get him, by my honor, not than that he is much more lucky to get her because she is so very beautiful and pleasant that nothing can be good enough for her, but I don't find them any nicer than you, I assure you, because I find you both very pretty, and certainly also Mr. Palmifer, although we could not get him to own it last night."
Mrs Palmifer's information, which respects Warwick, was not very material; but she liked every little testimony in his favor.
"I'm so glad we finally got to know each other," Charlotte continued. – "And now I hope that we will always be good friends. You can't imagine how much I longed to see you! It's so delightful that you live in the cottage! Nothing can be like that, certainly! And I'm so glad your sister will be well married! I hope you will be in Combe Magna a lot. It seems like a cute place.
"You've known Colonel Bridgerton for a long time, haven't you?"
"Yes, a long time; since my sister got married. – He was a special friend of Sir John. I think," she added quietly, "he would have been very happy to have had me if he had been able to. Sir John and Lady Mideltown wanted it very much. But Mom didn't think the match was good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel and we should have gotten married right away."
"Didn't Colonel Bridgerton know about Sir John's suggestion to your mother before it was made? Had he never shown his affection for you?"
"Oh, no; but if Mom hadn't objected, I dare say that he would have liked it of all things. He hadn't seen me upstairs twice, because it was before I left school. But I'm much happier than." That's me. Mr. Palmifer is the kind of man I like."
Chapter 101
Elizabeth sat with her mother and sisters, pondering what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorized to mention it when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to tell the family about her engagement. With many compliments to her and much masturbation at the prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the cause – an audience that was not only amazed, but incredulous; for Mrs. Mitchell protested with more perseverance than politeness that he had to be completely wrong; and Linda, always unguarded and often rude, shouted exuberantly,
'Good God! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Don't you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?'
Nothing less than the courtier's favor could have endured such treatment without anger; but the good upbringing of Mr. William carried him through everything; and although he asked for permission to be sure of the truth of his information, he listened to all her impudence with the most lenient courtesy.
Elizabeth, who was up to her to free him from such an unpleasant situation, now introduced herself to confirm his calculation by mentioning her previous knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and strove to put an end to the exclamations of her mother and sisters by sincerely congratulating Sir William, with Jane willingly joining her, and by making a series of remarks about the happiness to be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr Collins and the favorable distance from Hunsford from London.
Mrs Mitchell was indeed too overwhelmed to say much while Sir William stayed; but as soon as he had left her, her feelings quickly found air. First, she insisted on not believing the whole thing; second, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been deceived; third, she trusted that they would never be happy with each other; and fourthly, that the match could be broken off. However, two conclusions were simply derived from the whole: one that Elizabeth was the true cause of the calamity; and the other, that she herself had been barbarically abused by all of them; and at these two points she mainly lingered the rest of the day. Nothing could comfort her and nothing could appease her. Even this day did not weaken their resentment. A week passed before she could see Elizabeth without scolding her,
Mr. Mitchell's feelings were much calmer on the occasion, and as he really experienced, he declared to be of the most pleasant kind; for it satisfied him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to keeping quite reasonable, was just as stupid as his wife and even more stupid than his daughter!
Jane confessed a little surprised about the match; but she spoke less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for her happiness; Elizabeth also couldn't persuade her to think it was unlikely. Kitty and Linda were far from enviing Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was just a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than a news to be spread in Meryton.
Lady Lucas could not shut herself off from triumph if she could give Mrs. Mitchell the consolation of having a well-married daughter; and she visited Longbourn more often than usual to tell her how happy she was, although Mrs. Mitchell's grumpy looks and foul remarks might have been enough to drive away the joy.
There was a reluctance between Elizabeth and Charlotte that kept them silent about the subject; and Elizabeth was convinced that there could never again be real trust between them. Her disappointment with Charlotte led her to turn with more loving consideration to her sister, whose righteousness and tenderness she was sure her could never be shaken, and whose happiness she became more concerned about every day, as Woodland had now been for a week and nothing was heard of his return.
Jane had sent Caroline an early reply to her letter and counted the days until she could reasonably hope to hear again. The promised thank-you letter from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to her father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude that a twelve-month stay in the family could evoke. Having exonerated his conscience at this point, he continued to inform her with many rapturous expressions of his joy of having won the affection of her kind neighbor, Miss Lucas, and then explained that this was done only with the intention of enjoying her company he had been so willing to close with her kind desire, to see him again in Longbourn, where he hoped to return on Monday for fourteen days; For Lady Catherine, he added, his marriage had been so warmly approved,
Mrs Mitchell the return of Mr Collins to Hertfordshire was no longer a pleasure. On the contrary, she was as willing to complain about it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of Lucas Lodge; it was also very uncomfortable and extraordinarily annoying. She hated having visits to the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were the most unpleasant of all people. Such was the gentle murmur of Mrs. Mitchell, and it only gave way to even greater grief over Mr. Woodland's continued absence.
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable with this topic. Day after day passed without bringing any news from him other than the news that soon prevailed in Meryton that he would not be coming to Netherfield all winter; a report that enraged Mrs. Mitchell to the highest degree and which she never failed to contradict as a highly scandalous lie.
Even Elizabeth began to fear — not that Woodland would be indifferent — but that his sisters would successfully stop him. As reluctant as she was to admit an idea that was so destructive to Jane's happiness and so dishonorable to her lover's stability, she couldn't prevent it from happening frequently. The combined efforts of his two callous sisters and his overwhelming friend, supported by Miss Drury's attractions and the amusements of London, may be too much for the strength of his affection, she feared.
As for Jane, her concern under this tension was of course more painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt, she wanted to hide it, and that's why the issue between her and Elizabeth was never mentioned. But since no such delicacy held her mother back, rarely did an hour go by not talking about Woodland, expressing her impatience with his arrival, or even asking Jane to confess that she would feel very badly treated if he didn't come back. It took all of Jane's constant gentleness to endure these attacks with bearable calm.
Mr. Collins returned on time on Monday for fourteen days, but his reception in Longbourn was not quite as gracious as at his first performance. However, he was too happy to need much attention; and fortunately for the others, the love business took away a large part of their company. He spent most of the day at Lucas Lodge, and sometimes returned to Longbourn just in time to apologize for his absence before the family went to bed.
Mrs. Mitchell was really in a miserable condition. The mere mention of anything concerning the match put her in an agonizing bad mood, and wherever she went, she was sure to hear about it. The sight of Miss Lucas was disgusting to her. As her successor in this House, she looked at her with jealous revulsion. Whenever Charlotte came to see her, she came to the conclusion that she was anticipating the hour of obsession; and whenever she spoke with Mr. Collins in a low voice, she was convinced that they were talking about the Longbourn estate, and decided to send herself and her daughters out of the house as soon as Mr. Mitchell was dead. She complained bitterly about all this to her husband.
"In fact, Mr. Mitchell," she said, "it's very hard to imagine that Charlotte Lucas should ever be the mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make room for HER and see her take her place in it!"'
"My dear, do not give room to such dark thoughts. Let's hope for better. Let's flatter ourselves that maybe I'm the survivor."
This was not very comforting for Mrs. Mitchell, and so she continued as before, instead of giving an answer.
"I can't stand the thought that they should have all this possessions. If it wasn't for the consequences, I wouldn't mind.'
'What shouldn't you mind?'
'I shouldn't mind at all.'
'Let us be grateful that you are saved from a state of such callousness.'
"I can never be grateful, Mr. Mitchell, for anything related to the consequences. How someone could have the conscience to take a fortune from his own daughters, I cannot understand; and all this for Mr. Collins too! Why would He have it more than everyone else?'
"I'll leave the decision to you," Mr. Mitchell said.
Chapter 103
How to describe the dismay of the Party? For most, it was a moment of absolute horror. Sir Thomas in the house! Everyone felt the immediate conviction. Nowhere was there any hope of imposition or error. Julia's looks were proof that it was undeniable; and after the first ascents and exclamations, not a word was spoken for half a minute: each with a changed face looked at the other, and almost everyone felt it was a most unwelcome, inconvenient, most horrific blow! Yates-san might just see it as an annoying interruption to the evening, and Mr. Rushmore could think of it as a blessing; but every other heart sank under a certain degree of self-condemnation or indefinite alarm, every other heart suggested, "What will become of us? What to do now?" It was a terrible break; and terrible for each ear were the affirming sounds of opening doors and passing steps.
Julia was the first to move and speak again. Jealousy and bitterness were lifted: egoism was lost in the common cause; but at the moment of her appearance, Frederick listened with devotional glances to Agatha's story and pressed her hand to his heart; and as soon as she noticed this and saw that despite the shock of her words, he still maintained his position and held her sister's hand, her wounded heart swelled again from injury and looked just as red as she had been white before she went out of the room and said, "I need not be afraid, to appear before him."
Her walking shook up the rest; and at the same moment the two brothers stepped forward because they felt the need to do something. A few words between them were enough. The case did not allow for any disagreement: you have to go directly to the salon. Mary joined them with the same intention, just the strongest of the three; for it was precisely the circumstance that had driven Julia away that was her sweetest support. That Henry Dorset held her hand in such a moment, a moment of such special probative value and importance, was worth an eternity of doubt and concern. She hailed it as a testament to the most serious determination and was willing to meet even her father. They walked away, completely unconcerned by Mr. Rushmore's repeated question: "Should I go too? Shouldn't I go too? But as soon as they were through the door, henry Dorset undertook to answer the anxious question and, by encouraging him in any case to pay his respects to Sir Thomas immediately, sent him to the others with delighted haste.
Esther was left with only the Dorsets and Mr. Yates. She was from her cousins ?? have been quite overlooked; and since her own opinion of her claims about Sir Thomas' affection was far too modest to give her any idea of how she could relate to his children, she was happy to stay behind and gain some breathing space. Their excitement and anxiety surpassed everything the others could bear by the right of a mindset that could not even prevent innocence from suffering. She almost fainted: all her former habitual fear of her uncle returned, and with her compassion for him and for almost everyone from the party about the development before him, with indescribable concern for Edmund's account. She had found a place where she endured all these fearful thoughts in excessive trembling, while the other three, without any restraint,
The Dorset's were warmer on the subject than Yates-san because they understood the family better and judged more clearly about the calamity that had to follow. The ruin of the play was certain to them: they felt the total destruction of the plan was inevitable; while Yates-san saw it only as a temporary interruption, a disaster for the evening, and could even suggest the possibility of repeating the rehearsal after tea when the hustle and bustle of Sir Thomas' reception was over and he might have had free time amused by it. The Dorset's laughed at the idea; and after they soon agreed that they should go home quietly and leave the family to their own devices, Yates suggested accompanying them and spending the evening in the rectory. But Yates-san, who had never been with those who thought much of parental entitlements, or family trust, could not see that such a thing was necessary; and therefore he thanked them and said, "He preferred to stay where he was, to pay his respects to the old Lord, for he had come; and besides, he didn't think it was fair for the others to let everyone run away."
Esther was just starting to gather and feel that it might seem disrespectful if she stayed behind longer than this point had been clarified, and when she was tasked with apologizing from the brothers and sisters, she saw them preparing to leave while calming down the room herself fulfilling the terrible duty of appearing in front of her uncle.
Too early she found herself at the salon door; and after pausing for a moment, knowing that it would not come, for a courage that the exterior of no door had ever given her, she desperately turned the lock and the lights of the salon and the whole assembled family, were in front of her. When she entered, her own name fell into her ear. Sir Thomas looked around at that moment and said, "But where is Esther? Why don't I see my little Esther?" – and when I saw her, she came out with a kindness that amazed and permeated her, called her his dear Esther, kissed her tenderly and watched with determined pleasure how much she had grown! Esther didn't know how to feel or where to look. She was quite depressed. He had never been so kind, so very kind to her in his life. His behavior seemed changed, his voice was quickly removed from the excitement of joy; and all that had been terrible in his dignity seemed to be lost in tenderness. He led her closer to the light and looked at her again – inquired especially about her condition and then noticed, improving, that he did not need to ask, because her appearance spoke enough about it. A fine redness that had followed the previous pallor of her face was justified in his assumption that her health and beauty were equally improved. Next, he inquired about her family, especially William, and his kindness was so great overall that she blamed herself for loving him so little and considering his return a misfortune; and when she had the courage to lift her eyes to his face, she saw that he had become thinner and had the burnt, exhausted, exhausted appearance of fatigue and hot climate, any tender feeling was intensified,
Sir Thomas was indeed the life of the society that now sat around the fire at his suggestion. He had the best right to be the speaker; and the joy of his feelings, after such a separation, to be back in his own house, at the center of his family, made him communicative and talkative to a very unusual degree; and he was willing to give any information regarding his journey and answer every question of his two sons almost before it was asked. His business in Antigua had been going very fast lately, and he came straight from Liverpool after having had the opportunity to make his crossing there in a private ship instead of waiting for the package; and all the little details of his actions and events, his arrival and departure, were transmitted very quickly as he sat next to Lady Schmidt and looked with warm satisfaction into the faces around him – but interrupted himself more than once to notice his happiness in finding them all at home – as unexpectedly as he came – all gathered exactly as he could have wished, but did not dare to rely on it. Mr Rushmore was not forgotten: an extremely friendly welcome and warm handshakes had already accommodated him, and with targeted attention he was now included in the objects most closely associated with Mansfield. There was nothing unpleasant about Mr Rushmore's appearance, and Sir Thomas already liked him. Rushmore was not forgotten: an extremely friendly welcome and warm handshakes had already accommodated him, and with targeted attention he was now included in the objects most closely associated with Mansfield. There was nothing unpleasant about Mr Rushmore's appearance, and Sir Thomas already liked him. Rushmore was not forgotten: an extremely friendly welcome and warm handshakes had already accommodated him, and with targeted attention he was now included in the objects most closely associated with Mansfield. There was nothing unpleasant about Mr Rushmore's appearance, and Sir Thomas already liked him.
No one in the circle listened to him with such unbroken, unadulterated pleasure as his wife, who was really very happy to see him, and whose feelings were so warmed by his sudden arrival that she brought her arousal closer than she had for the last twenty years. She had almost gone off the rails for a few minutes and was still reasonable enough to put away her work, push Pug off her side, and devote all her attention and all the rest of her sofa to her husband. She was not afraid that anyone might spoil her pleasure: her own time had been spent impeccably during his absence: she had done a lot of carpet work and made many meters of fringes; and she would have responded as frankly for the good behavior and useful pursuits of all young people as she would for her own. It was her so?? Pleasant to see him again,
Mrs. Norris was by no means comparable to her sister in terms of happiness. Not that she was plagued by many fears of Sir Thomas' disapproval when the current state of his house was to become known, for her judgment had been so blinded except by the instinctive caution with which she had thrown away Mr. Rushmore's pink satin cape, her brother-in-law entered, one could hardly say that she showed signs of anxiety; but she was upset about the nature of his return. It had left her with nothing to do. Instead of being called out of the room and seeing him first and having to spread the good news throughout the house, Sir Thomas, perhaps with a very reasonable dependence on the nerves of his wife and children, had not sought a confidant but the butler, and had followed him almost instantly into the salon. Wife. Norris felt betrayed of an office she had always relied on, whether it was his arrival or death; and now tried to be busy without having anything too busy, and strove to be important where nothing but rest was wanted. and silence. Had Sir Thomas agreed to eat, she might have gone to the housekeeper with annoying instructions and insulted the lackeys with severance orders; but Sir Thomas firmly refused the whole dinner: he wouldn't take anything until the tea came – he'd rather wait for the tea. Nevertheless, From time to time, Mrs. Norris pushed for something else; and at the most interesting moment of his crossing to England, when the alert of a French buccaneer was at its peak, she interrupted his lecture with the suggestion of a soup. "Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a plate of soup would be much better for you than tea. Have a bowl of soup."
Sir Thomas did not allow himself to be provoked. "Still the same concern for everyone's well-being, my dear Mrs. Norris," was his response. "But I'd rather have nothing but tea."
"Well then, Lady Schmidt, suppose you speak directly to tea; suppose you hurry Baddeley a little; he seems to be behind tonight." She carried this point, and Mr. Thomas' story continued.
Finally there was a break. His immediate messages were exhausted, and it seemed enough to look around joyfully, soon for one, soon for another from the beloved circle; but the break did not last long: Lady Schmidt became talkative in her high spirits, and what feelings did her children have when she heard her say: "How do you think the young people have enjoyed themselves lately, Sir Thomas? They have acted. We've all lived with acting."
"Indeed! and what did you play?"
"Oh! they will tell you all about it."
"All this will be told soon," Tom shouted hastily and with playful insouciance; "but it's not worth boring my father with it now. You will hear enough of it tomorrow, sir. We just tried to do something and amuse my mother, especially in the last week, to put together a few scenes, a little thing. We have rained so continuously almost since the beginning of October that we were almost tied to the house for days. I have hardly pulled a gun since the 3rd. Bearable sport the first three days, but since then nothing has been tried. On the first day I drove over Mansfield Wood, and Edmund conquered the woods behind Easton, and we brought home a total of six pairs, and each might have killed six times as many, but we respect your pheasants, sir, I assure you, as much as you wish. I don't think you'll definitely find your forest worse stocked than it was. I have never seen Mansfield Wood so full of pheasants in my life as I have this year. I hope you will soon be doing a day of sports there yourself, sir."
For the moment, the danger was over, and Esther's sick feelings subsided; but when the tea was brought in soon after and Sir Thomas stood up and said he could no longer be in the house without just looking into his own dear room, all excitement returned. He had left before anything had been said to prepare him for the change he had to find there; and a disturbed pause followed his disappearance. Edmund was the first to speak –
"Something has to be done," he said.
"It's time to think about our visitors," said Maria, who was still holding her hand on Henry Dorset's heart and didn't care about anything else. Where did you leave Miss Dorset, Esther?"
Esther told of her departure and delivered her message.
"Then poor Yates is all alone," Tom shouted. "I'm going to go and get him. He's not going to be a bad assistant when everything comes out."
He went to the theater and reached it just in time to witness the first meeting of his father and friend. Sir Thomas had been quite surprised to see candles burning in his room; and when he let his gaze wander around it, he noticed other symptoms of recent colonization and a general confusion in the furniture. The removal of the bookshelf in front of the door of the billiard room particularly struck him, but he had little more than time to wonder about it, as sounds from the billiard room amazed him even more. Someone spoke with a very loud accent; he didn't know the voice – more than talking – almost hello. He stepped up the door, rejoicing at that moment to have the means of direct communication, and when he opened them, he found himself on the stage of a theater and faced a scolding young man who would probably knock him down backwards. Just as Yates perceived Sir Thomas and perhaps gave him the very best start he had ever made in the course of his rehearsals, Tom Schmidt stepped in at the other end of the room; and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as it would not have been lost in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. Just as Yates perceived Sir Thomas and perhaps gave him the very best start he had ever made in the course of his rehearsals, Tom Schmidt stepped in at the other end of the room; and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as he would not have lost it in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. Just as Yates perceived Sir Thomas and perhaps gave him the very best start he had ever made in the course of his rehearsals, Tom Schmidt stepped in at the other end of the room; and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as he would not have lost it in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the entire course of his rehearsals, Tom Schmidt stepped in at the other end of the room; and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as he would not have lost it in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. and giving perhaps the very best start he had ever given in the entire course of his rehearsals, Tom Schmidt stepped in at the other end of the room; and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as he would not have lost it in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as he would not have lost it in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. and he had never found it more difficult to keep face. The solemn and astonished looks of his father at his first appearance on any stage and the gradual transformation of the passionate Baron Wildenheim into the well-behaved and easy-going Mr. Yates, who bowed and apologized to Sir Thomas Schmidt, was such a show, such a piece of true spectacle, as he would not have lost it in any case. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. To bow and apologize to Sir Thomas Schmidt was such a display, such a play a true spectacle that he would not have lost under any circumstances. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal. To bow and apologize to Sir Thomas Schmidt was such a display, such a play a true spectacle that he would not have lost under any circumstances. It would be the last – in all likelihood – the last scene on this stage; but he was sure there couldn't be a better one. The house would close with the biggest scandal.
However, there was little time left to give in to any images of cheerfulness. He, too, had to step forward and help with the introduction, and with many unpleasant sensations, he did his best. Sir Thomas received Mr. Yates with all the semen of warmth that suited his own character, but in reality he was no more pleased with the need for the acquaintance than with the way it began. Mr. Yates' family and connections were sufficiently well known to him to make his idea as a "special friend," another of his son's hundred special friends, extremely unwelcome; and it took all the bliss to be back home, and all the forbearance it could offer, to save Sir Thomas from trouble because he found himself so confused in his own house.
Tom understood his father's thoughts, and wishing from the bottom of his heart that he would always be willing to express them only partially, he began to see more clearly than ever that there might be a reason for his father's view of the ceiling and stucco of the room; and that when he inquired with mild seriousness about the fate of the pool table, he did not go beyond a very permissible thirst for knowledge. A few minutes were enough for such unsatisfactory sensations on both sides; and Sir Thomas, who had tried so hard, in response to a zealous request from Yates-san to speak a few words of calm approval regarding the happiness of the agreement, the three gentlemen returned to the salon together, Sir Thomas with an increase in gravity that was not lost to all.
"I'm coming from your theater," he said as he sat down; "I found myself in it quite unexpectedly. The proximity to my own room - but it surprised me in every way as I didn't have the slightest idea that your game had taken on such a serious character. However, it seems like a decent job, as far as I could tell by candlelight, and does my friend Christopher Jackson all the credit." And then he would have changed the subject and drunk his coffee in peace, over domestic things in a calmer tone; but Yates-san, without judgment to understand Sir Thomas' meaning, or restraint, or tenderness or discretion enough to allow him to lead the discourse while mingling himself with the least intrusiveness among the others, would keep him on the subject of theatre, would torment him with questions and remarks about it, and finally he would let him hear the whole story of his disappointment in Ecclesford. Mr. Thomas listened most politely, but found much to hurt his ideas of decency, and to confirm his bad opinion of Mr. Yates' habits of thinking from the beginning to the end of the story; and when it was over, I could not give him any assurance of sympathy other than what expressed a slight bow.
"That was actually the origin of our acting," Tom said after a short reflection. "My friend Yates brought the infection from Ecclesford, and it spread – as these things always spread, you know, sir – probably all the faster because you used to promote something like this in us so many times. It was like re-entering old ground."
Yates-san took the subject from his friend as soon as possible and immediately gave Sir Thomas an account of what they had done and were doing: telling him about the gradual increase in their views, the happy conclusion of their first difficulties, and the present promising state of affairs; told everything with such blind interest that he became fully aware not only of the restless movements of many of his friends while sitting, the change of the faces, the fidgeting, the hem! of restlessness, but prevented him from seeing even the expression of the face on which his own eyes were pinned – to see Sir Thomas' dark forehead contracted as he looked at his daughters and Edmund with inquiring seriousness, especially dwelling on the latter and a spoke language, an accusation, a rebuke that he felt in his heart. Esther felt it no less clearly, who had moved her chair back behind the end of her aunt's sofa and, even shielded, saw everything that passed her by. She could never have expected such a reproachful look at Edmund from his father; and believing that it was deserved in any way was indeed an annoyance. Sir Thomas' gaze indicated: "I have relied on your judgment, Edmund; what did you do?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to say, "Oh, not to him! Look at everyone else like that, but not at him!" and believing that it was deserved in some way was indeed an annoyance. Sir Thomas' gaze indicated: "I have relied on your judgment, Edmund; what did you do?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to say, "Oh, not to him! Look at everyone else like that, but not at him!" and believing that it was deserved in some way was indeed an annoyance. Sir Thomas' gaze indicated: "I have relied on your judgment, Edmund; what did you do?" She knelt in spirit to her uncle, and her bosom swelled to say, "Oh, not to him! Look at everyone else like that, but not at him!"
Yates-san was still talking. "To tell the truth, Sir Thomas, we were in the middle of a rehearsal when you arrived tonight. We went through the first three acts, and not without success. Our society is now so scattered since Dorset went home that nothing can be done tonight; but if you pay tribute to your company tomorrow evening, I would not fear the result. We swear by your forbearance, you understand, as young artists; we swear by your forbearance."
"My forbearance shall be granted, sir," Sir Thomas replied earnestly, "but without further trial." And with a forgiving smile, he added, "I'm coming home to be happy and forgiving." Then he turned to some or everyone else and calmly said, "Mr. and Miss Dorset were mentioned in my last letters from Mansfield. Do you find them pleasant acquaintance?"
Tom was the only one who had an answer at all, but since he took both completely without special consideration, was neither jealous in love nor in acting, he could speak very nicely of both. "Sir. Dorset was a pleasant, gentleman-like man; his sister a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl."
Mr. Rushmore could no longer remain silent. "I'm not saying he's not like a gentleman, considering; but you should tell your father that he is no taller than five feet eight, otherwise he expects a handsome man."
Sir Thomas didn't quite understand this and looked at the speaker a little surprised.
"When I have to say what I think," Mr Rushmore continued, "I think it's very uncomfortable to always rehearse. It's too much of a good thing. I don't like acting so much anymore ?? as I was at the beginning. I think we're much busier when we're sitting here comfortably below us and doing nothing."
Sir Thomas looked again and then replied with an appreciative smile: "I am pleased that we are thinking so similarly on this subject. It gives me sincere satisfaction. That I should be careful and quick-sighted and have many scruples that my children do not have is completely natural; and also that my value for domestic tranquility, for a home that excludes noisy amusements, should far exceed theirs. But to feel all this in your lifetime is an extremely favorable circumstance for yourself and for all those who are connected to you; and I am aware of how important it is to have an ally of such ?? To have weight."
Sir Thomas wanted to convey Mr Rushmore's opinion in better words than he could find himself. He was aware that he could not expect a genius in Mr. Rushmore; but as a well-judgmental, consistent young man with better ideas than his language would do him justice, he intended to value him very highly. For many others, it was impossible not to smile. Mr. Rushmore hardly knew what to do with so much meaning; but by looking, as he really felt, extremely pleased with sir Thomas' good opinion and hardly saying anything, he did his best to preserve that good opinion for a little longer.
Chapter 104
Human nature is so sympathetic to those who find themselves in interesting situations that a young person who either marries or dies is sure to be spoken kindly of.
A week had not passed since Miss Hawkins' name was first mentioned in Highbury before it was found out in any way that she had all the personal and spiritual recommendations; to be handsome, elegant, highly qualified and completely gracious: and when Mr. Alton himself arrived to triumph in his happy prospects and circulate the glory of her merits, there was very little more for him to do than tell her Christian and tell whose music she mainly played.
Mr. Alton returned, a very happy man. He had gone rejected and offended, disappointed in a very hopeful hope, after a series of seemingly strong encouragements; and not only to lose the right woman, but to find oneself humiliated to the level of a very false one. He had left deeply offended – he came back engaged with another – and with another, of course, as the first superior one, because under such circumstances only what is lost is always won. He came back cheerful and complacent, eager and busy, did not care about Miss Lodge and defied Miss Smith.
The enchanting Augusta Hawkins, in addition to all the usual virtues of perfect beauty and merit, was in possession of an independent fortune of as many thousands as one would always call ten; a point of some dignity, as well as some convenience: the story was well told; he hadn't thrown himself away – he had won a woman of 10,000 liters. or something like that; and he had won it with such delightful speed - the first hour of introduction was so very soon followed by distinguishing notification; The story he had to tell Mrs. Cole about the rise and course of the affair was so glorious — the steps so fast, from the chance encounter to dinner at Mr. Green's and the party at Mrs. Brown's.
He had captured both substance and shadow –both happiness and affection, and was exactly the happy man he was meant to be; spoke only of himself and his own worries – expected congratulations – was ready to be laughed at – and now turned with a warm, fearless smile to all the young ladies of the place, to whom he would have been more cautiously gallant just a few weeks ago.
The wedding was not a distant event, since the parties had only to please themselves and had nothing but the necessary preparations to wait; and when he left for Bath, there was a general expectation, which a certain look from Mrs. Cole did not seem to contradict, that he would bring his bride the next time he entered Highbury.
During his current short stay, Emma had barely seen him; but just enough to feel that the first meeting was over, and to give her the impression that it was not improved by the mixture of resentment and presumption that was now spreading in his air. In fact, she began to wonder that she had ever found him pleasant at all; and his sight was so inseparable from some very unpleasant feelings that she would have been grateful, except morally, as repentance, as a teaching, as a source of profitable humiliation for her own spirit, if she had been sure never to see him again. She wished him all the best; but he caused her pain, and his well-being twenty miles away would give her the greatest satisfaction.
However, the pain of his continued stay in Highbury must certainly be alleviated by his marriage. Many vain worries would be prevented – many clumsiness is smoothed out. A Mrs. Alton would be an excuse for any change in sexual intercourse; former intimacy could decrease without remark. It would almost start their civilized life again.
Emma thought very little of the lady herself. She was no doubt good enough for Mr. Alton; so accomplished that Highbury – handsome enough – probably seemed inconspicuous at Harriet's side. As for the connection, Emma was completely straightforward; convinced that after all his own vaunted claims and contempt for Harriet, he had done nothing. In this article, the truth seemed to be attainable. What it was must be uncertain; but who she was could be found out; and apart from the 10,000 l., it didn't seem that she was Harriet's superior at all. It brought no name, no blood, no alliance. Miss Hawkins was the youngest of the two daughters of a merchant from Bristol, of course he must be called; but since all the profits of his merchant life seemed so very modest, it was not unfair to suspect that the dignity of his industry had also been very moderate. She had usually spent part of each winter in Bath; but Bristol was their home, the heart of Bristol; for although the father and mother had died a few years ago, an uncle – in the legal line – remained nothing more honorable was risked by him than that he was in the right line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma thought he was some lawyer's henchman and too stupid to stand up. And all the splendor of the connection seemed to depend on the older sister who was very well married to a great gentleman near Bristol who kept two carriages! That was the end of the story; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. for although the father and mother had died a few years ago, an uncle – in the legal line – remained nothing more honorable was risked by him than that he was in the right line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma thought he was some lawyer's henchman and too stupid to stand up. And all the splendor of the connection seemed to depend on the older sister who was very well married to a great gentleman near Bristol who kept two carriages! That was the end of the story; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. for although the father and mother had died a few years ago, an uncle – in the legal line – remained nothing more honorable was risked by him than that he was in the right line; and with him the daughter had lived. Emma thought he was some lawyer's henchman and too stupid to stand up. And all the splendor of the connection seemed to depend on the older sister who was very well married to a great gentleman near Bristol who kept two carriages! That was the end of the story; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. And all the splendor of the connection seemed to depend on the older sister who was very well married to a great gentleman near Bristol who kept two carriages! That was the end of the story; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins. And all the splendor of the connection seemed to depend on the older sister who was very well married to a great gentleman near Bristol who kept two carriages! That was the end of the story; that was the glory of Miss Hawkins.
If only she could have given Harriet her feelings about all this! She had persuaded her to love; but unfortunately! it was not so easy for her to make excuses. The charm of an object that was supposed to occupy the many blank spaces in Harriet's mind could not be dismissed. He could be replaced by another; he certainly would; nothing could be clearer; even a Robert Martin would have sufficed; but nothing else, she feared, would heal her. Harriet was one of those who, once started, would always be in love. And now, poor girl! she was much worse off with the reappearance of Mr. Alton. Somewhere she saw him again and again. Emma saw him only once; but two or three times a day, Harriet was sure to meet with him or simply miss him just to hear his voice or see his shoulder, just to make something happen, to keep him in her imagination, in all the favoring warmth of surprise and conjecture. In addition, she heard from him constantly; for except when she was in Hartfield, she was always one of those who saw no fault in Mr. Alton and found nothing as interesting as discussing his concerns; and so every report, every guess – everything that had already happened, everything that could happen in the arrangement of his affairs, including income, servants and furniture, was constantly in motion around them. Their affection was strengthened by the unchanging praise from him, and their regret remained alive, and their feelings were irritated by the incessant repetitions of Miss Hawkins' cheerfulness and the constant observation of how much he seemed to be attached to him! very seated by his hat,
had it been a permissible conversation, her friend would not have been hurt or blamed for herself if Harriet's thoughts wavered that Emma had amused herself about his variations. Sometimes Mr. Alton dominated, sometimes the Martins; and each was occasionally useful as a control for the other. Mr. Alton's engagement had been the remedy for the excitement of meeting Mr. Martin. The dissatisfaction caused by knowing this engagement had been brushed aside a little when Elizabeth Martin stopped by Mrs. Goddard's house a few days later. Harriet had not been home; but a note had been prepared and left for them, written in touch style; a small mixture of reproach and a lot of kindness; and by the time Mr. Alton herself appeared, she had been very busy constantly thinking about what to do in return, and wanted to do more than she dared to admit. But Mr. Alton himself had dispelled all these worries. While he stayed, the Martins were forgotten; and the same morning he left for Bath, Emma thought it would be best to return Elizabeth Martin's visit to dispel some of the grief it caused.
How this visit should be appreciated – which would be necessary – and what could be safest had been a point of dubious consideration. Absolute neglect of the mother and sisters when they are invited would be ingratitude. It must not be: and yet the danger of a renewal of acquaintance—!
After much thought, she could not decide on anything better than to return the visit to Harriet; but in a way that, if they understood, would convince them that it should only be a formal acquaintance. She wanted to take them in the carriage, drop them off at the abbey mill as she drove a bit further, and pick them up so soon, so as not to leave time for insidious applications or dangerous relapses into the past, and to give the best of decisive proof of what level of intimacy was chosen for the future.
She couldn't think of anything better: and although there was something in it that her own heart couldn't approve of—something thankless that was only glossed over—it had to be done, or what would become of Harriet?
Chapter 105
"Woman. To everyone," Catherine said the next morning, "will it hurt anything if I visit Miss Alsina today? I'm not going to be easy until I've explained everything."
"Go in any case, my dear; wear only a white dress; Miss Alsina always wears white."
Catherine happily agreed, and since she was adequately equipped, she was more impatient than ever to be in the drinking hall to find out about General Alsina's apartment, because although she believed they were on Milsom Street, she was not sure of the house, and Ms. Allen's wavering beliefs only made it more dubious. She was led to Milsom Street, and after making herself perfect in number, she hurried away with zealous steps and a beating heart to pay her a visit, explain her behavior, and obtain forgiveness; She stumbled light-footed across the churchyard and resolutely turned her eyes away so that she would not be forced to see her beloved Bella and her dear family, who, as she had reason to believe, were in a shop nearby. She reached the house unhindered, looked at the number, knocked on the door and inquired about Miss Alsina. The man thought Miss Alsina was at home, but wasn't quite sure. Would she be happy to give her name? She gave her card. After a few minutes, the servant returned and, with a look that did not quite confirm his words, said that he was wrong because Miss Alsina had gone out. Katharina left the house with blushing insult. She felt almost convinced that Miss Alsina was at home, and too offended to allow her; and when she retreated down the street, she could not hold back a look at the salon windows, expecting to see them there, but no one appeared to them. At the end of the street, however, she looked back again, and then, not by a window, but coming out of the door, she saw Miss Alsina herself. She was followed by a gentleman whom Catherine thought was her father, and they came to Edgar. s building. Katharina continued on her way deeply offended. She could almost be angry herself at such an angry rudeness; but she controlled the annoying sensation; she remembered her own ignorance. She did not know how such an offense as hers would be classified according to the laws of worldly politeness, to which ?? Degree of irreconcilability it could lead to decency, nor to what severity of rudeness it could make them in return rightly docile.
Dejected and humble, she even thought of not going to the theater with the others that evening; but it must be admitted that they did not last long, for she soon remembered first that she had no excuse to stay at home; and secondly, that it was a play that she really wanted to see. So everyone went to the theater; no Alsinas. seemed to plague or please them; she feared that among the many perfections of the family, the preference for plays could not be counted; but maybe it was because they were used to the finer performances of the London stage, of which, as Bella knew, she made everything else of this kind "pretty terrible". She was not mistaken in her own expectation of pleasure; the comedy has taken such good care of her concern that no one, if you watched her during the first four acts, you would have assumed that she had something miserable about her. At the beginning of the fifth, however, the sudden sight of Mr. Henry Alsina and his father joining a party in the box opposite reminded them of fear and despair. The stage could no longer arouse any real cheerfulness – no longer attract all their attention. Any other glance at an average was directed at the box opposite; and for two whole scenes she watched Henry Alsina without even being able to catch his eye. He could no longer be suspected of indifference to a play; his notification was never withdrawn from the stage during two entire scenes. Eventually, however, he looked at her and bowed – but such a bow! No smile, no continued observation accompanied it; his eyes immediately returned to their former direction. Catherine was restlessly miserable; she could almost have walked around to the lodge where he was sitting and forced him to hear her explanation. Rather natural than heroic feelings possessed them; instead of seeing her own dignity violated by this willing condemnation – instead of proudly and consciously deciding to show her resentment to the one who might doubt to show her resentment, to leave him all the trouble of seeking explanation and clarification about the past only by avoiding him or flirting with someone else – she took all the shame of misconduct or at least his appearance on herself and was only eager for an opportunity, explain its cause.
The play ended – the curtain fell – Henry Alsina could no longer be seen where he had previously sat, but his father remained, and perhaps now he came to her lodge. She was right; in a few minutes he appeared, and as he made his way through the then thinning rows, he spoke to Mrs. Allen and her friend. Not with such serenity did he reply: "Oh! Alsina-san, I was pretty keen to talk to you and I apologize. You must have thought I was so rude; but it wasn't really my own fault, was it, Mrs. Allen? Didn't they tell me that Mr. Alsina and his sister had gone out together in a Phaeton? And what could I do then? But I would have preferred to be with you ten thousand times; didn't I have that, Mrs. Allen?"
"My dear, you are toppling my dress," was Mrs. Allen's reply.
However, her certainty, which stood alone as she did, was not thrown away; it brought a warmer, more natural smile to his face, and he replied in a tone that retained only a little contrived restraint: "In any case, we were very attached to you that you wished us a pleasant walk after we passed you on Argyle Street: you were kind enough to look back on purpose."
"But I really didn't wish you a pleasant walk; I never thought of anything like that; but I asked Mr. Dorfman so earnestly to stop; I called him as soon as I saw you; now, Mrs. Allen, didn't – Oh! You were not there; but I actually did; and if Mr. Dorfman had just stopped, I would have jumped out and run after you."
Is there a Henry in the world who might be insensitive to such an explanation? At least Henry Alsina wasn't. With an even sweeter smile, he said everything that needed to be said about his sister's worry, regret, and dependence on Catherine's honor. "Oh! Don't say Miss Alsina wasn't angry," Shouted Catherine, "because I know she was; for she would not see me this morning if I called her; I saw her leave the house the next minute after I left it; I was hurt, but I wasn't offended. Maybe you didn't know I was there."
"I wasn't there at the time; but I heard about it from Eleanor, and since then she wishes to see you to explain the reason for this rudeness; but maybe I'll be able to do that too. It was nothing more than that my father – they were preparing to go out, and he was in a hurry and didn't want to postpone it – made a point of refusing to do so. That's all, I assure you. She was very upset and wanted to apologize as soon as possible."
Catherine felt very reassured by this information, but a certain anxiety remained, from which arose the following question, which in itself was quite naïve, if quite disturbing for the Lord: "But, Mr. Alsina, why were you less generous than your sister? If she had so much confidence in my good intentions and could assume that it was just a mistake, why would you be so willing to take offense?
"Me! I take offense!"
"No, I'm sure judging by your appearance that you were angry when you came into the lodge."
"I'm angry! I couldn't be right."
"Well, no one would have thought that you have no right who has seen your face." He responded by asking her to make room for him and talking about the piece.
He stayed with them for some time, and it was only too pleasant for Catherine to be satisfied when he left. However, before they separated, it was agreed that the planned walk should be undertaken as soon as possible; and apart from the misery he had left her lodge, she was by and large one of the happiest creatures in the world.
While talking, she had observed with some surprise that John Dorfman, who never stayed in the same part of the house for ten minutes, got into conversation with General Alsina; and she felt a little more astonishment when she thought she could perceive herself as the object of her attention and discourse. What could they say about them? She feared that General Alsina did not like her appearance: she found that this suggested that he was preventing her from entering his daughter instead of postponing his own walk by a few minutes. "How did Mr. Dorfman meet your father?" was her anxious question when she pointed this out to her companion. He knew nothing about it; but his father, like every soldier, had a very great acquaintance.
When the conversation was over, Dorfman came to help them get out. Catherine was the immediate target of his bravery; and while they were waiting for a chair in the lobby, he prevented the question that had gone almost to the tip of her tongue by consistently asking if she had seen him talk to General Alsina: "He is a fine old guy, with my soul! Stout, active – looks as young as his son. I appreciate him very much, I assure you: a gentleman-like, good guy, as he has always lived."
"But how did you meet him?"
"Know him! There are few people in the city that I don't know. I met him at Bedford forever; and I knew his face again today when he entered the billiard room. By the way, one of the best players we have; and we had a little contact with each other, although at first I was almost afraid of him: the chances were five to four against me; and if I hadn't made one of the cleanest shots that might have ever been made in this world – I hit his ball exactly – but I couldn't make it understandable to you without a table; However, I beat him. A very fine lad; as rich as a Jew. I want to dine with him; I dare say that he gives famous dinners. But what do you think we were talking about? They. Yes, in heaven! And the general thinks you're the best girl in Bath."
"Oh! Nonsense! How can you say that?"
"And what do you think I said?" – he lowered his voice – "well done, General, I said; I totally agree with you."
Here Catherine, who was much less pleased with his admiration than with that of General Alsina, did not regret Mr. To be recalled to all. Dorfman, however, accompanied her to her chair, and until she entered it, she continued the same kind of tender flattery, although she pleaded with him to do it.
That General Alsina, instead of rejecting her, should admire her was very delightful; and she joyfully thought that there was no one in the family to fear now. The evening had done more, much more for them than one might have expected.
Chapter 106
Miss Woodland's letter arrived and put an end to the doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance that they had all settled in London for the winter, and ended with her brother's regret that he had not had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
Hope was over, all over; and when Jane was able to take care of the rest of the letter, she found little to comfort her other than the writer's declared affection. The praise of Miss Drury occupied the main part of it. Again, her many charms were addressed, and Caroline joyfully boasted of her increasing intimacy and dared to predict the fulfillment of the wishes that had been unfolded in her earlier letter. She also wrote with great pleasure that her brother was an inmate of Mr. Drury's house, and mentioned with delight some of the latter's plans regarding new furniture.
Elizabeth, who very soon told Jane the most important thing of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister and resentment against everyone else. Caroline's claim that her brother was partisan to Miss Drury was ignored by her. She didn't doubt that he really loved Jane any more than she had ever done; and as much as she had always liked him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, of this recklessness, this lack of correct determination, which now made him a slave to his tinkering friends and tempted victims of his own happiness for the whim of her inclination. However, if his own happiness had been the only victim, he might have been allowed to play with it as he thought was best, but her sister's was involved in how she thought he had to be reasonable himself. In short, it was a topic that would be thought about for a long time and that had to be in vain. She couldn't think of anything else; and yet, whether Woodland's consideration had really diminished, or had been suppressed by the interference of his friends; whether he had been aware of Jane's obstinacy or whether she had escaped his observation; Whatever the case, although her opinion of him had to be substantially influenced by the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally violated. or whether it had escaped his observation; Whatever the case, although her opinion of him had to be substantially influenced by the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally violated. or whether it had escaped his observation; Whatever the case, although her opinion of him had to be substantially influenced by the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally violated.
A day or two passed before Jane had the courage to talk to Elizabeth about her feelings; but finally, when Mrs. Mitchell had left her together, she couldn't help but say
,
"Oh, that my dear mother would have more power over herself! She can't imagine the pain she causes me by constantly thinking about him. But I'm not going to complain. It may not take long. He will be forgotten, and we will all be as we were before.'
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous care, but said nothing.
"They doubt me," Jane shouted, turning slightly red; 'in fact, you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the kindest man of my acquaintance, but that's all. I have neither to hope nor to fear and nothing to reproach him. Thank you God! I don't have THAT pain. So a little time – I'm sure I'll try to do better."
In a stronger voice, she soon added, "I immediately have this consolation that it was nothing more than a conceit on my part and that it didn't hurt anyone but me."
"My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, 'You're too good. Their sweetness and disinterest are truly angelic; I don't know what to tell you. I feel like I've never done you justice or loved you the way you deserve."
Miss Mitchell eagerly rejected all extraordinary merits and threw the praise back at her sister's warm affection.
"No," Elizabeth said, "that's not fair. YOU want to think the whole world is decent and are hurt when I talk badly about someone. I just want to think you're perfect, and you oppose it. Do not be afraid that I will run into any excesses, that I will interfere with your privilege of general benevolence. You don't need to. There are few people I really love, and even fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more dissatisfied I am with it; and every day confirms my belief in the contradictions of all human characters and in the low dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or meaning. I've been meeting with two examples lately, one I won't mention; the other is Charlotte's marriage. It's unpredictable! In every way it is inexplicable!'
"My dear Lizzy, don't give in to such feelings. They will ruin your happiness. They do not take into account enough different situations and temperaments. Consider Mr. Collins' seriousness and Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she belongs to a big family; as far as luck is concerned, it is a highly suitable game; and be prepared, for all's sake, to believe that she may feel something like respect and appreciation for our cousin.'
"To do you the favor, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could benefit from such a belief; for if I were convinced that Charlotte respects him, I would only think worse of her understanding than I do now from her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is an imaginary, pompous, narrow-minded, stupid man; you know he is, as good as I am; and you must feel, as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper mindset. You are not supposed to defend her, even though it is Charlotte Lucas. They must not, for the sake of an individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor try to convince themselves or me that selfishness is prudence and insensitivity to danger is security for happiness.'
"I have to think that your language is too strong in speaking both," Jane replied; "and I hope you will be convinced when you see them happily together. But enough of that. You alluded to something else. You mentioned TWO cases. I can't misunderstand you, but I ask you, dear Lizzy, not to hurt me by THINKING that THIS PERSON is to blame and saying that your opinion of him has been lost. We must not be so prepared to imagine ourselves being intentionally hurt. We cannot expect a lively young man to always be so careful and prudent. Very often it is nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Loving women's admiration means more than it does.'
'And men care that they should.'
"If it is done intentionally, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea that there is as much design in the world as some people imagine.'
"I am far from attributing any part of Mr Woodland's conduct to the plan," Elizabeth said; "but without having the plan to do wrong or make others unhappy, mistakes and misery can occur. Thoughtlessness, lack of attention to other people's feelings, and lack of determination will get the business done.'
"And do you attribute it to either of them?"
'Yes; to the last. But if I continue, I will displease you by saying what I think of people you value. Stop me as long as you can.'
"So you insist that his sisters influence him?"
'Yes, together with his friend.'
'I can't believe it. Why would they try to influence him? You can only wish him luck; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it.'
"Your first position is wrong. You may wish for many other things besides his happiness; they may wish for its increase in wealth and importance; You may want him to marry a girl who has all the meaning of money, great connections, and pride.'
"No doubt they want him to choose Miss Drury," Jane replied; "But that may come from better feelings than you think. They have known them much longer than me; No wonder they love them more. But whatever their own desires, it is very unlikely that they should have resisted those of their brother. Which sister would be free to do so, unless there was something very offensive? If they thought he was attached to me, they would not try to separate us; if he were, they could not succeed. By embracing such affection, you make anyone who acts unnaturally and wrongly, and me highly unhappy. Don't worry me about the idea. I'm not ashamed of being wrong – or at least it's easy, it's nothing compared to what I should feel when I think badly about him or his sisters. Let me look at it in the best light,
Elizabeth could not resist such a wish; and from that time on, the name of Mr Woodland was hardly ever mentioned between them.
Mrs. Mitchell still wondered and lamented his return, and although rarely did a day go by that Elizabeth didn't explain it clearly, there was little chance she ever thought about it with less confusion. Her daughter tried to convince her, which she herself did not believe, that his attention to Jane had merely been the effect of an ordinary and temporary affection that stopped when he no longer saw her; but although the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, it had to repeat the same story every day. Mrs. Mitchell's best consolation was that Mr. Woodland had to be back down in the summer.
Mr. Mitchell handled things differently. "Well, Lizzy," he said one day, "your sister is overjoyed, I think. I congratulate her. Aside from being married, a girl likes to be a little in love every now and then. It's something to think about, and it gives her a kind of distinction among her companions. When is it your turn? They will hardly bear to be surpassed by Jane. Now is your time. There are enough officers in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Waterhouse be YOUR man. He's a pleasant guy and would praise you."
"Thank you, sir, but a less pleasant man would satisfy me. We can't all expect Jane's luck."
"True," Mr. Mitchell said, "but it's comforting to think that you have a loving mother who will make the most of whatever may happen to you."
Mr. Waterhouse's company did an essential service by dispelling the gloom that the late perverse events had thrown at many members of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added the general impartiality. Everything Elizabeth had already heard, his claims to Mr. Drury, and everything he had suffered under him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly advertised; and everyone was pleased to know how much they had always disliked Drury-san before they knew anything about it.
Miss Mitchell was the only person who could assume that in this case there could be any mitigating circumstances unknown to Hertfordshire society; their mild and unchanging openness always asked for permission and pushed for the possibility of mistakes – but of everyone else, Mr. Drury was condemned as the worst man.
Chapter 107
Edmund's first goal the next morning was to see his father alone and give him a fair representation of the entire acting plan and to defend his own part in it only to the extent that he then knew how to earn his motives in a more sober moment. and acknowledging with complete frankness that his concession with such ?? In order to make his judgment in it very doubtful. While justifying himself, he was anxious not to say anything unkind about the others: but there was only one among them whose behavior he could mention without the need for defense or euphemism. "We are all more or less to blame," he said, "each of us except Esther. Esther is the only one who has consistently judged correctly; who was consistent. Their feelings were against it from start to finish. She has never stopped thinking about what you are entitled to. You will find everything you could wish for at Esther."
Sir Thomas saw all the inadequacy of such a scheme in such a party, and at such a time, as strongly as his son had ever assumed he had to do; he actually felt it too much for many words; and after shaking Edmund's hand, he wanted to try to lose the unpleasant impression and forget how much he himself had been forgotten as soon as he could, after the house had been freed from all the objects that confirmed the memory, and had been restored to its proper state. He did not object to his other children: he was more willing to believe that they felt their fault than to take the risk of an investigation. The accusation of an immediate conclusion of everything, the momentum of any preparation would suffice.
However, there was one person in the house that he could not leave to experience his feelings only through his behavior. He couldn't help suggesting to Mrs. Norris that he had hoped that her advice might have intervened to prevent what must have disapproved of her verdict. The young people had been very ruthless in drawing up the plan; they themselves should have been able to make a better decision; but they were young; and, with the exception of Edmund, he believed of fluctuating character; and with greater surprise, therefore, he must consider their approval of their wrong measures, their face of their uncertain pleasures, for such measures and such pleasures to be proposed. Mrs. Norris was a little confused and almost silenced as she had never been in her life; for she was ashamed to admit that she had never seen anything of the impropriety that Sir Thomas was so garish, and would not have admitted that her influence was insufficient – that she could have spoken in vain. Their only option was to get out of the topic as quickly as possible and steer the stream of Sir Thomas' ideas into a happier channel. She had much to suggest in her own praise in terms of the general attention to the interest and comfort of his family, a lot of effort and many sacrifices, which could be seen in the form of hurried walks and sudden removal from her own fireplace and many excellent indications of mistrust and thrift towards Lady Schmidt and Edmund down to the last detail, this had always resulted in a highly considerable saving and more than one bad servant had been discovered. But their main strength was in Sotherton. Their greatest support and fame was to have made the connection with the Rushmores. There it was impregnable. She lived up to Mr. Rushmore's admiration for Mary. "If I hadn't been active," she said, "and had been anxious to be introduced to his mother, and then got my sister to pay the first visit, I'm so sure as I'm sitting here that nothing would have come out of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the roads were almost impassable, but I was able to persuade them." There it was impregnable. She made all the credit for bringing out Mr. Rushmore's admiration for Mary. "If I hadn't been active," she said, "and had been anxious to be introduced to his mother, and then got my sister to make the first visit, I'm so sure as I'm sitting here that nothing would have come out of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the roads were almost impassable, but I was able to persuade them." There it was impregnable. She lived up to Mr. Rushmore's admiration for Mary. "If I hadn't been active," she said, "and had been anxious to be introduced to his mother, and then got my sister to pay the first visit, I'm so sure as I'm sitting here that nothing would have come out of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the streets were almost impassable, but I could persuade them." s admiration of Maria in some way. "If I hadn't been active," she said, "and had been anxious to be introduced to his mother, and then got my sister to pay the first visit, I'm so sure as I'm sitting here that nothing would have come out of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the streets were almost impassable, but I could persuade them." s admiration of Maria in some way. "If I hadn't been active," she said, "and had been anxious to be introduced to his mother, and then got my sister to make the first visit, I'm so sure as I'm sitting here that nothing would have come out of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the roads were almost impassable, but I was able to persuade them." I am so sure as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the roads were almost impassable, but I was able to persuade them." I am so sure as I sit here that nothing would have come of it; for Mr. Rushmore is the kind of kind, humble young man who wants a lot of encouragement, and there would be enough girls for him if we had been idle. But I have left no stone unturned. I was ready to set heaven and hell in motion to convince my sister, and eventually I convinced her. You know the distance to Sotherton; it was in the middle of winter and the roads were almost impassable, but I was able to persuade them."
"I know how great, and rightly so, your influence on Lady Schmidt and her children is, and I am all the more concerned that it should not have been."
"My dear Sir Thomas, if you had seen the condition of the roads that day! I thought we should never have passed through them, although of course we had the four horses; and the poor old coachman accompanied us out of great love and kindness, although he was hardly able to sit in the lodge because of the rheumatism I had been treating him for since Michaeli. I have finally healed him; but he was very bad all winter – and that day I couldn't help but go to his room before we left to advise him not to dare: he put on his wig; so I said, 'Coachman, you better not go; Your lady and I will be very sure; They know how consistent Stephen is, and Charles has been on the leaders so many times now that I'm sure there's no fear." But I soon realized that it would not be enough; He desperately wanted to leave, and since I hate worrying and being intrusive, I said nothing more; but my heart hurt him with every blow, and when we got to the bumpy alleys around Stoke, where it was worse than anything you can imagine with frost and snow on stone beds, I was pretty scared to death. And then there are the poor horses! To see how they make an effort! You know what I always feel for the horses. And when we arrived at the foot of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? They will laugh at me; but I got out and went up. I actually did. It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit around comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. But my heart hurt him with every push, and when we got to the bumpy alleys around Stoke, where it was worse than anything you can imagine with frost and snow on stone beds, I was pretty scared to death. And then there are the poor horses! To see how they make an effort! You know what I always feel for the horses. And when we arrived at the foot of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? They will laugh at me; but I got out and went up. I actually did. It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit around comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. But my heart hurt him with every push, and when we got to the bumpy alleys around Stoke, where it was worse than anything you can imagine with frost and snow on stone beds, I was pretty scared to death. And then there are the poor horses! To see how they make an effort! You know what I always feel for the horses. And when we arrived at the foot of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? They will laugh at me; but I got out and went up. I actually did. It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit around comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. My goal was achieved with the visit." It was worse than anything you can imagine, I was pretty scared to death because of him. And then there are the poor horses! To see how they make an effort! You know what I always feel for the horses. And when we arrived at the foot of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? They will laugh at me; but I got out and went up. I actually did. It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit around comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. My goal was achieved with the visit." It was worse than anything you can imagine, I was pretty scared to death because of him. And then there are the poor horses! To see how they make an effort! You know what I always feel for the horses. And when we arrived at the foot of Sandcroft Hill, what do you think I did? They will laugh at me; but I got out and went up. I actually did. It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit around comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. My goal was achieved with the visit." It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit around comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. My goal was achieved with the visit." It may not have saved them much, but it was something, and I couldn't bear to sit comfortably and be dragged up at the expense of these noble animals. I got a terrible cold, but I didn't pay attention to that. My goal was achieved with the visit."
"I hope we will always feel that the acquaintance is worth every effort that could be made to make it. Mr. Rushmore's behavior isn't very striking, but I was pleased with his opinion on one topic last night: his determined preference for a quiet family celebration over the hustle and bustle and confusion of acting. He seemed to feel exactly the way you could wish for."
"Yes, indeed, and the more you know about him, the better you will like him. He is not a brilliant character, but he has a thousand good qualities; and is so inclined to look up to you that I am laughed at at it completely, for everyone considers it my work. 'At my word, Mrs Norris,' Mrs. Grant said the other day, 'If Mr. Rushmore were a son of yours, he could not have greater respect for Sir Thomas.'"
Mr. Thomas gave up the point, thwarted by their excuses, disarmed by their flattery; and was forced to settle for the conviction that her kindness sometimes overwhelmed her judgment when it came to the present pleasure of her loved ones.
It was a busy morning with him. The conversation with one of them took up only a small part of it. He had to re-engage in all the usual affairs of his Mansfield life: to see his administrator and his bailiff; to examine and calculate and to go in the in-between spaces of the store to its stables and gardens and the next plantations; but energetically and methodically he had not only done all this before taking his place as host at dinner again, he had also commissioned the carpenter to tear down what had only recently been set up in the billiard room, and given that the stage painter had been dismissed long enough to justify the pleasing belief that he was at least as far away as Northampton at the time. The stage painter was gone, he had only spoiled the floor of a room, ruined all the sponges of the coachman, and made five of the sub-servants idle and dissatisfied; and Sir Thomas hoped that one or two more days would be enough to extinguish any external memory of what had been, even to the destruction of all unbound copies of the vows of the lovers in the house, for he burned everything that fell into his eyes.
Yates-san now began to understand Sir Thomas' intentions, albeit as far as never before, to understand their source. He and his friend had been outside as boss of the morning with their guns, and Tom had taken the opportunity to explain, with appropriate apologies for his father's specificity, what to expect. Yates-san felt it as clearly as one might assume. Being disappointed a second time in the same way was an example of very severe bad luck; and his indignation was so great that he believed he would attack the Baronet for the absurdity of his actions and bring him to a little more reason if he had not been careful of his friend and his friend's youngest sister. He firmly believed in it while in Mansfield Wood and all the way home; but there was something in Sir Thomas as they sat around the same table that made Yates-san think it smarter to let him go his own way and feel the stupidity of it without resistance. He had known many unpleasant fathers and was often affected by the inconveniences they caused, but never in the course of his life had he seen one of this class as incomprehensibly morally, as shamefully tyrannical as Sir Thomas. He was not a man to endure except for his children's sake, and he might be grateful to his beautiful daughter Julia that Yates-san wanted to stay under his roof for a few more days. Had he seen in the course of his entire life someone from this class who was as incomprehensibly moral, as shamefully tyrannical as Sir Thomas? He was not a man to endure except for his children's sake, and he might be grateful to his beautiful daughter Julia that Yates-san wanted to stay under his roof for a few more days. Had he seen in the course of his entire life someone from this class who was as incomprehensibly moral, as shamefully tyrannical as Sir Thomas? He was not a man to endure except for his children's sake, and he might be grateful to his beautiful daughter Julia that Yates-san wanted to stay under his roof for a few more days.
The evening passed with outward smoothness, although almost every mind was disheveled; and the music Sir Thomas demanded of his daughters helped to hide the lack of true harmony. Mary was in quite a state of excitement. It was of utmost importance to her that Dorset did not waste time explaining herself now, and she was concerned that even a day would pass without advancing this point. She had been waiting for him all morning and was still waiting for him all evening. Mr. Rushmore had left early with the great news for Sotherton; and she had lovingly hoped for such an immediate eclaircissement that could spare him the trouble of ever coming back. But they had not seen anyone from the rectory, not a single creature, and had except a kind congratulation and question from Mrs. Grant to Lady Schmidt. It was the first day in many, many weeks in which families were completely divided. Never since the beginning of August had twenty-four hours passed without somehow bringing them together. It was a sad, anxious day; and the morning, although different in the nature of evil, did not bring anything less. A few moments of feverish enjoyment were followed by hours of acute suffering. Henry Dorset was back in the house: he went with Dr. Grant, who was anxious to pay his respects to Sir Thomas, and at a fairly early hour they were led to the breakfast room where most of the family was. Sir Thomas soon appeared, and Mary saw with delight and excitement how the man she loved was introduced to her father. Their feelings were indefinable, and so they were a few minutes later when they heard Henry Dorset, who had a chair between himself and Tom, ask the latter in a low voice if there were any plans to resume the play after the present happy interruption (with a polite look at Sir Thomas), because in this case he should be careful to: to return to Mansfield at any time if the party so requests: he would leave immediately to meet his uncle in Bath immediately; but if there was any prospect of a renewal of the vow of love, he should engage positively, he should break through any other claim, he should necessarily agree with his uncle that he will attend them whenever he could be needed. The piece should not be lost due to its absence. Ask him in a low voice if there are any plans to continue the game after the current happy interruption (with a polite look at Sir Thomas), because in this case he should be anxious to return to Mansfield at any time from the party: he would immediately leave to meet his uncle in Bath immediately; but if there was any prospect of a renewal of the vow of love, he should engage positively, he should break through any other claim, he should necessarily agree with his uncle that he will attend them whenever he could be needed. The piece should not be lost due to its absence. Ask him in a low voice if there are any plans to continue the game after the current happy interruption (with a polite look at Sir Thomas), because in this case he should be anxious to return to Mansfield at any time from the party: he would immediately leave to meet his uncle in Bath immediately; but if there was any prospect of a renewal of the vow of love, he should engage positively, he should break through any other claim, he should necessarily agree with his uncle that he will attend them whenever he could be needed. The piece should not be lost due to its absence. he would leave immediately to meet his uncle immediately in Bath; but if there was any prospect of a renewal of the vow of love, he should engage positively, he should break through any other claim, he should necessarily agree with his uncle that he will attend them whenever he could be needed. The piece should not be lost due to its absence. he would leave immediately to meet his uncle immediately in Bath; but if there was any prospect of a renewal of the vow of love, he should engage positively, he should break through any other claim, he should necessarily agree with his uncle that he will attend them whenever he could be needed. The piece should not be lost due to its absence.
"From Bath, Norfolk, London, York, wherever I may be," he said; "I will visit you within an hour from any place in England."
It was good that Tom had to speak at that moment and not his sister. He could immediately say fluently, "I'm sorry you're leaving; but as far as our game is concerned, that's over – all the way to the end" (looks at his father significantly). "The painter was dismissed yesterday, and tomorrow there will be very little left of the theatre. I knew from the beginning what it would be like. It's early for Bath. You won't find anyone there."
"It's about my uncle's usual time."
"When do you intend to leave?"
"Maybe I'll get as far as Banbury today."
"Whose stables do you use in Bath?" was the next question; and while this branch of the subject was being discussed, Mary, who wanted neither pride nor determination, was preparing to meet her part of it with bearable calm.
Soon he turned to her and repeated much of what he had already said, only with a softer face and stronger expressions of regret. But what good was his facial expression or his expression? He left, and if he did not leave voluntarily, he voluntarily intended to stay away; for with the exception of what his uncle might be entitled to, his obligations were all self-imposed. He may have spoken of necessity, but she knew his independence. The hand that had pressed hers so close to his heart! the hand and the heart were now equally motionless and passive! Her spirit supported her, but the agony of her mind was severe. She did not have to endure for long what arose from hearing a language that contradicted his actions, or burying the tumult of her feelings under the restraint of society; for general courtesies soon demanded his resignation from her, and the farewell visit, as it was then openly acknowledged, was very short. He was gone – he had touched her hand for the last time, he had made his farewell bow, and she might be looking for anything that loneliness could do for her. Henry Dorset was gone, away from the house and two hours later from the church; and so all the hopes that his selfish vanity had aroused in Maria and Julia Schmidt ended.
Julia could be happy that he was gone. His presence began to be against her; and if Mary did not win it, she was now cool enough to renounce any other revenge. She did not want the exposure to be added to desertion. Henry Dorset was gone, she could even feel sorry for her sister.
With a purer mind, Esther rejoiced in intelligence. She heard it at dinner and felt it was a blessing. It was mentioned with regret by everyone else; and his merits, which were honored with the due gradation of feeling - from the sincerity of Edmunds to partial consideration to the indifference of his mother, who spoke completely by heart. Mrs. Norris began to look around and wonder that his infatuation with Julia had fizzled out; and could almost fear that she herself had been negligent in forwarding; but to provide with so many, how was it possible that even their activity kept pace with their desires?
One or two more days, and Yates-san was also gone. On his departure, Sir Thomas felt the main interest: since he wanted to be alone with his family, the presence of a stranger who was in front of Mr. Yates must have been annoying; but from him, insignificant and confident, idle and expensive, it was annoying in every way. In itself he was tiring, but as a friend of Tom and admirer of Julia, he became insulting. Sir Thomas had been quite indifferent whether Mr Dorset left or stayed: but his good wishes for a pleasant journey by Mr Yates when he walked with him to the hall door were fulfilled with real satisfaction. Mr Yates had endured seeing the destruction of all theatre preparations in Mansfield, the removal of everything that belonged to the play: he left the house in all the sobriety of his general character; and Sir Thomas hoped that
Mrs. Norris managed to remove an object from his field of vision that might have troubled him. The curtain, which she had presided over with so much talent and success, went with her to her cottage, where she happened to be particularly dependent on green wool fabric.
Chapter 108
Other opportunities to make their observations could not be missed. Anne had soon been with all fours often enough to have an opinion, although she was too smart to admit so much at home, where she knew it would not have satisfied either husband or wife; although she thought Lois was the favourite, she couldn't help but think that Captain Cambridge, as far as she dared to judge from memory and experience, was not in love with any of them. They were more in love with him; but it wasn't love. It was a small fever of admiration; but it could, probably it must end in love in some. Charles Hayter seemed to be aware that he was being offended, and yet Grace sometimes seemed to be divided between them. Anne longed for the power to show them all what they were all about and to point out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to. She did not attribute any malice to anyone. It was the greatest satisfaction for them to believe that Captain Cambridge was not in the least aware of the pain he was causing. It was not a triumph, not a pathetic triumph in its kind. He had probably never heard of any claims made by Charles Hayter and had never thought of them. He was only wrong when he accepted the attentions (because acceptance must be the word) of two young women at the same time.
However, after a brief fight, Charles Hayter seemed to leave the field. Three days had passed without him coming to Uppercross even once; a most decisive change. He had even declined a regular invitation to dinner; Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland, who were found on this occasion by Mr. Cumberland with some great books, were sure that not everything could be right, and spoke with serious faces that he was studying himself to death. It was Mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive release from Grace, and her husband lived in constant dependence on seeing him tomorrow. Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was wise.
One morning, around this time, when Charles Cumberland and Captain Cambridge had gone to shoot together, when the sisters were sitting quietly at work in the cottage, they were visited at the window by the sisters from the mansion.
It was a very nice November day, and Miss Cumberlands came through the small grounds and stopped for no other purpose than to say they were going for a long walk, and therefore came to the conclusion that Mary would not like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied with some jealousy because she wasn't considered a good hiker, "Oh, yes, I'd love to join you, I really like a long walk;" Anne felt convinced by the looks of the two girls that they did not want exactly that, and again admired the kind of necessity that family habits seemed to produce, that everything had to be communicated and everything had to be done together, but undesirable and uncomfortable. She tried to dissuade Mary from leaving, but in vain; and therefore thought it was best, Miss Cumberlands' "I can't
imagine why they would assume I shouldn't like a long walk," Mary said as she walked up the stairs. "Everyone always thinks I'm not a good hiker, and yet they wouldn't have been pleased if we refused to come along. If people deliberately come in this way to ask us, how can you say no?
Just as they were on their way, the gentlemen returned. They had taken out a young dog that had spoiled their sport and sent them back prematurely. Their time, strength and spirit were therefore exactly ready for this walk, and they approached him with pleasure. If Anne could have foreseen such a crossing, she would have stayed at home; but due to some feelings of interest and curiosity, she imagined that it was now too late to withdraw, and the whole six went together in the direction chosen by Miss Cumberlands, who obviously considered the walk to be under her leadership.
Anne's goal was not to stand in anyone's way; and where the narrow paths across the fields necessitated many separations to stay with her brother and sister. Your joy of walking must come from movement and the day, from the sight of the last smile of the year on the yellow-brown leaves and withered hedges and from the repetition of a few of the thousand poetic descriptions that exist of autumn, the season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on taste and tenderness, that season that every poet, which was worth reading, had elicit an attempt at a description or some emotional lines. She dealt as much as possible with such ruminations and quotations; but it was not possible that if he was within reach of Captain Cambridge's conversation with one of the Miss Cumberlands, she should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable. It was just a lively conversation that any young person could fall in love with on a familiar basis. He was more preoccupied with Lois than grace. Lois certainly paid more attention to him than her sister. This distinction seemed to be increasing, and there was a speech by Lois that caught her eye. After one of the many hymns of praise of the day that erupted constantly, Captain Cambridge added:
"What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They wanted to take a long drive this morning; maybe we can call them from some of these hills. You talked about coming to this side of the country. I wonder where they will get upset day. Oh! it happens very often, I assure you; but my sister doesn't care; she would almost think she was being thrown out than she didn't."
"Ah! You make the most of it, I know," Lois exclaimed, "but if it really was, I would do the same in her place. If I loved a man like she loves the admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be knocked over by him than driven safely by someone else.
It was spoken with enthusiasm.
"Did you have?" he shouted, catching the same tone; "I honor you!" And for a while there was silence between them.
Anne could not immediately fall back into a quote. The sweet scenes of autumn were pushed aside for a while, unless a tender sonnet full of apt analogies of declining year, diminishing happiness, and images of youth and hope and spring, all together, blessed their memory. She pulled herself up to say, when they took a different path on command, "Isn't this one of the ways to Winthrop?" But no one heard her, or at least no one answered her.
Winthrop, however, or his surroundings – because young men you sometimes meet walking around near their homes – was their target; and after another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the ploughs at work and the freshly made path spoke to the peasants who counteracted the sweets of poetic despondency and wanted to have spring again, they reached the summit of the most considerable hill that separated Uppercross and Winthrop and soon ordered a full view of the latter at the foot of the hill on the other side.
Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched out before them; an indifferent house, standing low, squeezed by the barns and buildings of a farm yard.
Mary exclaimed, "Blessed! Here is Winthrop. I explain, I had no idea! Well, I think we'd better turn back; I'm overly tired."
Grace was conscious and ashamed and did not see a cousin Charles walking down any path or leaning against a gate, and was ready to do what Mary wanted; but no!" said Charles Cumberland, and "No, no!" Lois shouted more eagerly, and by taking her sister aside, she seemed to be warmly discussing the matter.
Charles, meanwhile, very firmly declared his decision to visit his aunt now that he was so close; and very obviously, albeit more fearfully, he tried to get his wife to leave as well. But this was one of the points where the lady showed her strength; and when he recommended the benefit of resting at Winthrop's for a quarter of an hour because she felt so tired, she replied resolutely, "Oh! No, indeed! Going back up the hill would hurt her more than any sitting could do her good;" and, in short, her appearance and manner explained that she would not walk.
After a small episode of these kinds of debates and consultations, it was agreed between Charles and his two sisters that he and Grace would simply go to their aunt and cousins for a few minutes ???? while the rest of society waited for her on top of the hill. Lois seemed to be the main organizer of the plan; and as she walked down the hill with them a bit and was still talking to Grace, Mary took the opportunity to look around contemptuously and say
to Captain Cambridge,
"It's very unpleasant to have such connections! But I assure you, I've never been to the house upstairs twice in my life."
She received no answer other than an artificial, approving smile, followed by a contemptuous look as he turned away, the meaning of which Anne knew perfectly.
The hilltop where they stayed was a cheerful spot: Lois returned; and Mary, who found a comfortable seat for herself on the step of a fence step, was very pleased as long as the others were all standing around her; but when Lois moved away from Captain Cambridge to try to pick up nuts in an adjacent row of hedges, and they gradually disappeared completely out of sight and sound, Mary was no longer happy; she struggled with her own seat, was sure that Lois had gotten a much better one somewhere, and nothing could stop her from looking for a better one. She went through the same gate but couldn't see it. Anne found a nice place for her, on a dry, sunny shore, under the row of hedges, where she had no doubt that she was still there at any point. Mary sat down for a moment, but it didn't work;
Anne, who was very tired herself, liked to sit down; and she very soon heard Captain Cambridge and Lois in the row of hedges behind her, as if making their way along the rough, wild kind of canal back to the center. They talked to each other as they got closer. Lois' voice was the first to be awarded. She seemed to be in the middle of an eager speech. What Anne heard first was...
"And so I let them go. I could not bear that she should be deterred from the visit by such nonsense. What! , by the airs and interference of such a person, or any person I may say? No, I have no idea that I can be so easily convinced. If I decided, I did it, and Grace seemed to have it perfectly, she decided to audition for Winthrop today, and yet she was almost abandoned out of nonsensical favor!"
"She would have turned around then, but for you?"
"Indeed, it would. I'm almost ashamed to say it."
It's the worst evil of a character who is too compliant and indecisive that you can't rely on. You can never be sure if a good impression is permanent; anyone can influence it. Let those who would be happy be steadfast. Here is a nut," he said, catching one from an upper branch, "as an example: a beautiful shiny nut that, blessed with original power, has survived all autumn storms. No hole, nowhere a weak point. This nut," he continued with playful solemnity, "while so many of his brothers have fallen and been trampled underfoot, it still possesses all the happiness that a hazelnut can be capable of." Then he returned to his former serious tone - "My first wish for all those who interest me is that they remain firm.
He had done so and remained unanswered. It would have surprised Anne if Lois had been able to answer such a speech willingly: such interesting words, spoken with such serious warmth! She could imagine what Lois was feeling. For herself, she was afraid to move so that she would not be seen. While she remained there, a bush of low-growing holly protected her, and they moved on. However, before they were out of earshot, Lois spoke again.
"Mary is good-natured enough in many ways," she said; "But she sometimes provokes me excessively with her nonsense and pride – the Hightower pride. She has far too much Hightower pride. We wish so much that Charles had married Anne instead. I suppose you know he wanted to marry Anna?"
After a short pause, Captain Cambridge
said,
"Do you think she rejected him?"
"Oh! yes; safe."
"When did this happen?"
"I don't know exactly, because Grace and I were in school at the time; but I think about a year before he married Mary. I wish she had accepted him. We should all have liked them much more; and Dad and Mom always thinks it was the work of her great friend Lady Russell that she didn't. They think Charles couldn't be learned and literally enough to please Lady Russell, and that's why she persuaded Anne to reject him.
The sounds moved away, and Anne no longer differed. They still held on to their own feelings. She had to recover from a lot before she could move. The proverbial fate of the listener was not necessarily theirs; she had heard nothing evil from herself, but she had heard a great deal of very painful meaning. She saw Captain Cambridge looking at her own character, and in his manner she had been exactly that level of feeling and curiosity that must have caused her extreme excitement.
As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and after finding her former station at the fence step and going back with her, she felt a certain comfort in the fact that her whole group was gathered immediately afterwards and moving together again. Her mind wanted the solitude and silence that only numbers could give.
Charles and Grace returned and, as can be assumed, brought Charles Hayter with them. Anne could not understand the details of the deal; even Captain Cambridge did not seem to be allowed to have complete confidence here; but that there had been a retreat on the side of the Lord and a yield on the side of the lady and that they were now very happy to be together again, left no doubt. Grace looked a little ashamed but very satisfied; – Charles Hayter extraordinarily happy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first moment they all left for Uppercross.
Everything now marked Lois for Captain Cambridge; nothing could be easier; and where many departments were necessary or not, they went side by side almost as often as the other two. In a long strip of meadowland, where there was plenty of room for all, they were thus divided and formed three different parties; and to the group of three that boasted the least vividly and least smugly, Anne was absolutely one of them. She joined Charles and Mary and was tired enough to be very happy about Charles' other arm; but Charles, although he was in a very good mood towards her, was angry with his wife. Mary had been unruly towards him and was now to reap the consequences, which consisted in the fact that he dropped her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his gerte;
This long meadow bordered an alley that was to cross its footpath at its end, and when the company had all reached the exit gate, the chariot just came up, advancing in the same direction that had been heard for some time and turned out to be Admiral Fields Gig. He and his wife had taken their intended journey and returned home. When they heard how long the young people had been going for a walk, they kindly offered a place to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a whole mile, and they drove through uppercross. The invitation was general and was generally declined. The Miss Cumberlands wasn't tired at all, and Mary was either offended because she wasn't asked in front of the others, or what Lois called the Hightower pride couldn't bear to make a third place in a one-horse carriage.
The group of hikers had crossed the alley and overcame an opposite fence step, and the admiral set his horse moving again when Captain Cambridge cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his sister. The something could be guessed by its effect.
"Miss Hightower, I'm sure you're tired," Mrs. Field shouted. "Let's have the pleasure of taking you home. Here's an excellent place for three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I think there could be four of us.
Anne was still in the alley; and although she instinctively began to refuse, she was not allowed to continue. The friendly urgency of the admiral accommodated the support of his wife; they would not be rejected; they squeezed into the smallest possible space to give her a corner, and Captain Cambridge turned to her without saying a word, quietly forcing her to be helped into the carriage.
Yes; he had made it. She was in the carriage and felt that he had taken her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue and his determination to give her rest. She was very touched by the view of his attitude towards her, which made all these things clear. This small circumstance seemed to be the completion of all that had preceded. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be callous. Although he condemned her for the past and looked at her with great and unjust resentment, even though he treated her completely carelessly and clung to someone else, he still could not see her suffer without the desire to give her relief. It was a remnant of previous feelings; it was an impulse of pure, if unrecognized, friendship;
Their answers to the kindness and remarks of their companions were initially given unconsciously. They had traveled halfway along the bumpy alley before she woke up to what they said. Then she found that they were talking about "Frederick".
"He certainly intends to have one or the other of these two girls, Sophy," said the admiral; "but you can't say what. He also ran after them, long enough, one would think, to decide. Yes, that comes from peace. If it were war now, he would have done it long ago." We sailors, Miss Hightower, cannot afford to advertise for long in times of war. How many days passed, my dear, between the first time I saw you and our sitting together at our North Yarmouth accommodation?"
"We'd better not talk about it, my dear," Ms. Field replied kindly; "Because if Miss Hightower heard how quickly we communicated, she would never be convinced that we could be happy together.
"Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what should we wait for? I don't like to have such things in my hands for so long. I wish Frederick would do a little more advertising and take us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for them. And very nice young ladies they are both; I hardly know any of the others."
"Very cheerful, untouched girls, indeed," Mrs. Field said in a tone of calmer praise that led Anne to suspect that her sharper powers could not consider any of them quite worthy of her brother; "and a very decent family. You couldn't be associated with better people. My dear admiral, this post!
But by coolly giving even the reins a better direction, they happily overcame the danger; and once afterwards she reasonably stretched out her hand, they did not fall into a furrow, nor did they run into conflict with a dung cart; and Anne, with some amusement at her driving style, which in her opinion was not a bad representation of the general management of her affairs, found herself safely deposited in the cottage by them.
Chapter 109
The Palmifers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families in Barton were left behind to entertain each other. But that didn't last long; Eleanore had barely gotten her last visitors out of her head, had hardly been surprised that Charlotte was so happy for no reason that Mr. Palmifer played so simply, with good skills, and about the strange inappropriateness that often existed between husband and wife before the active zeal of Sir John and Mrs. Jennings for the cause of society gave her another new acquaintance, that she could see and observe.
On a morning trip to Exeter, they had met two young ladies whom Mrs Jennings had discovered with satisfaction as her relatives, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park as soon as their current engagements took place in Exeter were over. Her appointments in Exeter immediately gave way to such an invitation, and Lady Mideltown was left in no small distress on sir John's return when she heard that very soon she would receive a visit from two girls she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance - whose tolerable nobility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother in this regard were completely in vain. The fact that they were also their relatives made it all the worse; and Mrs. Jennings' attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately justified when she advised her daughter not to care that they were so fashionable; because they all cousins ?? and had to get along with each other. However, since it was now impossible to prevent her coming, Lady Mideltown resigned herself to the whole philosophy of a well-behaved woman and contented herself with giving her husband only a gentle reference to the subject five or six times a day.
The young ladies came, their appearance was by no means rude or unfashionable. Their clothes were very elegant, their manners very polite, they rejoiced in the house and raved about the furniture, and they loved children so much that Lady Mideltown's good opinion was used in their favor before they were a child hour in the park. She explained that they were indeed very pleasant girls, which was enthusiastic admiration for their ladyship. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with this lively praise, and he made his way straight to the cottage to tell Miss Hargroves about Miss Clayhorn's arrival and assure them that they were the sweetest girls in the world. However, there was not much to learn from such hymns of praise; Eleanore knew full well that the sweetest girls in the world could be found in all parts of England, among all sorts of variations of shape, face, temperament and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to go straight to the park and look at his guests. Benevolent, humane man! He was even embarrassed to keep a third cousin to himself.
"Come now," he said – "please come – you have to come – I declare you should come – you can't imagine how you will like them. Lucy is tremendously pretty and so cheerful and pleasant! The children are all she is already hanging around her as if she were an old acquaintance, and they both long to see you, of all people, because they heard in Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world, and I told them that everything is very good, and much more. You will certainly be happy about it. They brought the whole carriage full of toys for the children. How can you be so evil as not to come along? Why they are your cousins, you know, so to speak. YOU are my cousins, and they belong to my wife, so you must be related."
But Sir John could not prevail. He was only able to get a promise of her visit to the park within a day or two, and then left her amazed at her indifference to go home and brag about her attraction to Miss Clayhorn again, as he had already done to Miss Clayhorn for her.
When their promised visit to the park and the subsequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found nothing to admire in the appearance of the elders, who was almost thirty years old, with a very simple and unreasonable face; but in the other, who was not older than two or twenty-three, they recognized considerable beauty; her facial features were pretty, and she had a sharp, quick eye and an elegant expression that, while not giving her person any real elegance or grace, distinguished her person. - Their behavior was particularly polite, and Eleanore soon confessed to them recognition as somehow reasonable when she saw the constant and prudent attention with which they made themselves pleasing to Lady Mideltown. With their children, they were in constant delight, praising their beauty, courting their attention and delighting in their whims; and the time that could be deprived of the intrusive demands that this courtesy made of her was spent admiring what her ladyship did when she happened to do something, or taking samples of an elegant new dress in which her appearance the day before had brought her into incessant joy. Fortunately for those who pay for her farm through such weaknesses, a loving mother, although in the pursuit of praise for her children, she is the most greedy of all people, is also the most gullible; their demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow everything; and Miss Clayhorn's excessive affection and perseverance towards her descendants were therefore viewed by Lady Mideltown without the slightest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the outrageous assaults and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw her sashes loosened, her hair pulled around her ears, her work bags searched, and her knives and scissors stolen, and felt no doubt that it was a mutual pleasure. It was no surprise other than that Eleanore and Marianne sat so serenely next to them without claiming a share of what was going on.
"John is in such a mood today!" she said as he took Miss Clayhorn's handkerchief and threw it out the window — "He's full of monkey tricks."
And soon after, when the second boy pinched one of the same lady's fingers violently, she lovingly remarked, "How playful William is!"
"And here's my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three who hadn't made a sound for two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and calm - there has never been such a quiet little thing!"
But unfortunately, during these hugs, a needle in your ladyhood's headgear, which slightly scratched the child's neck, created such violent screams from this pattern of gentleness that they could hardly be surpassed by a supposedly loud being. The mother's dismay was exaggerated; but it could not beat Miss Clayhorn's anxiety, and everything was done by all three in such a critical emergency that affection might suggest alleviating the torments of the little sufferer. She sat on her mother's lap, covered in kisses, her wound bathed in lavender water, by one of the Miss Clayhorns lying on her knees to care for her, and her mouth was stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too smart to stop crying. She was still screaming and sobbing loudly,
"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Clayhorn as soon as they were gone. "It could have been a very sad accident."
"But I hardly know how," Marianne exclaimed, "unless it had been under completely different circumstances.
"What a sweet lady Lady Mideltown is!" said Lucy Clayhorn.
Marianne remained silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however insignificant the opportunity may be; and on Eleanore, therefore, always fell the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it. She did her best when she was called that way by speaking of Lady Mideltown with more warmth than she felt, albeit with far less than Miss Lucy.
"And Sir John too," exclaimed the older sister, "what a charming man he is!"
Here, too, Miss Hargrove's praise, which was simple and just, came in without any scandal. She only noticed that he was in a perfectly good mood and friendly.
"And what a delightful little family they have! I have never seen such beautiful children in my life.
"I suppose so," Eleanore said with a smile, "after what I saw this morning."
"I have a hunch," Lucy said, "you think the little Mideltowns are a little too lenient; perhaps they are the ultimate of enough; but it's so natural in Lady Mideltown; and I, for my part, love to see children fed up with life and spirits; I can't stand them if they're tame and calm."
"I confess," Eleanore replied, "that while I'm in Barton Park, I never think of tame and silent children with disgust."
This speech was followed by a short pause, which was initially interrupted by Miss Clayhorn, who seemed very willing to talk and now said quite abruptly: "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Hargrove? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."
Somewhat surprised by the familiarity of this question, or at least the way it was pronounced, Eleanore replied, yes.
"Norland is a wonderfully beautiful place, isn't it?" added Miss Clayhorn.
"We've heard that Sir John admires it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to think an apology for her sister's freedom was necessary.
"I think everyone MUST admire it," replied Eleanore, "who has ever seen the place; although it cannot be assumed that anyone can appreciate his beauties as much as we do."
"And did you have a lot of clever beaus there? I suspect you don't have that many in this part of the world;
"But why would you think," said Lucy, who was ashamed of her sister, "that there aren't as many posh young men in Devonshire as there are in Sussex?"
"No, my dear, I'm sure I'm not pretending to say there isn't one. I am sure there are a lot of clever beaus in Exeter; but you know, how could I say what smart beaus there could be? about Norland, and I was just afraid that Miss Hargrove might find it boring in Barton if they didn't have as many as they used to with them. For my part, I think they are very pleasant, provided they dress elegantly and behave politely. But I can't bear to see them dirty and evil. Now there is Mr. Rose in Exeter, an amazingly intelligent young man, quite an admirer, an employee of Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet, if you meet him only one morning, he is not suitable to be seen. – I suppose your brother was quite an admirer, Miss Hargrove, before he got married, as he was so rich?"
"To my word," Eleanore replied, "I can't tell you, because I don't quite understand the meaning of the word. But one thing I can say is that if he was ever a beau before he got married, he still is there is not the slightest change in him."
"Oh! Darling! you never think that married men are admirers - they have something else to do."
"Lord! Anne," her sister exclaimed, "You can speak of nothing but Beau; - You will make Miss Hargrove believe that you are not thinking of anything else." And then, to turn the discourse, she began to admire the house and the furniture.
This specimen of Miss Clayhorn was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the elders left her no recommendation, and since Eleanore was not blinded by the beauty or clever appearance of the youngest, she left the house without wanting to get to know her better.
Not so that of Miss Clayhorn. They came from Exeter, with great admiration for the efforts of Sir John Mideltown, his family and all his relatives, and now his beautiful cousins, for whom they pretended, were not given a meagre share of the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished and pleasant girls they had ever seen, and with whom they were particularly eager to become better known. And that's why Eleanore soon found being better known was her inevitable lot, because just as Sir John was completely on the side of Miss Clayhorn, her party would be too strong for resistance, and you have to submit to this kind of intimacy, which consists of sitting together in the same room for an hour or two almost every day. Sir John could not do more; but he didn't know that more was needed: being together was, in his opinion
, in order to do him justice, he did everything in his power to encourage their restraint by familiarizing the Miss Clayhorns in the most delicate details with everything he had to say about his cousins' situation?? knew or suspected – and Eleanore had not seen her more than twice before the eldest wished her joy that her sister had been so lucky to conquer a very clever beau since she had come to Barton.
"Țber will surely be a beautiful thing to marry her so young," she said, "and I hear he's quite a beau and incredibly handsome. And I hope you'll be just as lucky yourself soon Рbut maybe you already have a friend in the corner."
Eleanore could not assume that Sir John would be nicer if he expressed his suspicions about her consideration for Edward than he had been about Marianne; in fact, it was rather his favorite joke of the two, as it was a bit newer and more presumptuous; and since Edward's visit, they had never had dinner together without him drinking with so much meaning and so many nods and winks to their best affections to attract general attention. The letter F – had also been repeatedly produced and found to be so fruitful for countless jokes that its character had long been established as the most witty letter in the alphabet by Eleanore.
The Miss Clayhorns, as she had expected, now had all the advantages of these jokes, and in the oldest of them they aroused the curiosity to know the name of the Lord who was alluded to, who, although often brazenly expressed, perfectly agreed with his general curiosity about the concerns of their family. But Sir John didn't play with the curiosity he likes to arouse for long, because it gave him at least as much pleasure to call the name as Miss Clayhorn had to hear it.
"His name is Gastonois," he said in a very audible whisper; "but please don't say it, because it's a big secret."
"Gastonois!" repeated Miss Clayhorn; "Mr. Gastonois is the happy man, isn't he? What! Your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Hargrove? A very pleasant young man, to be sure; I know him very well."
"How can you say that, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made a change to all of her sister's claims. "Although we've seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it's quite a lot to say that we know him very well."
Eleanore heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was this uncle? Where did he live? She very much wished that the topic would continue, although she did not choose to participate in it herself; but nothing more was said, and for the first time in her life she thought Mrs. Jennings lacked either curiosity for insignificant information or a willingness to share it. The way Miss Clayhorn had spoken of Edward increased her curiosity; for it seemed to her to be quite bad-tempered and gave rise to the suspicion that this lady knew something to his detriment or imagined that she knew something Clayhorn when Sir John alluded to it or even mentioned it openly.
Chapter 110
After spending a week of expressions of love and happiness, Mr. Collins was called by his gracious Charlotte upon Saturday's arrival. However, the pain of separation could in turn be alleviated by preparations for the reception of his bride; for he had reason to hope that shortly after his return to Hertfordshire the day would be set that would make him the happiest person. He said goodbye to his relatives in Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his beautiful cousin health and happiness again and promised her father another letter of thanks.
The following Monday, Mrs. Mitchell had the pleasure of receiving her brother and wife, who came as usual to spend Christmas in Longbourn. Mr. Lockhart was a reasonable, gentleman-like man who was far superior to his sister, both by nature and by education. The ladies of Netherfield would have had difficulty believing that a man who lived by profession and lived within sight of his own warehouses could be so well behaved and pleasant. Mrs. Lockhart, who was several years younger than Mrs. Mitchell and Mrs. Phillips, was a amiable, intelligent, elegant woman and very popular with all her Longbourn nieces. Especially between the two elders and herself there was a special relationship. They had often been with her in the city.
The first part of Mrs. Lockhart's shop upon her arrival was handing out her gifts and describing the latest fashions. When this was done, she had a less active role to play. Now it was her turn to listen. Mrs. Mitchell had many complaints to report and many things to complain about. They had all been used very poorly since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been just before the wedding, and eventually there was nothing in it.
"I don't blame Jane," she continued, "because Jane would have caught Mr. Woodland if she had been able to. But Lizzy! O sister! It is very hard to imagine that she would have been Mr. Collins' wife at this point if it hadn't been for her own perversity. He made her an offer in that room, and she refused. The consequence of this is that Lady Lucas will marry a daughter in front of me, and that the Longbourn estate will be affected as much as ever. The Lucases are indeed very sophisticated people, sister. They are all for what they can get. I'm sorry to say that about them, but that's the way it is. It makes me very nervous and bad to be so slowed down in my own family and to have neighbors who think of themselves before everyone else. However, your coming at this very time is the greatest consolation, and I am very pleased to hear what you tell us about long sleeves.'
Mrs. Lockhart, who had been given the bulk of this news in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her earlier, gave her sister a small answer and directed the conversation out of pity for her nieces.
When she was alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she talked more about the subject. "It seems like a desirable match for Jane," she said. "I'm sorry it started. But these things happen so often! A young man, as you describe Mr. Woodland, falls in love with a pretty girl so easily for a few weeks, and when an accident separates her, he forgets her so easily that these kinds of inconsistencies are very common.'
"An excellent consolation in its own way," Elizabeth said, "but it won't be enough for us. We do not suffer from ACCIDENTS. It is not often that the interference of friends leads a young man with independent wealth to stop thinking about a girl with whom he was deeply in love just a few days before.'
"But this expression 'fiercely in love' is so hackneyed, so dubious, so vague that it gives me very little idea. It is applied just as often to feelings that arise from a half-hour acquaintance as it is to a real, strong bond. Please, how POWERFUL WAS Mr. Woodland's love?'
"I have never seen a more promising inclination; he became quite inattentive to other people and completely captivated by her. Every time they met, it was more determined and remarkable. At his own ball, he insulted two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself without getting an answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Isn't general rudeness the very essence of love?'
"Oh, yes! – of this kind of love that he probably felt. Poor Jane! I feel sorry for her, because with her predisposition she may not be able to get over it immediately. It would have been better for YOU, Lizzy; you would have laughed at yourself earlier. But do you think she would be made to return with us? A change of location could be useful – and perhaps a little relief from home can be as useful as anything else."
Elizabeth was extremely pleased with this proposal and felt convinced of her sister's willing approval.
"I hope," Mrs. Lockhart added, "that no consideration for this young man will influence her. We live in such different parts of the city, all our connections are so different, and we go out so little, as you know, that it is very unlikely that they will meet at all, unless he really comes to visit them. '
"And THAT is quite impossible; for he is now in the care of his friend, and Mr. Drury would no longer allow him to visit Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you come up with it? Drury-san may have heard of a place like Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly believe that a month's washing would be enough to cleanse him of his impurities once he entered it; and rely on it, Mr. Woodland never moves without him.'
'So much better. I hope they will not meet at all. But doesn't Jane correspond with his sister? She won't be able to help but shout."
'She will drop the acquaintance altogether.'
But despite the certainty in which Elizabeth seemed to place this point, as well as the even more interesting one that Woodland was discouraged from seeing Jane, she felt a concern about the subject that convinced her, after thorough examination, that she was not considering it completely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it was likely, that his affection could be revived and the influence of his friends could be successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's charms.
Miss Mitchell gladly accepted her aunt's invitation; and the Woodlands at the same time thought no differently than that since Caroline did not live in the same house with her brother, she could occasionally spend a morning with her without running the risk of seeing him.
The Lockharts stayed in Longbourn for a week; and what happened to the Phillipses, the Lucases and the officers, there was not a day without their engagement. Mrs. Mitchell had taken care of the entertainment of her brother and sister so carefully that they did not sit down once for a family dinner. When it came to the engagement at home, some of the officers always took part in it – which certainly included Mr. Waterhouse; and on that occasion, Mrs. Lockhart, who had become suspicious of Elizabeth's warm praise, watched them both closely. Without assuming that they were very seriously in love after what she saw, their preference for each other was clear enough to make them a little restless; and she decided to talk to Elizabeth about the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and to show her the unwiseness to promote such affection.
For Mrs. Lockhart, Waterhouse had a means of providing pleasure that had nothing to do with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent considerable time in the very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They therefore had many common acquaintances; and although Waterhouse had been there little since the death of Drury's father, it was in his power to give her fresher information about her former friends than she had been able to obtain before.
Mrs. Lockhart had seen Pemberley and knew the late Mr. Drury very well in character. So here was an inexhaustible topic of conversation. By comparing her memory of Pemberley to the meticulous description Waterhouse was able to give and praising the character of his late owner, she delighted him and herself. When she was introduced to the current Mr. Drury's dealings with him, she tried to remember some of this gentleman's alleged beliefs when he was still a fairly young man, which might agree with that, and was finally confident that she remembered speaking Mr. Gill Drury earlier than a very proud one, vicious boy.
Chapter 111
Little Heart had Harriet visiting. Only half an hour before her friend picked her up at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a suitcase pointed at Reverend Philip Alton, White-Hart, Bath, was to be seen being lifted into the butcher's cart to transport him to where the carriages pass; and everything in this world, except this tribe and direction, was consequently a void.
However, she left; and when she reached the yard and she was to be dropped off, at the end of the wide, well-kept gravel path that led between trellis apple trees to the front door, she saw everything she so ?? the autumn before had brought much joy to a small local unrest began to revive; and when they separated, Emma remarked, ?? that she looked around with a kind of anxious curiosity, which led her not to let the visit exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She herself went on to dedicate this part of the time to an old servant who was married and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her back to the white gate on time; and Miss Smith, who received her subpoena, was with her without delay and unsupervised by some disturbing young man. She came down the gravel path lonely – a Miss Martin who just appeared at the door and apparently said goodbye to her with solemn politeness.
Harriet could not give an understandable report very soon. She felt too much; but eventually Emma gathered enough of her to understand what kind of meeting and what kind of pain it was causing. She had only seen Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received them doubtfully, if not coolly; and almost all along, nothing more than the most mundane had been talked about – until finally, when Mrs. Martin suddenly said she thought Miss Smith was an adult, a more interesting topic and a warmer kind had come up. It was in this very room that she was measured last September together with her two friends. There were the pencil markings and notes on the paneling on the window. He had made it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion – to feel the same awareness, the same regret – ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing back like themselves (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be warm and happy) when the carriage reappeared and it was all over. The style of the visit and its brevity were then perceived as decisive. Fourteen minutes for those she had fortunately been with six weeks ago and not six months ago! – Emma couldn't help but imagine everything and feel how justified they could be annoyed, how naturally Harriet has to suffer. It was a bad deal. She would have had to give a lot or endure a lot to have the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so meritorious that a little higher should have been enough: but how could they have done it differently? – Impossible! – She couldn't regret it. They must be separated; but there was a lot of pain involved – so much for herself at the time that she soon felt the need for a little comfort and decided to go home via Randalls to get him. She was fed up with Mr. Alton and the Martins. Refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good plan; but as they drove to the door, they heard that there were neither "Lord nor Mistress at home"; they had both been away for some time; the man believed they had gone to Hartfield.
"That's a pity," Emma shouted, ?? when they turned away. "And now we're just going to miss them; too challenging! – I don't know when I was so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner to give in to her murmur or to discuss it away; probably a little bit of both - this is the most ordinary process of a non-malevolent mind. Now the car stopped; She looked up; it was stopped by Mr. and Mrs. Winstone, who stood up to talk to her. Her sight was immediately joyful, and even greater joy was conveyed by sounds – because Mr. Winstone immediately spoke to her:
"How are you? – how are you? – We sat with your father – glad to see him so well. Frank is coming tomorrow – I got a letter this morning – we'll see him for dinner tomorrow – he's in Oxford today and he's coming for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be. If he had come for Christmas, he would not have been able to stay for three days; I was always glad he didn't come at Christmas; now we have just the right weather for him, nice, dry, calm weather. We will fully enjoy it; everything turned out exactly as we wanted it to be."
There was no resistance to such news, no way to escape the influence of such a happy face as that of Mr. Winstone, confirmed by the words and face of his wife, less and quieter, but no less expedient. Knowing that she thought his coming was safe was enough to convince Emma of this, and she sincerely rejoiced in her joy. It was a most delightful revival of exhausted spirits. The spent past was sunk into the freshness of what was to come; and in the speed of half a moment of reflection, she hoped that Mr. Alton would no longer be mentioned.
Mr. Winstone told her the story of the engagements in Enscombe, which enabled his son to answer for having a full fourteen days at his command, as well as the way and method of his journey; and she listened and smiled and congratulated.
"I will take him to Hartfield soon," he said at the end.
Emma could imagine that she had seen a touch of his wife's arm during this speech.
"We'd better move on, Mr. Winstone," she said, "we're holding the girls."
"Well, well, I'm ready" – and turned back to Emma, "but you can't expect such a very fine young man; you only had my account, you know that; I dare say that he really is nothing out of the ordinary:" – although his own sparkling eyes expressed a very different conviction at the moment.
Emma was able to look completely unconscious and innocent and respond in a way that did not appropriate anything.
"Think of me tomorrow, my dear Emma, ?? about four o'clock," was Mrs. Winstone's farewell order; spoken with some fear and intended only for them.
"Four o'clock! - depend on him being here at three," was Mr Winstone's quick change; and so ended a most satisfying meeting. Emma's spirits were ascended to the point of happiness; each thing carried a different air; James and his horses didn't seem half as sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought that at least the elderberry would have to come out soon; and when she turned to Harriet, she saw something like spring, even there a tender smile.
"Will Mr. Frank Curcelle go through both Bath and Oxford?" was a question that didn't promise much.
But neither geography nor calm could come at once, and Emma was now in the mood to decide that they should both come on time.
The morning of the interesting day came, and Mrs. Winstone's faithful student did not forget at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock that she should think of her at four.
"My dear, dear worried friend," she said in a mental monologue as she walked down the stairs from her own room, "always over-caring for the well-being of everyone but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgeting, how you keep going to his room to make sure everything is okay." The clock struck twelve as it passed through the hall. "There is twelve; I will not forget to think of you in four hours; and maybe tomorrow at this time, or a little later, I might think of the possibility that they will all be called here. I'm sure they'll bring him soon."
She opened the parkour door and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father – Mr. Winstone and his son. They had arrived only a few minutes ago, and Mr. Winstone had barely finished his explanation that Frank was there a day before his time, and her father was still in the middle of his very polite welcome and congratulations when she appeared to have her share of surprise, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Curcelle who has been talked about for so long, who was so popular, was actually standing in front of her – he was introduced to her, and she did not find that too much had been said in his praise; he was a very handsome young man; Size, air, address, everything was impeccable, and his facial expression had much of his father's spirit and liveliness; he looked quick and reasonable. She immediately felt that she should like him; and there was a well-behaved ease of behavior and a willingness to speak that convinced them that he came to meet them, and that they must soon be known.
He had reached Randalls the night before. She rejoiced in the eagerness to arrive, which had caused him to change his plan and travel earlier, later and faster to win half a day.
"I told you yesterday," shouted Mr. Winstone with joy, "I told you all that he would be here before that time. I remembered what I used to do myself. You can't sneak on a journey; you can't help but progress faster than you planned; and the pleasure of meeting your friends before the lookout begins is worth much more than any little effort it takes."
"It is a great pleasure where you can treat yourself to it," said the young man, "although there are not many houses that I should rely on until now; but when I got home, I felt like I could do anything."
The word home made his father look at him with fresh complacency. Emma was immediately sure that he knew how to make himself comfortable; the conviction was strengthened by the following. He was very pleased with Randalls, thought it was a most admirably decorated house, would hardly allow himself to be even very small, admired the location, the way to Highbury, Highbury itself, even more Hartfield, and admitted to having always felt a kind of interest in the land that only gives his own country, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he had never been able to indulge in such a kind feeling before, Emma went through her head suspiciously; but still, if it was a lie, it was a pleasant and pleasantly handled. His manner had no hint of study or exaggeration.
Their topics were generally those that belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the questions: "Was she a rider? – Pleasant rides? – Pleasant walks? – Did they have a big neighborhood? – Highbury perhaps offered enough company? – There were several very pretty houses in and around them. – Eggs – did they have eggs? – Was it a musical society?"
But when he was satisfied on all these points and their acquaintance was relatively advanced, he found an opportunity, while their two fathers were busy with each other, to introduce his mother-in-law and to speak of her with so much beautiful praise. so much heartfelt admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she gave his father, and her very kind welcome from himself, which was further proof that he knew how to satisfy – and that he certainly thought it was worth the effort to try to please her. He did not bring a word of praise beyond what She felt Mrs. Winstone deserved; but no doubt he could know very little about the matter. He understood what was welcome; he could hardly be sure anymore. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the smartest measure, every friend must rejoice;
He came as close as he could to thank her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming to forget that in the general course of events it was more likely that Miss Taylor had shaped the character of Miss Lodge than Miss Lodge Miss Taylors. And finally, as if determined to fully qualify his opinion to travel around for their purpose, he ended the whole thing with amazement at the youth and beauty of her person.
"Elegant, pleasant manners, I was prepared for that," he said; "but I confess that, all in all, I did not expect more than a very bearably handsome woman at a certain age; I didn't know I was going to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Winstone."
"You can't look at Mrs. Winstone too much perfection for my feelings," Emma said; "If you were to estimate them to be eighteen, I would listen with pleasure; but she would be willing to argue with you because you used such words. Don't let her believe that you spoke of her as a pretty young woman."
"I hope I should know better," he replied; "No, rely (with a gallant bow) that when I turn to Mrs. Winstone, I understand who I could praise without running the risk of being considered exaggerated in my terms."
Emma wondered if the same suspicion that had strongly permeated her, what they might expect from their mutual acquaintance, had ever been in his head; and whether his compliments should be seen as a sign of approval or as evidence of defiance. She must see more of him in order to understand his ways; now she just found them pleasant.
She had no doubt about what Mr. Winstone often thought of. His quick eye, which she looked at again and again with a happy expression, she noticed; and even if he had decided not to look, she was confident that he would listen often.
The complete liberation of her own father from any thought of this kind, the complete absence of any kind of penetration or mistrust in him, was a most pleasant circumstance. Fortunately, he was no further from approving marriage than he predicted. - Although he always protested against any arranged marriage, he never suffered in advance from the concern of one; it seemed as if he could not think so badly about the understanding of two people to assume that they intended to marry until it was proven against them. She blessed the favored blindness. He could now, without the disadvantage of a single unpleasant guess, without looking ahead at a possible betrayal of his guest, give in to all his natural, friendly courtesy in careful inquiries about Mr. Frank Curcelle's accommodation on his trip, After a reasonable visit,
Mr. Winstone set off. "He has to go. He had shops in the Crown because of his hay and a lot of errands for Mrs. Winstone at Ford, but otherwise he doesn't need to hurry." His son, too well-behaved to hear the wink, also immediately stood up and said,
"As you continue to travel on business, sir, I will take the opportunity to pay you a visit that will have to be paid one day and therefore may as well be done now. I have the honour of meeting a neighbour of yours, (turns to Emma) a lady who lives in or near Highbury; a family called Saxon. I suppose I won't have any trouble finding the house; although Saxon, I don't think it's the right name – I should rather say Barnes or Bates. Do you know a family of that name?"
"Of course," his father shouted; "Woman. Bates – we passed her house – I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you know Miss Saxon; I remember you knew her in Weymouth, and she's a fine girl. Be sure to call them."
"There is no need for my call this morning," said the young man; "Another day would be enough; but in Weymouth there was this notoriety that ...«
"Oh! go today, go today. Don't move it. What is right cannot be done too soon. And besides, I have to give you a hint, Frank; any lack of attention to them here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells when she was on an equal footing with everyone she mingled with, but here she's with a poor old grandmother who barely has enough to live on. If you don't call earlier, it will be a trifle."
The son seemed convinced.
"I heard her talk about the acquaintance," Emma said; "She is a very elegant young woman."
He agreed, but with such a silent "yes" that she almost wanted to doubt his real approval; and yet there must be a very distinct kind of elegance for the fashion world, if only Jane Saxon could usually be kept gifted with it.
"If you've never particularly noticed their manners," she said, "then I think you'll do it today. You will see them advantageously; See her and hear her – no, I'm afraid you won't hear her at all, because she has an aunt who never keeps her mouth shut."
"You know Miss Jane Saxon, sir, don't you?" said Mr. Lodge, always the last to prevail in the conversation; " Then allow me to assure you that you will find her as a very pleasant young lady. She stays here to visit her grandmother and aunt, very worthy people; I've known them all my life. They will be very happy to see you, I'm sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to show you the way."
"My dear Lord, at no cost in the world; my father can guide me."
"But your father doesn't go that far; he only goes to the Crown, just across the street, and there are a lot of houses; You might be very perplexed, and it's a very dirty walk if you don't stay on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where to cross the road."
Mr. Frank Curcelle refused anyway and looked as serious as possible, and his father warmly supported him by shouting, "My good friend, this is pretty unnecessary; Frank recognizes a puddle of water when he sees it, and as for Mrs. Bates', he can get there from the crown in a hop, step and jump."
They were allowed to walk alone; and with a warm nod from one and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen said goodbye. Emma was still very happy with this beginning of the acquaintance and could now get involved in thinking of all of them at any time of the day in Randalls, with full confidence in her comfort.
Chapter 111
Little Heart had Harriet visiting. Only half an hour before her friend picked her up at Mrs. Goddard's, her evil stars had led her to the very spot where, at that moment, a suitcase pointed at Reverend Philip Alton, White-Hart, Bath, was to be seen being lifted into the butcher's cart to transport him to where the carriages pass; and everything in this world, except this tribe and direction, was consequently a void.
However, she left; and when she reached the yard and she was to be dropped off, at the end of the wide, well-kept gravel path that led between trellis apple trees to the front door, she saw everything she so ?? the autumn before had brought much joy to a small local unrest began to revive; and when they separated, Emma remarked, ?? that she looked around with a kind of anxious curiosity, which led her not to let the visit exceed the proposed quarter of an hour. She herself went on to dedicate this part of the time to an old servant who was married and settled in Donwell.
The quarter of an hour brought her back to the white gate on time; and Miss Smith, who received her subpoena, was with her without delay and unsupervised by some disturbing young man. She came down the gravel path lonely – a Miss Martin who just appeared at the door and apparently said goodbye to her with solemn politeness.
Harriet could not give an understandable report very soon. She felt too much; but eventually Emma gathered enough of her to understand what kind of meeting and what kind of pain it was causing. She had only seen Mrs. Martin and the two girls. They had received them doubtfully, if not coolly; and almost all along, nothing more than the most mundane had been talked about – until finally, when Mrs. Martin suddenly said she thought Miss Smith was an adult, a more interesting topic and a warmer kind had come up. It was in this very room that she was measured last September together with her two friends. There were the pencil markings and notes on the paneling on the window. He had made it. They all seemed to remember the day, the hour, the party, the occasion – to feel the same awareness, the same regret – ready to return to the same good understanding; and they were just growing back like themselves (Harriet, as Emma must suspect, as ready as the best of them to be warm and happy) when the carriage reappeared and it was all over. The style of the visit and its brevity were then perceived as decisive. Fourteen minutes for those she had fortunately been with six weeks ago and not six months ago! – Emma couldn't help but imagine everything and feel how justified they could be annoyed, how naturally Harriet has to suffer. It was a bad deal. She would have had to give a lot or endure a lot to have the Martins in a higher rank of life. They were so meritorious that a little higher should have been enough: but how could they have done it differently? – Impossible! – She couldn't regret it. They must be separated; but there was a lot of pain involved – so much for herself at the time that she soon felt the need for a little comfort and decided to go home via Randalls to get him. She was fed up with Mr. Alton and the Martins. Refreshment of Randalls was absolutely necessary.
It was a good plan; but as they drove to the door, they heard that there were neither "Lord nor Mistress at home"; they had both been away for some time; the man believed they had gone to Hartfield.
"That's a pity," Emma shouted, ?? when they turned away. "And now we're just going to miss them; too challenging! – I don't know when I was so disappointed." And she leaned back in the corner to give in to her murmur or to discuss it away; probably a little bit of both - this is the most ordinary process of a non-malevolent mind. Now the car stopped; She looked up; it was stopped by Mr. and Mrs. Winstone, who stood up to talk to her. Her sight was immediately joyful, and even greater joy was conveyed by sounds – because Mr. Winstone immediately spoke to her:
"How are you? – how are you? – We sat with your father – glad to see him so well. Frank is coming tomorrow – I got a letter this morning – we'll see him for dinner tomorrow – he's in Oxford today and he's coming for a whole fortnight; I knew it would be. If he had come for Christmas, he would not have been able to stay for three days; I was always glad he didn't come at Christmas; now we have just the right weather for him, nice, dry, calm weather. We will fully enjoy it; everything turned out exactly as we wanted it to be."
There was no resistance to such news, no way to escape the influence of such a happy face as that of Mr. Winstone, confirmed by the words and face of his wife, less and quieter, but no less expedient. Knowing that she thought his coming was safe was enough to convince Emma of this, and she sincerely rejoiced in her joy. It was a most delightful revival of exhausted spirits. The spent past was sunk into the freshness of what was to come; and in the speed of half a moment of reflection, she hoped that Mr. Alton would no longer be mentioned.
Mr. Winstone told her the story of the engagements in Enscombe, which enabled his son to answer for having a full fourteen days at his command, as well as the way and method of his journey; and she listened and smiled and congratulated.
"I will take him to Hartfield soon," he said at the end.
Emma could imagine that she had seen a touch of his wife's arm during this speech.
"We'd better move on, Mr. Winstone," she said, "we're holding the girls."
"Well, well, I'm ready" – and turned back to Emma, "but you can't expect such a very fine young man; you only had my account, you know that; I dare say that he really is nothing out of the ordinary:" – although his own sparkling eyes expressed a very different conviction at the moment.
Emma was able to look completely unconscious and innocent and respond in a way that did not appropriate anything.
"Think of me tomorrow, my dear Emma, ?? about four o'clock," was Mrs. Winstone's farewell order; spoken with some fear and intended only for them.
"Four o'clock! - depend on him being here at three," was Mr Winstone's quick change; and so ended a most satisfying meeting. Emma's spirits were ascended to the point of happiness; each thing carried a different air; James and his horses didn't seem half as sluggish as before. When she looked at the hedges, she thought that at least the elderberry would have to come out soon; and when she turned to Harriet, she saw something like spring, even there a tender smile.
"Will Mr. Frank Curcelle go through both Bath and Oxford?" was a question that didn't promise much.
But neither geography nor calm could come at once, and Emma was now in the mood to decide that they should both come on time.
The morning of the interesting day came, and Mrs. Winstone's faithful student did not forget at ten, eleven, or twelve o'clock that she should think of her at four.
"My dear, dear worried friend," she said in a mental monologue as she walked down the stairs from her own room, "always over-caring for the well-being of everyone but your own; I see you now in all your little fidgeting, how you keep going to his room to make sure everything is okay." The clock struck twelve as it passed through the hall. "There is twelve; I will not forget to think of you in four hours; and maybe tomorrow at this time, or a little later, I might think of the possibility that they will all be called here. I'm sure they'll bring him soon."
She opened the parkour door and saw two gentlemen sitting with her father – Mr. Winstone and his son. They had arrived only a few minutes ago, and Mr. Winstone had barely finished his explanation that Frank was there a day before his time, and her father was still in the middle of his very polite welcome and congratulations when she appeared to have her share of surprise, introduction, and pleasure.
The Frank Curcelle who has been talked about for so long, who was so popular, was actually standing in front of her – he was introduced to her, and she did not find that too much had been said in his praise; he was a very handsome young man; Size, air, address, everything was impeccable, and his facial expression had much of his father's spirit and liveliness; he looked quick and reasonable. She immediately felt that she should like him; and there was a well-behaved ease of behavior and a willingness to speak that convinced them that he came to meet them, and that they must soon be known.
He had reached Randalls the night before. She rejoiced in the eagerness to arrive, which had caused him to change his plan and travel earlier, later and faster to win half a day.
"I told you yesterday," shouted Mr. Winstone with joy, "I told you all that he would be here before that time. I remembered what I used to do myself. You can't sneak on a journey; you can't help but progress faster than you planned; and the pleasure of meeting your friends before the lookout begins is worth much more than any little effort it takes."
"It is a great pleasure where you can treat yourself to it," said the young man, "although there are not many houses that I should rely on until now; but when I got home, I felt like I could do anything."
The word home made his father look at him with fresh complacency. Emma was immediately sure that he knew how to make himself comfortable; the conviction was strengthened by the following. He was very pleased with Randalls, thought it was a most admirably decorated house, would hardly allow himself to be even very small, admired the location, the way to Highbury, Highbury itself, even more Hartfield, and admitted to having always felt a kind of interest in the land that only gives his own country, and the greatest curiosity to visit it. That he had never been able to indulge in such a kind feeling before, Emma went through her head suspiciously; but still, if it was a lie, it was a pleasant and pleasantly handled. His manner had no hint of study or exaggeration.
Their topics were generally those that belong to an opening acquaintance. On his side were the questions: "Was she a rider? – Pleasant rides? – Pleasant walks? – Did they have a big neighborhood? – Highbury perhaps offered enough company? – There were several very pretty houses in and around them. – Eggs – did they have eggs? – Was it a musical society?"
But when he was satisfied on all these points and their acquaintance was proportionally advanced, he found an opportunity, while their two fathers were busy with each other, to introduce his mother-in-law and speak of her with so much beautiful praise. so much heartfelt admiration, so much gratitude for the happiness she gave his father, and her very kind welcome from himself, which was further proof that he knew how to satisfy – and that he certainly thought it was worth the effort to try to please her. He did not bring a word of praise beyond what She felt Mrs. Winstone deserved; but no doubt he could know very little about the matter. He understood what was welcome; he could hardly be sure anymore. "His father's marriage," he said, "had been the smartest measure, every friend must rejoice;
He came as close as he could to thank her for Miss Taylor's merits, without seeming to forget that in the general course of events it was more likely that Miss Taylor had shaped the character of Miss Lodge than Miss Lodge Miss Taylors. And finally, as if determined to fully qualify his opinion to travel around for their purpose, he ended the whole thing with amazement at the youth and beauty of her person.
"Elegant, pleasant manners, I was prepared for that," he said; "but I confess that, all in all, I did not expect more than a very bearably handsome woman at a certain age; I didn't know I was going to find a pretty young woman in Mrs. Winstone."
"You can't look at Mrs. Winstone too much perfection for my feelings," Emma said; "If you were to estimate them to be eighteen, I would listen with pleasure; but she would be willing to argue with you because you used such words. Don't let her believe that you spoke of her as a pretty young woman."
"I hope I should know better," he replied; "No, rely (with a gallant bow) that when I turn to Mrs. Winstone, I understand who I could praise without running the risk of being considered exaggerated in my terms."
Emma wondered if the same suspicion that had strongly permeated her, what they might expect from their mutual acquaintance, had ever been in his head; and whether his compliments should be seen as a sign of approval or as evidence of defiance. She must see more of him in order to understand his ways; now she just found them pleasant.
She had no doubt about what Mr. Winstone often thought of. His quick eye, which she looked at again and again with a happy expression, she noticed; and even if he had decided not to look, she was confident that he would listen often.
The complete liberation of her own father from any thought of this kind, the complete absence of any kind of penetration or mistrust in him, was a most pleasant circumstance. Fortunately, he was no further from approving marriage than he predicted. - Although he always protested against any arranged marriage, he never suffered in advance from the concern of one; it seemed as if he could not think so badly about the understanding of two people to assume that they intended to marry until it was proven against them. She blessed the favored blindness. He could now, without the disadvantage of a single unpleasant guess, without looking ahead at a possible betrayal of his guest, give in to all his natural, friendly courtesy in careful inquiries about Mr. Frank Curcelle's accommodation on his trip, After a reasonable visit,
Mr. Winstone set off. "He has to go. He had shops in the Crown because of his hay and a lot of errands for Mrs. Winstone at Ford, but otherwise he doesn't need to hurry." His son, too well-behaved to hear the wink, also immediately stood up and said,
"As you continue to travel on business, sir, I will take the opportunity to pay you a visit that will have to be paid one day and therefore may as well be done now. I have the honour of meeting a neighbour of yours, (turns to Emma) a lady who lives in or near Highbury; a family called Saxon. I suppose I won't have any trouble finding the house; although Saxon, I don't think it's the right name – I should rather say Barnes or Bates. Do you know a family of that name?"
"Of course," his father shouted; "Woman. Bates – we passed her house – I saw Miss Bates at the window. True, true, you know Miss Saxon; I remember you knew her in Weymouth, and she's a fine girl. Be sure to call them."
"There is no need for my call this morning," said the young man; "Another day would be enough; but in Weymouth there was this notoriety that ...«
"Oh! go today, go today. Don't move it. What is right cannot be done too soon. And besides, I have to give you a hint, Frank; any lack of attention to them here should be carefully avoided. You saw her with the Campbells when she was on an equal footing with everyone she mingled with, but here she's with a poor old grandmother who barely has enough to live on. If you don't call earlier, it will be a trifle."
The son seemed convinced.
"I heard her talk about the acquaintance," Emma said; "She is a very elegant young woman."
He agreed, but with such a silent "yes" that she almost wanted to doubt his real approval; and yet there must be a very distinct kind of elegance for the fashion world, if only Jane Saxon could usually be kept gifted with it.
"If you've never particularly noticed their manners," she said, "then I think you'll do it today. You will see them advantageously; See her and hear her – no, I'm afraid you won't hear her at all, because she has an aunt who never keeps her mouth shut."
"You know Miss Jane Saxon, sir, don't you?" said Mr. Lodge, always the last to prevail in the conversation; " Then allow me to assure you that you will find her as a very pleasant young lady. She stays here to visit her grandmother and aunt, very worthy people; I've known them all my life. They will be very happy to see you, I'm sure; and one of my servants shall go with you to show you the way."
"My dear Lord, at no cost in the world; my father can guide me."
"But your father doesn't go that far; he only goes to the Crown, just across the street, and there are a lot of houses; You might be very perplexed, and it's a very dirty walk if you don't stay on the footpath; but my coachman can tell you where to cross the road."
Mr. Frank Curcelle refused anyway and looked as serious as possible, and his father warmly supported him by shouting, "My good friend, this is pretty unnecessary; Frank recognizes a puddle of water when he sees it, and as for Mrs. Bates', he can get there from the crown in a hop, step and jump."
They were allowed to walk alone; and with a warm nod from one and a graceful bow from the other, the two gentlemen said goodbye. Emma was still very happy with this beginning of the acquaintance and could now get involved in thinking of all of them at any time of the day in Randalls, with full confidence in her comfort.
Chapter 112
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday have now passed in retrospect before the reader; the events of each day, its hopes and fears, its insults and pleasures have been listed separately, and the torments of Sunday now only need to be described and conclude the week. The Clifton plan had been postponed, not abandoned, and in the afternoon of crescent of that day it was brought forward again. In a private consultation between Bella and James, the former of whom had put her heart especially on leaving, and the latter no less anxious to please her, it was agreed that the party should take place, provided the weather was nice the following morning; and they should leave very early to be home on time. The affair was thus decided and Dorfman's approval secured, Catherine only had to be informed. She had left her alone for a few minutes to talk to Miss Alsina. In that meantime, the plan was complete, and as soon as she returned, her consent was demanded; but instead of the cheerful approval expected from Bella, Catherine looked serious, was very sorry, but could not leave. The engagement that should have prevented her from participating in the earlier attempt would make it impossible for her to accompany her now. She had arranged this moment with Miss Alsina to go on her planned walk tomorrow; it was quite determined, and she would not resign under any circumstances. But that she must and should resign was immediately the zealous cry of both Dorfmans; they have to go to Clifton tomorrow, they wouldn't leave without them, it would be nothing to postpone a mere walk for a day longer, and they didn't want to hear about a rejection. Catherine was desperate, but not depressed. "Don't push me, Bella. I am engaged to Miss Alsina. I can't leave." That was of no use. They attacked the same arguments again; she had to go, she had to go, and they didn't want to hear about a rejection. "It would be so easy to tell Miss Alsina that you have just been reminded of a previous engagement and just need to ask to postpone the walk to Tuesday."
"No, it wouldn't be easy. I couldn't do it. There was no previous engagement." But Bella became more and more urgent, calling her in the most loving way, addressing her with the most endearing names. She was sure that her sweetest, sweetest Catherine wouldn't seriously deny such an insignificant request to a friend she loved so much. She knew that her beloved Catherine had such a soulful heart and temperament that she was so easily convinced by those she loved. But all for free; Catherine felt right, and although she was tormented by such tender, flattering pleading, she could not be influenced by it. Bella then tried another method. She accused her of having more affection for Miss Alsina, even though she knew her so little than with her best and oldest friends, had become cold and indifferent, in short, towards herself. "I can't help but be jealous, Catherine, when I see myself being offended for strangers, me who love you so much! Once my affections are set, it is not in the power of anything to change them. But I think my feelings are stronger than anyone's; I am sure they are too strong for my own peace; and to see myself repressed by strangers in your friendship hits me to the core, I admit that. These Alsinas seem to devour everything else." and to see me repressed by strangers in your friendship hits me to the core, I admit that. These Alsinas seem to devour everything else." and to see me repressed by strangers in your friendship hits me to the core, I admit that. These Alsinas seem to devour everything else."
Catherine found this accusation equally strange and unfriendly. Was it a friend's job to reveal her feelings to the attention of others? Bella seemed petty and selfish to her, regardless of everything except her own satisfaction. These painful thoughts came to her mind, even though she said nothing. Bella had put her handkerchief on her eyes in the meantime; and Fenmore, unhappy at such a sight, couldn't help but say, "No, Catherine. I don't think you can stand out anymore. The sacrifice is not much; and to obey such a friend – I will find you quite unfriendly if you still refuse."
This was the first time her brother openly opposed her, and to avoid his displeasure, she proposed a compromise. If they only postponed their plan to Tuesday, which they could easily do, since it only depended on themselves, she could come along, and then everyone would be satisfied. But "No, no, no!" was the immediate answer; "That couldn't be, because Dorfman didn't know he might not go to town on Tuesday." Catherine was sorry, but she couldn't do more; and a brief silence followed, interrupted by Bella, who said with a voice of cold resentment, "Very good, then the party is over. If Catherine doesn't go, I can't. I can't be the only woman. I wouldn't do anything so inappropriate under any circumstances in the world."
"Catherine, you have to go," James said.
"But why can't Mr. Dorfman drive one of his other sisters? I dare say that one of them would like to leave."
"Thank you," shouted Dorfman, "but I didn't come to Bath to drive my sisters around and look like an idiot. No, if you don't go, d—— me if I do. I'm just going to drive you."
"That's a compliment that doesn't give me pleasure." But her words were lost to Dorfman, who had abruptly turned away.
The other three still went on together and went to poor Catherine in a most uncomfortable way; sometimes not a word was said, sometimes she was attacked again with supplications or accusations, and her arm was still connected to Bella, even though her hearts were at war. One moment she was soft, the other irritable; always desperate, but always firm.
"I didn't think you were so persistent, Catherine," James said; "You weren't used to being so hard to convince; You were once the nicest and most spirited of my sisters."
"I hope I'm no less now," she replied very sensitively; "But I really can't go. If I'm wrong, I do what I think is right."
"I suspect," Bella said quietly, "there's no big fight."
Catherine's heart swelled; she pulled her arm away and Bella offered no resistance. Ten minutes passed before Dorfman joined them again, who came up to them with a happier look and said: "Well, I've done the job, and now we can all leave tomorrow with a clear conscience. I was with Miss Alsina and I apologized to you."
"You didn't have!" shouted Catherine.
"I have, with my soul. Left her at that moment. Told her you sent me to tell her that after you just remembered an earlier appointment to go to Clifton with us tomorrow, you can't have the pleasure of walking with her before Tuesday. She said very well that Tuesday was just as convenient for her; this puts an end to all our difficulties. A pretty good thought from me – hey?"
Bella's expression was once again full of smiles and a good mood, and James also looked happy again.
"Indeed a heavenly thought! Well, my sweet Catherine, all our worries are over; They are honorably acquitted, and we will have a most delightful party."
"You can't do that," Catherine said; "I can't submit to that. I have to run right after Miss Alsina and fix her."
Bella, however, grabbed one hand, Dorfman the other, and protests poured out from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was done, when Miss Alsina herself said that Tuesday would also suit her, it was quite ridiculous, quite nonsensical, to object to something else.
"I don't care. Mr. Dorfman had no job of inventing such a message. If I had thought it right to postpone it, I could have spoken to Miss Alsina myself. It only does this in a crude way; and how do I know that Mr. Dorfman – maybe he is wrong again; He led me to an act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Dorfman; Bella, don't stop me."
Dorfman told her it would be in vain to persecute the Alsinas; they just turned the corner into Brock Street when he had overtaken them and were already home by that time.
"Then I will pursue them," said Catherine; "Wherever they are, I will pursue them. It does not mean to speak. If I could not be persuaded to do what I thought was wrong, I would never be tempted to do so." And with these words, she broke away and hurried away. Dorfman would have run after her, but Fenmore held him back. "Let her go, let her go if she wants to go."
"She is as persistent as ..."
Dorfman never finished the parable, because it could hardly have been a real one.
Catherine walked away in great excitement as quickly as the crowd allowed her to, for fear of being persecuted, and yet determined to persevere. As she walked, she thought about what had happened. She was embarrassed to disappoint and displease her, especially to displease her brother; but she could not regret her resistance. To dismiss her own tendency to have failed a second time in her engagement to Miss Alsina, to have withdrawn a promise voluntarily made just five minutes earlier, and to have done so under false pretenses, must have been wrong. Not only had she resisted them out of selfish principles, she had not only consulted her own satisfaction; this could have been ensured to some extent by the excursion itself by seeing Blaize Castle; no, she had taken care of what others were entitled to and, in her opinion, her own character. However, their conviction that they were right was not sufficient to restore their composure; until she had spoken to Miss Alsina, she could not calm down; and when she had left the Crescent behind, she accelerated her steps and almost ran over the rest of the terrain until she reached the end of Milsom Street. Their movements had been so fast that, despite the initial advantage of the Alsina, they were just turning into their accommodations when she came into her sight; and the servant, who still remained at the open door, only used the ceremony to tell her that she had to talk to Miss Alsina at that moment, and hurried past him and went upstairs. When she opened the first door in front of her, which happened to be the right one, she immediately found herself in the salon with General Alsina, his son and his daughter. Their explanation that they were only deficient - because of their nerve irritation and shortness of breath - no explanation at all was given immediately. "I came in a big hurry – It was all a mistake – I never promised to leave – I told them from the beginning that I couldn't leave. – I ran away in a great hurry to explain it. – I didn't care what you thought of me. – I would not stay for the servant."
However, the business, although not fully explained by this speech, soon ceased to be a mystery. Catherine noted that John Dorfman had conveyed the message; and Miss Alsina had no scruples about being very surprised by this. But whether her brother had still surpassed her in resentment, Catherine, although she instinctively turned to both one and the other in her justification, had no way to know. Whatever may have been felt before her arrival, her zealous explanations immediately made every look and every sentence as friendly as she could wish for.
The matter was so happily settled, she was introduced to her father by Miss Alsina and received by him with such willing, caring courtesy that she remembered Dorfman's information and she thought with pleasure that sometimes you could rely on him. The general's courtesy was noted so anxiously that, unaware of her extraordinary speed in entering the house, he was quite angry with the servant, whose negligence had led her to open the door of the apartment herself. "What did William mean by that? He should get to the bottom of the matter." And if Catherine hadn't asserted her innocence in the warmest possible terms, it seemed likely that William's speed would lose his master's favor, if not his place, forever.
After sitting with them for a quarter of an hour, she got up to say goodbye, and then was pleasantly surprised when General Alsina asked her if she wanted to honor his daughter to dine with her and spend the rest of the day. Miss Alsina added her own wishes. Catherine was very connected; but it was completely beyond their power. Mr. and Mrs. They all awaited them back at any moment. The general declared that he could not say anything more; the claims of Mr and Mrs Allen should not be replaced; but on another day, he trusted, they would not refuse to spare her for their friend if a longer deadline could be given. "Oh no; Catherine was sure they wouldn't have the slightest objection, and she would be very happy if she came." The general himself accompanied her to the street door and said everything gallantly as they walked down the stairs,
Catherine, delighted with everything that had happened, happily went to Pulteney Street and, as she noted, walked with great elasticity, although she had never thought of it before. She came home without seeing anything more of the offended party; and now that she had triumphed all along, had asserted her point of view, and was sure of her gait, she began to doubt (as the flutter of her mood subsided) whether she had been completely right. A sacrifice was always noble; and if she had given in to her requests, she would have been spared the agonizing idea that a friend would be dissatisfied, a brother angry, and a plan of great happiness for both would have been destroyed, perhaps by her means. In order to calm down and make sure by the opinion of an unbiased person how her own behavior had really been, she took the opportunity to tell Mr. All the half-finished plan of her brother and the Villagemans for the next day. Mr. Everyone understood it directly. "Well," he said, "and do you want to leave too?"
"No; I had just gotten engaged to go for a walk with Miss Alsina before they told me about it; and that's why you know I couldn't go with them, right?"
"No, certainly not; and I'm glad you don't think about it. These systems are not the thing at all. Young men and women driving through the country in open wagons! From time to time it is very good; but go together to inns and public places! It is not right; and I wonder if Mrs. Dorfman should allow it. I'm glad you don't think about leaving; I'm sure Mrs. Fenmore wouldn't be happy about that. Mrs. Allen, don't you agree with me? Don't you think these kinds of projects are reprehensible?"
"Yes, very much so. Open carriages are bad things. She doesn't wear a clean dress for five minutes. You will be sprayed when getting in and out; and the wind carries your hair and hood in all directions. I myself hate an open carriage."
"I know you do; but that's not the question. Don't you find it strange when young ladies are often driven around in it by young men with whom they are not even related?"
"Yes, my dear, really a very strange appearance. I can't bear to see it."
"Dear woman," cried Katharina, "why didn't you tell me earlier? I'm sure if I had known it was inappropriate, I wouldn't have gone with Mr. Dorfman at all; but I always hoped you would tell me if you thought I was doing something wrong."
"And I should too, my dear, you can rely on that; because as I told Mrs. Fenmore as I said goodbye, I would always do the best for you that is in my power. But you can't be too picky. Young people remain young people, as your good mother herself says. You know, I wanted you not to buy this scrubbed muslin when we first came, but you would. Young people don't like to be slowed down all the time."
"But that was something of real significance; and I don't think you would have had a hard time convincing me."
"As far as it has gone so far, no damage has been done," said Mr. Allen; "and I would only advise you, my dear, not to go out with Mr. Dorfman anymore."
"That's what I just wanted to say," his wife added.
Catherine, who was relieved for herself, felt uncomfortable with Bella, and after a moment of reflection, she asked Mr. To all, whether it would not be both appropriate and kind of her to write to Miss Dorfman and explain the decency to which she must be as insensitive as she is; because she thought that otherwise Bella might go to Clifton the next day, despite everything that had happened. Mr. However, she advised everyone not to do such a thing. "You had better leave her alone, my dear; She's old enough to know what she's doing, and if not, she has a mother to advise her. Mrs. Dorfman is undoubtedly too lenient; but you'd better not get involved. She and your brother decide to leave, and you will only get evil will."
Catherine gave in, and although she was sorry to think that Bella should do something wrong, she felt very relieved by Mr. Allen's approval of her own behavior and was really happy to be saved by his advice from the danger of falling into such a mistake herself. Their escape from Clifton's group was now actually an escape; for what would the Alsinas have thought of her if she had broken her promise to do the wrong thing in itself, if she had been guilty of a breach of decency just to enable her to be guilty of another?
Chapter 113
Marianne, who had never tolerated anything like impudence, vulgarity, inferiority or even differences in taste of herself, was particularly upset at the time to rejoice in Miss Clayhorn's house or to promote her progress; and the unchanging coldness of their behavior towards them, which inhibited any attempt at intimacy on her side, Eleanore mainly attributed this preference for herself, which soon manifested itself in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who did not miss an opportunity to engage her in conversation, or to strive to improve her acquaintance through a simple and open communication of her feelings.
Lucy was smart by nature; their remarks were often fair and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour, Eleanore often found her pleasant; but her powers had received no help from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her lack of any mental improvement, her lack of information in the most ordinary details, could not remain hidden from Miss Hargrove, despite her constant effort to appear beneficial. Eleanore saw and felt sorry for her neglect of skills that could have made education so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the profound lack of subtlety, righteousness and integrity of the mind betrayed by her attentions, her perseverance, her flattery in the park; and she could not have lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who combined insincerity with ignorance;
"You'll find my question strange, dare I say," Lucy told her one day as they walked from the park to the cottage together — "but please, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother?, Mrs. Gastonois?"
Eleanore found the question very strange, and her expression expressed it when she replied that she had never seen Mrs. Gastonois.
"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "That surprises me because I thought you must have seen them in Norland sometimes. Then maybe you can't tell me what kind of woman she is?"
"No," replied Eleanore, cautious to express her true opinion of Edward's mother, and not very eager to satisfy the seemingly outrageous curiosity — "I don't know anything about her."
"I'm sure you find me very strange because I inquired about her like that," Lucy said, carefully looking at Eleanore as she spoke; "but maybe there are reasons - I wish I could dare; but I hope you will do me the justice to believe that I do not want to be impudent."
Eleanore gave her a polite answer, and they went on silently for a few minutes. It was interrupted by Lucy, who took up the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,
"I can't stand you thinking I'm outrageously curious. I'm sure I'd rather do anything in the world than be thought that way by a person whose good opinion is worth it than yours. And I'm sure I shouldn't have done the slightest fear of trusting YOU; While I would be very happy with your advice on how to cope in such an uncomfortable situation as me, there is no reason to worry YOU. I'm sorry you don't happen to know Ms. Gastonois."
"I'm sorry I'm NOT doing this," Eleanore said in great amazement, "if it might be useful for YOU to hear my opinion about her I'm a little surprised, I confess, about such a serious investigation into her character."
"I dare say you are, and I'm sure I'm not surprised about that at all. But if I dared to tell you everything, you wouldn't be so surprised. Mrs. Gastonois is certainly not for me at the moment – but the time MAY is coming – how soon it will come must depend on herself – if we are perhaps very closely connected."
She looked down as she said this, amiably shy, with only one sideways glance at her companion to observe the effect on her.
"You dear heaven!" cried Eleanore, "what do you think? Do you know Mr. Robert Gastonois? Can it be you?" And she was not very pleased with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No," Lucy replied, "not Mr. ROBERT Gastonois – I've never seen him in my life;
What did Eleanore feel at that moment? The astonishment, which would have been as painful as it was strong, would not have been accompanied by an immediate disbelief in the claim. She turned to Lucy in silent astonishment, unable to guess the reason or goal of such an explanation; and although her face color fluctuated, she stood there in disbelief and did not feel in danger of a hysterical attack or fainting.
"You may well be surprised," Lucy continued; "For surely you could not have had a clue about it before; for I dare say that he has not given you or anyone in your family the slightest hint of it; because it should always be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithful by myself until this hour, no soul of all my relatives knows about it, except Anne, and I should never have mentioned it to you if I had not felt the greatest dependence of the world on your secrecy, and I really thought, my behavior to ask so many questions about Mrs. Gastonois must seem so strange that it should be explained, and I don't think Mr. Gastonois can be dissatisfied when he knows that I trusted you because I know him has the highest opinion in the world of your whole family and looks at himself and the other Miss Hargrove.
Eleanore remained silent for a few moments. Her amazement at what she heard was at first too great for words; but eventually she forced herself to speak cautiously, saying in a calm manner that hid her surprise and concern quite well, "May I ask if your engagement has been around for a long time?"
"We've been engaged for four years."
"Four years!"
"Yes."
Eleanore, although very shaken, still could not believe it.
"I didn't know," she said, "that you even know each other, until the other day."
"However, our acquaintance is already many years old.
"Your uncle!"
"Yes, Mr. Pratt. Have you never heard him talk about Mr. Pratt?"
"I think I have," Eleanore replied with a tension of mind that increased with her increase in emotion.
"He spent four years with my uncle, who lives in Longstaple near Plymouth. This is where our acquaintance began, because my sister and I often lived with my uncle, and there our engagement was concluded, albeit only after a year after he had stopped as a student; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was, as you can imagine, very reluctant to go into it without the knowledge and approval of his mother, but I was too young and loved him also Well, to be as careful as I should have been. – Although you don't know him as well as I do, Miss Hargrove, you must have seen enough of him to understand that he is very capable of sincerely binding a woman to him."
"Sure," Eleanore replied, unaware of what she was saying; but after a short reflection, she added with renewed certainty of Edward's honor and love and the falsehood of her companion: "Engaged to Mr. Edward Gastonois! Sorry, but there must be a personal or name error. We can't mean the same Mr. Gastonois."
"We can't mean anyone else," Lucy shouted with a smile. "Mr. Edward Gastonois, the eldest son of Mrs. Gastonois of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Hargrove, is the person I mean; You have to admit that I probably won't be deceived by the name of the man on whom all my happiness depends."
"It's strange," Eleanore replied in painful confusion, "that I shouldn't even hear him mention your name."
"No; considering our situation, it wasn't strange. Our first concern was to keep the matter a secret. – You didn't know anything about me or my family, and therefore there could be no OPPORTUNITY to ever mention my name to you; and since he was always particularly afraid that his sister suspected something, that was reason enough not to mention it.
She was silent. - Eleanore's safety decreased; but their self-control did not decrease.
"You've been engaged for four years," she said in a firm voice.
"Yes, and Heaven knows how long we have to wait. Poor Edward! Then she took a small miniature out of her pocket and added, "To rule out the possibility of error, be good enough to look at this face to the person for whom it was drawn. - I've had it for three years."
She put it in her hands as she spoke; and when Eleanore saw the painting, whatever doubted her fear of making too hasty a decision, or her desire to expose a falsehood, might linger in her head, she couldn't believe it was Edward's face.
"I never made it," Lucy continued
, "to give him my picture back, which makes me very angry because he was always so anxious to get it! Opportunity."
"You're quite right," Eleanore replied calmly. Then they silently walked a few steps further. Lucy spoke first.
"I'm sure," she said, "I have no doubt that you faithfully keep this secret, because you need to know how important it is for us that it does not reach his mother; for she would never approve of it I dare to say it. I'm not going to have a fortune, and I imagine she's a very proud woman."
"I certainly didn't seek your trust," Eleanore said; "but you are doing me no more than justice if you imagine that I could be relied upon. Your secret is safe with me; but forgive me if I express some amazement at such an unnecessary communication. They must have at least felt that I found out about it could not contribute to his safety."
When she said this, she looked at Lucy seriously, hoping to discover something in her facial expression; perhaps the untruth of most of what she had said; but Lucy's face suffered no change.
When Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, so she wouldn't put up with it. You can't imagine how much of it I'm going through in total. I'm just surprised that I'm alive after suffering for Edwards' sake for the past four years. All in such tension and uncertainty; and we see him so rarely – we can hardly meet more than twice a year. I'm sure I'm surprised that my heart isn't completely broken."
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Eleanor didn't feel very compassionate.
"Sometimes," Lucy continued, after wiping her eyes, "I think it wouldn't be better for both of us to break it off altogether." When she said that, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I don't have enough determination to do so. – I can't stand the thought of making him as unhappy as I know that the mere mention of such a thing would do it. And on my own account – as expensive as it is for me – I don't think I would be up to it. What advice would you give me in such a case, Miss Hargrove? What would you do yourself?"
"Excuse me," replied Eleanore, frightened by the question; "but I can't give you any advice in such circumstances. Your own judgment must guide you."
"Of course," Lucy continued after a few minutes of silence on both sides, "his mother has to take care of him at some point, but poor Edward is so depressed by it! Didn't you think he was terribly depressed when he was in Barton? He was so unhappy when he left us in longstaple to go to you that I was afraid you would think he was quite sick."
"Is he coming from your uncle when he visited us?"
"Oh, yes; he lived with us for two weeks. Do you think he's straight out of town?"
"No," replied Eleanore, most sensitively reasonable of each new circumstance in favor of Lucy's truthfulness; "I remember him telling us he was with a few friends near Plymouth for fourteen days." She also remembered her own surprise at the time, when he mentioned nothing more about these friends, his complete silence, even when it came to their names.
"Didn't you sadly think he was sad?" Lucia repeated.
"We did indeed, especially when he arrived."
"I asked him to make an effort, fearing that you might suspect what was going on; but it made him so melancholic not to be able to stay with us for more than fourteen days and to see me so deeply affected. – Poor guy! – I'm afraid he feels the same way now; for he writes in a pathetic mood. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" take a letter out of my pocket and carelessly show Eleanore the way. "You know his hand, dare I say it is a lovely one; but it's not as well written as usual.
Eleanore saw that it was his hand, and she could no longer doubt. This image, she had allowed herself to believe, could have been created by chance; it may not have been Edward's gift; but correspondence between them could exist only under a positive commitment, could not be authorized by anything else; for a few moments she was almost overwhelmed – her heart sank into her, and she could hardly stand; but effort was absolutely necessary; and she fought so resolutely against the suppression of her feelings that her success was swift and complete for the time.
"Writing to each other," Lucy said, putting the letter back in her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long breakups. Yes, I have another consolation in his picture, but poor Edward doesn't even have THAT. If he only had my picture, he says he should just be. I gave him a curl of my hair set into a ring the last time he was in longstaple, and that was a comfort to him, he said, but not like a picture. Maybe you noticed the ring when you saw it?"
"I did," Eleanore said in a serene voice, hiding an emotion and sorrow that surpassed anything she had ever felt before. She was ashamed, shocked, confused.
Fortunately for them, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could not be continued. After sitting with them for a few minutes, the Miss Clayhorns returned to the park, and Eleanore was then free to think and feel unhappy.
Chapter 114
Mrs. Lockhart Elizabeth's warning was given punctually and kindly at the first favorable opportunity to speak to her alone; After honestly telling her what she thought, she continued
,
"You're too reasonable a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love just because you're warned about it; and that's why I'm not afraid to speak openly. Seriously, I want you to be on your guard. Don't get caught up in an affection or try to involve him in an affection that the lack of wealth would make so very careless. I have no objection to Him; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he should have, I would think you couldn't do better. But you can't let your imagination run wild like that. You have intellect, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would rely on YOUR determination and good behavior, I'm sure. You must not disappoint your father."
"My dear aunt, this is really serious."
"Yes, and I hope to get you to be serious about it too."
"Well, then you don't need to get worried. I will take care of myself and also Mr. Waterhouse. He should not fall in love with me if I can prevent it.'
"Elizabeth, this is not your seriousness now."
"I beg your pardon, I will try again. Currently, I am not in love with Mr. Waterhouse; no, I'm certainly not. But without any comparison, he's the most pleasant man I've ever seen — and if he's really attached to me — I think it's better if he doesn't. I see the carelessness in that. Oh! THIS hideous Mr. Drury! My father's opinion of me gives me the greatest honor, and I would be unhappy to forfeit it. My father, however, has a penchant for Mr. Waterhouse. In short, my dear aunt, I would be very sorry to make any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that young people, where there is affection, are rarely deterred from getting engaged to each other for immediate lack of wealth, how can I promise to be smarter than so many of my fellow human beings if I am tempted, or how am I even supposed to know that it would be wise to resist? I can therefore only promise you that you will not be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe his first object. When I am with him, I will have no wishes. In short, I will do my best.'
"Maybe it's also good if you stop him from coming here so often. At the very least, you shouldn't remind your mother to invite him.'
"As I did the other day," Elizabeth said with a conscious smile, "very true, it will be wise of me to refrain from doing so. But don't imagine that he is always here so often. Because of her, he was invited so many times this week. They know my mother's ideas about the need for constant company for her friends. But really, and in my honor, I will try to do what I think is the smartest thing to do; and now I hope you are satisfied.'
Her aunt assured her that it was her, and Elizabeth, who had thanked her for the kindness of her insinuations, separated them; a wonderful example of advice given on such a point without being resented.
Mr Collins returned to Hertfordshire shortly after it was abandoned by the Lockharts and Jane; but when he took up residence with the Lucases, his arrival was not much inconvenience to Mrs. Mitchell. His marriage was now rapidly approaching, and she was eventually so resigned that she thought it was inevitable, even repeatedly saying in a foul tone that she "WISHed they could be happy." Thursday was supposed to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas made her farewell visit; and when she rose to say goodbye, Elizabeth accompanied her out of the room, ashamed of her mother's unkind and reluctant good wishes and sincerely concerned. As they walked down together, Charlotte
said,
"I'm going to count on hearing from you very often, Eliza."
'You certainly should.'
"And I want to ask you for another favor. Are you coming to visit me?'
"We will hopefully meet often in Hertfordshire."
"I probably won't be leaving Kent for some time. So promise me to come to Hunsford."
Elizabeth could not refuse, although she foresaw little joy in the visit.
"My father and Mary will come to me in March," Charlotte added, "and I hope you agree to join in the celebrations. In fact, Eliza, you will be just as welcome as any of them."
The wedding took place; The bride and groom made their way to Kent from the church door, and everyone had as much to say or hear about the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was more regular and frequent than ever before; that it should be just as unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never approach her without feeling that all the comforts of intimacy were over, and although she was determined not to let up as a correspondent, this was for the sake of what had been rather than what had been. Charlotte's first letters were received with great zeal; it could only arouse curiosity about how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine and how happy she dared to express herself; When the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte was expressing herself on every point exactly as she could have foreseen. She wrote happily, seemed to be surrounded by comfort, and didn't mention anything she couldn't praise. The house, furniture, neighborhood and streets were all to her liking, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was extremely friendly and accommodating. It was the image of Mr. Collins of Hunsford and Rosings, rationally softened; and Elizabeth realized that she had to wait for her own visit there to find out the rest.
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce her safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped that it would be in her power to say something about the Woodlands.
Her impatience for this second letter was rewarded as well as impatience in general. Jane had been in town for a week without seeing or hearing Caroline. However, she explained this by assuming that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had been lost by some coincidence.
"My aunt," she continued, "will go to this part of the city tomorrow, and I will take the opportunity to stop by Grosvenor Street."
She wrote again when the visit was over, and she had seen Miss Woodland. "I don't think Caroline was in a good mood," were her words, "but she was very happy to see me and blamed me for not announcing my arrival in London. So I was right, my last letter had never reached her. Of course, I inquired about her brother. He was fine, but he was so busy with Drury-san that they hardly ever saw him. I found out that Miss Drury was expected for dinner. I wish I could see them. My visit didn't last long as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst went out. I dare say that I will see them here soon."
Elizabeth shook her head at this letter. It convinced her that Mr. Woodland could only find out by chance that her sister was in town.
Four weeks passed, and Jane saw nothing of him. She tried to convince herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Woodland's inattention. After waiting at home every morning for fourteen days and inventing a new excuse for her every night, the visitor finally appeared; but the brevity of her stay, and even more so the change in her behavior, would allow Jane to stop being mistaken. The letter she wrote to her sister on this occasion will prove her feelings.
"My dearest Lizzy will certainly not be able to triumph to the best of my knowledge and belief at my expense if I confess to having completely deceived myself in Miss Woodland's consideration for me. But, my dear sister, although the incident proved you right, do not consider me stubborn when I nevertheless claim that my trust was as natural as your suspicions given your behavior. I don't understand at all why she wants to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances happened again, I would surely be deceived again. Caroline returned my visit only yesterday; and no note, no line I have received in the meantime. When she came, it was very obvious that she had no pleasure in it; she apologized easily and formally for not calling before, didn't say a word about her wanting to see me again, and was such a changed being in every way that when she left, I was determined not to continue the acquaintance any longer. Too bad, although I can't help blaming her. She was very wrong to single me out the way she did; I can safely say that any progress towards intimacy began on their side. But I feel sorry for her because she must feel that she has behaved wrongly, and because I am very sure that the concern for her brother is the cause of it. I don't need to explain myself further; and although WE know that this fear is completely unnecessary, she will easily explain her behavior to me when she feels it; and so he earns his sister so dear, whatever she has to fear for him is natural and amiable. However, I can only wonder that she has such fears now, because if he had taken care of me at all, we must have met a long time ago. He knows of my presence in the city, I'm sure, of something she herself said; and yet, speaking in her own way, it seems as if she wants to convince herself that he is really fond of Miss Drury. I can't understand it. If I wasn't afraid of harsh judgment, I would almost be tempted to say that there is a strong semblance of duplicity in all of this. But I will strive to banish every painful thought and think only of what will make me happy – your affection and the unchanging kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Woodland said something about the fact that he never returned to Netherfield, that he would give up the house, but not with certainty. We had better not mention it. I am very glad you have such pleasant reports from our friends in Hunsford. Please visit them with Sir William and Maria.
This letter caused Elizabeth some pain; but her mood returned when she thought that Jane would no longer be deceived, at least not by her sister. All expectations from the brother were now absolutely over. She would not even want a renewal of his attention. His character dropped with every review; and as a punishment for him and as a possible benefit for Jane, she sincerely hoped that he would really soon marry Mr. Drury's sister, since according to Waterhouse's account, she would make him regret abundantly what he had thrown away.
Mrs. Lockhart reminded Elizabeth of her promise regarding this gentleman around this time and demanded information; and Elizabeth had to send those who could give satisfaction to her aunt rather than herself. His obvious bias had diminished, his attention was over, he was someone else's admirer. Elizabeth was alert enough to see everything, but she could see it without material pain and write about it. Her heart had been touched only lightly, and her vanity was content to believe that SHE would have been his only choice if luck had allowed it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady, which he now made himself comfortable; but Elizabeth, perhaps less clear-sighted in this case than in Charlottes, did not argue with him about his desire for independence. Nothing at all, on the contrary, could be more natural; and although she could assume that it took him some effort to give her up, she was willing to allow it to be a wise and desirable measure for both of them, and could very sincerely wish him luck.
All this was granted to Mrs. Lockhart; and after describing the circumstances, she continued, "I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been very much in love; for if I had really experienced this pure and uplifting passion, I would already abhor his name and wish him all evil. But my feelings are not only warm to him; They are even impartial to Miss King. I can't figure out that I hate her at all or that I don't want to think of her as a very good girl. There can be no love in all this. My vigilance was effective; and while I would certainly be a more interesting object for all my acquaintances if I loved it scattered, I can't say that I regret my comparatively insignificance. Importance can sometimes be bought too expensively. Kitty and Linda take his waste to heart much more than I do. They are young in the customs of the world and not yet open to the humiliating conviction that good-looking young men must have something they can live on as well as the plain."
Chapter 115
The return of Sir Thomas brought about a remarkable change in the family, regardless of Lovers' vows. Under his reign, Mansfield was a changed place. Some members of their society sent away, and the spirits of many others were saddened – it was all equality and gloom compared to the past – a gloomy family celebration that was rarely revived. There was little contact with the rectory. Sir Thomas, who generally withdrew from intimacy, was particularly averse to any appointments at this time except in a neighborhood. The Rushmores were the only addition to his own domestic circle that he could woo.
Edmund was not surprised that his father felt this way, nor could he regret anything other than the exclusion of the Grants. "But they," he remarked to Esther, "have a claim. They seem to belong to us; they seem to be a part of ourselves. I wish my father was more aware of their very great attention to my mother and sisters while he was gone. I'm afraid they might feel neglected. But the truth is that my father barely knows her. They had been here for less than twelve months when he left England. If he knew her better, he would value her company as much as it deserves; because they are, in fact, exactly the kind of person he wants. There is sometimes a bit of a lack of entertainment among us: my sisters seem to be upset, and Tom is certainly not quite with himself. Dr. and Mrs. Grant would invigorate us, "Do you think so?" esther said, "In my opinion,
my uncle doesn't want an encore. I think he appreciates exactly the calm you are talking about and that the tranquility of his own family circle is all he wants. And it doesn't seem to me that we're more serious than we used to be – I mean, before my uncle went abroad. As far as I can remember, it was always the same. There was never much laughter in his presence; or, if there is any difference, I believe it is no more than such a lack tends to produce at first. There must be some kind of shyness; but I can't remember our evenings ever being cheerful except when my uncle was in town. Not young people, I suppose, when those they look up to are at home."
"I think you're right, Esther," was his answer after a short reflection. "I think our evenings are going back to what they were rather than taking on a new character. The novelty was that they were lively. But how strong is the impression that only a few weeks will give! I feel like we've never lived like this before."
"I think I'm more serious than other people," Esther said. "The evenings don't seem long to me. I love hearing my uncle talk about the West Indies. I could listen to him together for an hour. It entertains me more than many other things; but on the other hand, I'm different from other people, dare I say."
"Why dare you say that?" (smiling). "Do you want to know that unlike other people, you're just smarter and more discreet? But when did you or anyone else ever get a compliment from me, Esther? Go to my father if you want to get compliments. He will satisfy you. Ask your uncle what he thinks and you will hear enough compliments, and although they are mainly directed at your person, you have to come to terms with them and trust that he will see just as much beauty of the mind over time."
Such a language was so new to Esther that she was quite embarrassed.
"Your uncle thinks you're very pretty, dear Esther – and that's the long and short of the thing. Everyone but me would have made a little more of it, and everyone but you would be annoyed that you weren't thought to be very pretty before; but the truth is that your uncle has never admired you until now – and now he does. Your face color is so improved! – and you've gained so much facial expression! – and your character – no, Esther, don't turn away – she's just an uncle. If you can't stand the admiration of an uncle, what will become of you? You really need to harden against the idea that you are worth looking at. You don't have to mind growing into a pretty woman."
"Oh! don't talk like that, don't talk like that," exclaimed Esther, tormented by more feelings than he realized; but when he saw that she was distressed, he had settled the issue, adding only more seriously,
"Your uncle is ready to be satisfied with you in every way; and I just wish you talked to him more. You are one of those who are too quiet in the evening circle."
"But I talk to him more than I used to. I'm sure I do. Didn't you hear me ask him last night about the slave trade?"
"I did that – and had hoped that the question would be pursued by others. Your uncle would have liked to continue to be asked about him."
"And I longed for it – but there was such a dead silence! And while my cousins ?? sitting by wordlessly or even seemed interested in the topic, I didn't like it – I thought it would look like I wanted to throw myself at their expense by showing curiosity and joy in his information, which he must wish his own daughters to feel."
"Miss Dorset was very right about what she said about you the other day: you seemed to be almost as afraid of attention and praise as other women were of neglect. We spoke of you in the rectory, and those were your words. She has great discernment. I don't know anyone who distinguishes characters better. For such a young woman, this is remarkable! She certainly understands you better than most of those who have known you for so long understand you; and with some others, I can see from occasional vivid hints the careless utterances of the moment that many could define it as accurate if tenderness did not forbid it. I wonder what she thinks of my father! She must admire him as a handsome man, with highly gentleman-like, dignified, consistent manners; but perhaps, since I've seen him so rarely, his restraint may be a little repulsive. Could they be together a lot, I'm sure they like each other. He would enjoy her liveliness and she has talents to appreciate his powers. I wish they would meet more often! I hope she doesn't assume that there are any dislikes on his side."
"She has to be too sure of everyone else's respect," Esther said with a half sigh, "to have such fears. And the fact that Sir Thomas initially wishes to be with his family is so natural that she cannot oppose it. I dare say that after a while we will see each other again in the same way, considering the difference in season."
"This is the first October she has spent in the country since childhood. I don't call Tunbridge or Cheltenham the country; and November is an even more serious month, and I can see that Mrs. Grant is very concerned that she won't find Mansfield boring when winter comes."
Esther could have said a lot, but it was safer to say nothing and leave all of Miss Dorset's resources untouched – her achievements, her spirit, her importance, her friends, so she wouldn't get caught up in seemingly unpleasant observations. Miss Dorset's kind opinion of herself at least deserved grateful forbearance, and she began to speak of something else.
"Tomorrow, I think, my uncle will be dining in Sotherton, and so will you and Mr. Schmidt. We will be a pretty small party at home. I hope my uncle continues to like Mr. Rushmore."
"That's impossible, Esther. He must like him less after tomorrow's visit, because we will be in his company for five hours. I would fear the stupidity of the day if it weren't for a much greater evil – the impression it must leave on Sir Thomas. He can't be fooled for much longer. I feel sorry for all of them and I would give something that Rushmore and Maria never encountered."
In this neighborhood there was indeed a threat of disappointment with Sir Thomas. Not all his goodwill for Mr. Rushmore, not all his reverence for Mr. Rushmore could stop him from soon realizing part of the truth – that Mr. Rushmore was an inferior young man, as ignorant in business as in books, with generally vague opinions and without being very aware of it himself.
He had been expecting a very different son-in-law; and began to feel serious about Mary, trying to understand her feelings. Little observation was needed to tell him that indifference was the most favorable state they could find themselves in. Her behavior toward Mr. Rushmore was careless and cold. She couldn't, didn't like him. Sir Thomas decided to talk to her seriously. As advantageous as the alliance was, as long as the engagement was for many years and publicly, her happiness could not be sacrificed to her. Mr. Rushmore may have become too short an acquaintance, and since she knew him better, she regrets it.
Sir Thomas addressed her with solemn kindness: shared his fears with her, inquired about her wishes, begged her to be open and sincere, and assured her that she should defy any inconvenience and give up the connection altogether if she felt unhappy about the prospect of it. He would act for them and release them. Mary had a moment of struggle as she listened, and only one moment: when her father stopped, she was able to give her answer immediately, decisively, and without any discernible excitement. She thanked him for his great attention, his paternal kindness, but he was completely mistaken when he assumed that she had the slightest desire to break her engagement, or noticed a change in her opinion or inclination since her entry. She had the highest appreciation for Mr Rushmore's character and character,
Sir Thomas was satisfied; too happy to be satisfied, perhaps to push the matter quite as far as his judgment might have dictated to others. It was an alliance that he could not have given up without pain; and so he argued. Mr. Rushmore was young enough to improve. Mr Rushmore must and would improve in good company; and if Mary could now speak so surely of her happiness with him, without the prejudice of speaking the blindness of love, she should be believed. Their feelings were probably not sharp; he had never assumed that they were like that; but their comfort could not be less because of it; and if she could refrain from seeing in her husband a leading, shining character, surely everything else would speak in her favor. A benevolent young woman who did not marry out of love was generally all the more connected to her own family; and Sotherton's proximity to Mansfield must, of course, be the greatest temptation and would in all likelihood be a constant supply of the most amiable and innocent pleasures. Such and so similar were the arguments of Sir Thomas, who was happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the miracle, the deliberations, the accusations that must accompany him; happy to be able to form a marriage that would earn him so much prestige and influence, and very happy to think of anything of his daughter's attitude that was most favorable for this purpose. Such and so similar were the arguments of Sir Thomas, who was happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the miracle, the deliberations, the accusations that must accompany him; happy to be able to form a marriage that would earn him so much prestige and influence, and very happy to think of anything of his daughter's attitude that was most favorable for this purpose. Such and so similar were the arguments of Sir Thomas, who was happy to escape the embarrassing evils of a rupture, the miracle, the deliberations, the accusations that must accompany him; happy to be able to form a marriage that would earn him so much prestige and influence, and very happy to think of anything of his daughter's attitude that was most favorable for this purpose.
For them, the conference ended as satisfactorily as it did for him. She was in a state of mind to be glad that she had irrevocably secured her fate: that she had pledged sotherton anew; that she was safe from the possibility of giving Dorset the triumph, governing her actions, and destroying her prospects; and withdrew with proud determination, determined to be more cautious toward Mr. Rushmore in the future so that her father would not suspect her again.
If Sir Thomas had applied to his daughter within the first three or four days after Henry Dorset left Mansfield, before her feelings had even calmed down, before she had given up all hope in him or firmly decided to endure his rival, her answer might have been different; but after another three or four days, when there was no return, no letter, no message, no symptom of a softened heart, no hope of benefits from the separation, her mind became cool enough to seek all the comfort that pride and self-revenge could give.
Henry Dorset had destroyed their happiness, but he should not know that he had done so; it should not also destroy their credit, their appearance, their prosperity. He should not have to imagine that she longs for Mansfield back and rejects for his sake Sotherton and London, independence and splendour. Independence was more necessary than ever; the lack of it in Mansfield felt more reasonable. She could bear the restraint her father imposed on her less and less. The freedom that his absence had given had now become absolutely necessary. She must flee from him and Mansfield as quickly as possible and find comfort in happiness and consequences, hustle and bustle and the world for a wounded spirit. Her mind was quite determined and did not change.
With such feelings, delay, even the delay of many preparations, would have been an evil, and Mr. Rushmore could hardly be more impatient to the wedding than she could. In all the important preparations of the Spirit, it was complete: prepared for marriage through a hatred of the home, restraint and rest; by the misery of disappointed affection and contempt of the man she was to marry. The rest could wait. Preparations for new carriages and furniture could be waiting for London and spring, when their own tastes could play more fairly.
Since the clients were all in agreement in this regard, it soon turned out that very few weeks would be enough for such preparations that had to precede the wedding.
Mrs. Rushmore was ready to retire and make way for the happy young woman her dear son had chosen; and very early in November they, their maid, their servant and their chariot, with true widowhood, went to Bath to lead in their evening parties about the miracles of Sotherton; enjoying her as thoroughly, perhaps in the animation of a gaming table, as she had ever done on the spot; and before the middle of the same month, the ceremony had taken place, giving Sotherton another mistress.
It was a very real wedding. The bride was elegantly dressed; the two bridesmaids were duly defeated; her father gave her away; her mother stood there with salt in her hand, expecting excitement; her aunt tried to cry; and the service was read impressively by Dr. Grant. When it came to the neighborhood, nothing could be objected to, except that the carriage that transported the bride and groom and Juliet from the church door to Sotherton was the same carriage that Mr. Rushmore had previously used for twelve months. In everything else, etiquette of the time is likely to stand up to the strictest scrutiny.
It was done, and they were gone. Sir Thomas felt like a worried father must feel, and actually experienced much of the excitement his wife had feared for herself, but luckily had escaped. Mrs. Norris, who was very happy to help with the duties of the day by spending them in the park to strengthen her sister's spirits, and drinking the health of Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore in one or two surplus glasses, was a joyful joy; for she had made the match; she had done everything; and no one, because of her confident triumph, would have assumed that she would ever have heard of marital unhappiness in her life, or that she could have the slightest insight into the disposition of the niece who had grown up under her eyes.
The young couple's plan was to go to Brighton after a few days and move into a house there for a few weeks. Every public place was new to Maria, and Brighton is almost as cheerful in winter as it is in summer. When the novelty of entertainment there was over, it would be time for london's wider range.
Julia was supposed to go to Brighton with them. Since the rivalry between the sisters had ended, they had gradually regained much of their former good understanding; and were at least enough friends to make both extraordinarily happy to be with the other at such a time. A companion other than Mr. Rushmore was of utmost importance to his lady; and Julia was just as eager for new things and pleasure as Mary, although she might not have struggled so hard to get them and could better endure a subordinate situation.
Their departure led to another significant change in Mansfield, a rift that took some time to fill. The family circle was strongly pulled together; and although Miss Schmidt's had contributed little to his cheerfulness lately, she could not be overlooked. Even her mother missed her; and how much more her soft-hearted cousin who wandered around the house and thought of her and felt for her, with a degree of loving regret that they had never done much to deserve!
Chapter 116
The next morning brought Mr. Frank Curcelle back. He came with Mrs. Winstone, who seemed very dear to him and Highbury. He had sat with her, it seemed, the most sociable at home, until her usual practice lesson; and when he was asked to choose their path, he immediately turned to Highbury. – "He did not doubt that there are very pleasant walks in every direction, but if it were left to him, he should always choose the same one. Highbury, that airy, cheerful, happy-looking Highbury, would be his constant attraction." – Highbury stood for Hartfield with Mrs. Winstone; and she trusted that she wore the same construction with him. They went straight there.
Emma had hardly expected her: because Mr. Winstone, who had come by for half a minute to hear that his son was very handsome, knew nothing of their plans; and it was therefore a pleasant surprise for them to see them walking arm in arm to the house together. She wanted to see him again, and especially to see him in company with Mrs. Winstone, on whose behavior her opinion of him should depend. If he had a deficiency there, nothing should make up for him. But when she saw them together, she became completely satisfied. He paid for his duty not only with fine words or exaggerated compliments; nothing could be more appropriate or pleasant than all his behavior towards her – nothing could more pleasantly express his desire to see her as a friend and secure her affection. And Emma had enough time to form a reasonable judgment, as her visit included the whole morning. They all walked around together for an hour or two – first around the bushes of Hartfield and then in Highbury. He rejoiced in everything; admired Hartfield enough for Mr. Lodge's ear; and when her onward journey was decided, he confessed his desire to be introduced to the whole village and found much more praise and interest than Emma could have assumed.
Some of the objects of his curiosity expressed very kind feelings. He asked to be shown the house where his father had lived for so long and had been the house of his father's father; and when he remembered that an old woman who had cared for him was still alive, she went from one end of the street to the other in search of her cottage; and although there was no positive merit on some points of persecution or observation, overall they showed goodwill towards Highbury in general, which must be very similar to merit for those he was with.
Emma observed and decided that with such feelings as they were now shown, it could not be quite assumed that he had ever been voluntarily absent; that he had played no role or made a parade of disingenuous confessions; and that Mr. Hill certainly hadn't done him justice.
Your first stop was at the Crown Inn, an insignificant house, albeit the most important of the kind, where a few mail horses were kept, more for the convenience of the neighborhood than for any run-out on the street; and his companions had not expected to be stopped by any interest aroused there; but by passing it, they gave the history of the great room visibly added; it had been built for a ballroom many years ago, and while the neighborhood had been in a particularly populated, dancing state, it had occasionally been used as such; - but such brilliant days had long passed, and now the highest purpose for whatever was desired was to house a whist club founded among the gentlemen and half-gentlemen of the place. He was immediately interested. His character as a ballroom captivated him; and instead of passing on, He stopped for a few minutes at the two upper sliding windows, which were open to look inside and look at his abilities and lament that his original purpose should have stopped. He saw no fault in the room, he wouldn't acknowledge anyone what they suggested. No, it was long enough, wide enough, beautiful enough. It would include the exact number for comfort. There they should have balls at least every two weeks in winter. Why hadn't Miss Lodge revived the room's former good old days? – She who could do everything in Highbury! The lack of real families in the village and the conviction that no one outside the place and its immediate surroundings could be tried to participate were mentioned; but he was not satisfied. He could not be convinced that so many handsome houses as he saw around him could not provide enough numbers for such a meeting; and even as details were given and families were described, he still did not want to admit that the inconvenience of such a mixture would be anything or that there would be the slightest difficulty if everyone returned to their proper place the next morning. He argued like a young man who is very fond of dancing; and Emma was quite surprised to see how the Constitution of the Winstone so resolutely prevailed over the habits of the Curcelles. He seemed to have all his father's life and spirit, cheerful feelings and social inclinations, and none of Enscombe's pride or restraint. Pride was perhaps hardly enough; his indifference to a confusion of rank bordered too much on the inelegance of the mind. But he could not be a judge of the evil he kept cheap. It was just an outpouring of lively spirits.
Eventually, he was persuaded to move on from the front of the crown; and now that she was almost facing the house where the Bates lived, Emma remembered his intended visit the day before and asked him if he had paid.
"Yes, oh! yes" – he replied; "I just wanted to mention it. A very successful visit: - I saw all three ladies; and felt very connected to you for your preparatory hint. If the talking aunt had completely surprised me, it must have been my death. So I was only tempted to a highly unreasonable visit. Ten minutes would have been all that would have been necessary, perhaps all that would have been appropriate; and I had told my father that I would certainly be home before him – but there was no escape, no pause; and to my greatest amazement, when he (who found me nowhere else) finally came to me, I realized that I had actually sat with them for almost three quarters of an hour. The good woman had not given me a chance to escape before."
"And what did you think Miss Saxon looked like?"
"Sick, very sick – that is, if you can ever allow a young lady to look sick. But the expression is hardly permissible, Mrs. Winstone, right? Women can never look sick. And seriously, Miss Saxon is by nature as pale as almost always to give the appearance of illness.
Emma did not want to agree and began to defend Miss Saxon's complexion warmly. "It certainly was never brilliant, but she generally wouldn't allow it to have a sickly hue; and her skin was of a softness and tenderness that gave a special elegance to the character of her face." He listened with all due reverence; admitted that he had heard many people say the same thing – but he must confess that nothing could make up for the lack of the fine shine of health for him. Where the facial features were indifferent, a fine complexion gave them all beauty; and where they were good was the effect – fortunately, he didn't need to try to describe what the effect was.
"Well," Emma said, ??" there is no arguing about taste.
He shook his head and laughed. "I can't separate Miss Saxon from her complexion."
"Did you see them often in Weymouth? Have you often been in the same company?"
At that moment, they approached Ford's, and he hastily exclaimed, "Ha! This must be exactly the shop that everyone visits every day of their lives, as my father tells me. He comes to Highbury himself, he says, on six out of seven days, and always has something to do at Ford. If you are not uncomfortable, please let us go inside so that I can prove that I belong to this place and that I am a real citizen of Highbury. I have to buy something from Ford. It will take away my freedom. – I dare say that they sell gloves."
"Oh! Yes, gloves and everything. I admire your patriotism. They are revered in Highbury. You were very popular before you came because you were Mr. Winstone's son – but put half a gulinee at Ford, and your popularity will depend on your own virtues."
They went inside; and while the smooth, well-laced packets of "Men's Beavers" and "York Tan" came down and were displayed on the counter, he said, "But I beg your pardon, Miss Lodge, you talked to me, you said something at the moment of this outbreak of my amor patriae. Don't let me lose it. I assure you that the greatest public fame would not compensate me for the loss of all happiness in my private life."
"I just asked if you knew much about Miss Saxon and her party in Weymouth."
"And now that I understand your question, I have to say that it is very unfair. It is always the right of the lady to decide on the degree of acquaintanceship. Miss Saxon must have already been accountable. – I'm not going to commit myself by claiming more than she might allow."
"To my word! you answer as discreetly as she could herself. But her account of everything leaves so much to guess, she is so very reserved, so very unwilling to give the slightest information about any corpse, that I really think you can say what you want about your acquaintance with her."
"May I? – Then I want to tell the truth, and nothing suits me so well. I met her frequently in Weymouth. I had known the Campbells in town a little; and in Weymouth we were very similar. Colonel Campbell is a very pleasant man and Mrs. Campbell is a kind, warm-hearted woman. I like them all."
"You know Miss Saxon's life situation, I conclude; what is it intended for?"
"Yes – (rather hesitantly) – I think so."
"You come across sensitive subjects, Emma," Mrs. Winstone said with a smile; remember that I am here. Frank Curcelle hardly knows what to say when you talk about Miss Saxon's life situation. I'm moving a little further away."
"I really forget to think about her," Emma said, "?" as if she had always been something different from my girlfriend and my dearest friend."
He looked as if he fully understood and honored such a feeling.
When the gloves were bought and they had left the store again: "Have you ever heard the young lady we were talking about playing?" said Frank Curcelle.
"Hear them ever!" repeated Emma. "You forget how much she belongs to Highbury. I've heard them every year of our lives since we both started. She plays charmingly."
"You think so, right? – I wanted the opinion of someone who can really judge. She seemed to play well to me, that is, with considerable taste, but I don't know anything about it myself. – I love music extraordinarily, but without the slightest ability or right to judge the performance of any body. – I used to hear their admiration; and I remember a proof that she was thought to be well played: – a man, a very musical man and in love with another woman – engaged to her – about to get married – would never ask this other woman to sit down with her the instrument if the lady in question could sit down instead – one never seemed to like to hear, if he could hear the other. That, I thought, was a testament to a man with a well-known musical talent."
"Indeed a proof!" said Emma with great amusement. "Mr. Dixon is very musical, isn't he? We will know more about them all in half an hour than Miss Saxon would have allowed in half an hour."
"Yes, Mr. Dixon and Miss Campbell were the people; and I thought it was very strong proof."
"Sure – it was very strong; To admit the truth, much stronger than I would have enjoyed if I had been Miss Campbell. I couldn't excuse a man for having more music than love – more ear than eye – a sharper sensitivity to fine sounds than to my feelings. How did Miss Campbell seem to like it?"
"It was her very special friend, you know."
"Poor comfort!" said Emma laughing. "You'd rather prefer a stranger to your very special friend – it may not happen again with a stranger – but the misery of always having a very special friend on hand, doing everything better than you do! – Poor Mrs. Dixon! Well, I'm glad she settled in Ireland."
"You're right. It wasn't very flattering to Miss Campbell; but she really didn't seem to feel it."
"The better – or the worse: – I don't know what. But be it loveliness or stupidity in her – quick friendship or dullness – I think there was one person who must have felt it: Miss Saxon herself. She must have felt the inappropriate and dangerous distinction."
"As far as that goes, I don't know,"
"Oh! Don't think I expect you or anyone else to report on Miss Saxon's feelings. They are probably not known to anyone, except herself. But if she kept playing whenever asked by Mr. Dixon, you could guess what you choose."
"There seemed to be such a perfectly good understanding between all of them – he began quite quickly, but added, reassuring himself, "but it is impossible for me to tell me what conditions they really were – what it could be behind the scenes. I can only say that it was outwardly smooth. But you, who have known Miss Saxon since childhood, must be able to assess her character and behavior in critical situations better than I do."
"I have undoubtedly known them since childhood; we were children and women together; and it is natural to assume that we should be intimate, that we should have pleased each other whenever she visited her friends. But we never did. I hardly know how it happened; a little perhaps of this malice on my side, which tended to feel disgust towards a girl who was so idolized and mourned as she always was, by her aunt and grandmother and her whole entourage. And then their restraint – I could never join someone who is so completely reserved."
"It's an extremely repulsive trait indeed," he said. "Undoubtedly, often very comfortable, but never pleasant. There are safety reserves, but no attraction. You can't love a reserved person."
"Not before the reluctance towards oneself ceases; and then the attraction may be greater. But I need a friend or a pleasant companion more than I have done so far to make the effort to conquer everyone's reserves to get one. Intimacy between Miss Saxon and me is beyond question. I have no reason to think badly of her – not least – except that such extreme and constant caution in word and behavior, such a fear of giving a certain idea of a body, can easily arouse suspicion that there is something to hide. "
He completely agreed with her: and after wandering together for so long and thinking so similarly, Emma felt so familiar with him that she could hardly believe that it was only their second meeting. He was not exactly what she expected; less world man in some of his ideas, less spoiled lucky child, so better than she had expected. His ideas seemed more moderate – his feelings warmer. She was particularly impressed by his way of looking at Mr. Alton's house, which he would visit and look at as well as the church, and would not join them if he found a lot of flaws. No, he couldn't believe it was a bad house; it was not to be regretted to own such a house. If it were to be shared with the woman he loved, he could not imagine a man who could be pitied for owning this house. There must be ample space in it for any real comfort. The man must be a fool who wanted more.
Mrs. Winstone laughed and said he didn't know what he was talking about. Even accustomed only to a large house, and without ever thinking about how many benefits and conveniences were associated with its size, he could not judge the privations that inevitably attach to a small one. But Emma was sure that he knew what he was talking about and that he showed a very amiable tendency to settle down early in life and marry for good motives. He may not have been aware of the interventions in domestic peace caused by no housekeeper's room or a bad butler's pantry, but no doubt he had the perfect feeling that Enscombe could not make him happy and that he would willingly give up a lot of wealth whenever connected to allow for an early incorporation.
Chapter 117
As small as Eleanore's general dependence on Lucy's truthfulness may be, it was impossible for her, on serious consideration, to suspect this in the present case, where no temptation could contradict stupidity to invent such a description. What Lucy had claimed to be true, Eleanore could no longer doubt; as well as supported by such probabilities and evidence and refuted by nothing but their own desires. Their opportunity to meet at Mr. Pratt's house was a foundation for the rest, undeniable and alarming at the same time; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his melancholic state of mind, his dissatisfaction with his own prospects, his insecure behavior toward himself, Miss Clayhorn's intimate knowledge of Norland and her family connections, which had often surprised her, the image, the letter, the ring, together formed such evidence that overcame any fear of unjust conviction and established his mistreatment as a fact, which no party could leave aside itself. - Her resentment at such behavior, her indignation at having been deceived of her, made her feel only for herself for a short time; but soon other ideas, other considerations emerged. Had Edward deliberately deceived her? Had he feigned a respect for her that he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it may have been, she couldn't believe it now. His affection was entirely her own. She was not deceived in this. Her mother, her sisters, Esther, had all been aware of his appreciation for them in Norland; it was not an illusion of their own vanity. He definitely loved her. What a softening of the heart was this conviction! How much it could not tempt them to forgive! He was reprehensible, highly reprehensible because he had stayed in Norland after he first felt that their influence on him was greater than he should be. In it he could not be defended; but if he had hurt her, how much more had he hurt himself; If her case was pathetic, his was hopeless. His unwiseness had made her unhappy for a while; but it seemed to have robbed him of any chance of ever being different. She could find peace over time; but HE, what was he looking forward to? Could he ever be reasonably happy with Lucy Clayhorn? When his affection for himself was beyond question, could he be satisfied with a woman like her with his integrity, tenderness and well-informed mind – illiterate, cunning and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would, of course, blind him to everything but their beauty and good-naturedness; but the four years that followed – years that, if spent reasonably, bring such an improvement to understanding must have opened his eyes to her lack of education, while the same time he spent on her side in lower company and frivolous pursuits had perhaps deprived her of that simplicity that might have once given her beauty an interesting character.
If, assuming that he wanted to marry himself, the difficulties with his mother had seemed great to him, how much greater were they now likely to be, since the object of his engagement was undoubtedly more inferior in relationships and probably inferior in wealth than she was. These difficulties, in fact, could not be very much on his patience with a heart so alienated from Lucy; but melancholy was the state of the person from whom the expectation of family resistance and unkindness could be perceived as relief!
When these considerations went through her mind in painful succession, she cried more for him than for herself. Supported by the conviction that she had done nothing that her present misfortune deserved, and comforted by the belief that Edward had done nothing to lose her esteem, she believed that even now, under the first blow of the heavy blow, she could force herself enough to be vigilant about any suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so well she was able to meet her own expectations that when she came to them for dinner only two hours after she first suffered the extinguishing of all her greatest hopes, no one would have thought after the appearance of the sisters that Eleanore it was secret grief over obstacles that must forever separate them from the object of their love, and that Marianne thought inwardly about the perfection of a man,
The need to hide what was entrusted to her from her mother and Marianne, although it forced her to make relentless efforts, did not exacerbate Eleanore's distress. On the contrary, it was a relief for her to be spared from communicating what would grieve her so much, and also to be saved from hearing that condemnation of Edward that would probably result from the excess of her partial affection for herself. and that was more than she felt up to support.
From her advice or conversation, she knew she could not get help, her tenderness and grief had to contribute to her despair, while her self-control would not be encouraged by her example or praise. She was stronger on her own, and her own common sense supported her so well that her firmness was as unshakeable, her cheerful appearance as immutable as was possible with such poignant and fresh regret.
As much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy about this subject, she soon felt a earnest desire to renew it; and for more than one reason. She wanted to hear many details of her engagement again, she wanted to understand more clearly what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there was sincerity in her tenderness declaration for him, and she wanted above all to convince Lucy by her willingness to go back to the matter, and her calm in the conversation that she was no different than as a friend, what she feared very much, her involuntary excitement in her morning conversation, must at least be doubtful. That Lucy was inclined to be jealous of her seemed very likely: it was obvious that Edward had always praised her highly, not just Lucy. s assertion, but of her risk of trusting her in such a brief personal acquaintance, with a secret that is so well-known and obviously important. And even Sir John's joking intelligence must have carried weight. But in fact, while Eleanore was so sure of being truly loved by Edward, no further consideration of probabilities was needed to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her confidence was proof. What other reason for disclosing the affair could there be than to inform Eleanore of Lucy's superior claims to Edward and teach him to avoid him in the future? She had little difficulty understanding so much of her rival's intentions, and although she was determined to get so ?? to act as all principles of honor and honesty commanded to fight their own affection for Edward and see him as little as possible; she couldn't deny herself the comfort of trying to convince Lucy that her heart wasn't wounded. And now that she couldn't hear anything more painful than she had already been told, she didn't trust her own ability to go through a repetition of details with serenity.
But it wasn't immediate that an opportunity could be ordered to do so, even though Lucy was as inclined as she was to take advantage of every advantage that occurred; for the weather was often not nice enough to allow them to go for a walk where they could most easily separate from the others; and although they met at least every other evening either in the park or in the hut and mainly in the former, you could not expect them to meet for the purpose of entertainment. Such a thought would not occur to Sir John or Lady Mideltown; and therefore very little leisure was left for a general conversation and no time at all for a special conversation. They met to eat, drink and laugh together, to play cards or consequences or other games that were loud enough.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place without Eleanore having the opportunity to hire Lucy privately when Sir John stopped by the cottage one morning to ask in the name of charity that they would all eat with Lady Mideltown the day he was obliged to visit the club in Exeter and she would otherwise be all alone, except for her mother and the two Miss Clayhorns. Eleanore, who foresaw a fairer opening to the point she had in mind, was probably freer among herself at such a party as this under the calm and well-behaved leadership of Lady Mideltown than when her husband brought her together, a loud cause, accepted the invitation immediately; Margaret was just as docile with her mother's permission, and Marianne, although she was always unwilling to join one of her parties,
the young ladies left, and Lady Mideltown was happily saved from the terrible loneliness that had threatened her. The blandness of the meeting was exactly as Eleanore had expected; it did not produce a single new thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than their entire discourse both in the food parkour and in the salon: to the latter they accompanied the children, and while they stayed there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of attracting Lucy's attention to try. They calmed it down only with the removal of the teaware. Then the card table was set up, and Eleanore began to wonder that she had ever hoped to find time for a conversation in the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game.
"I'm glad," Lady Mideltown told Lucy, "that you're not going to finish the basket of poor little Annamaria tonight; because I'm sure it must hurt your eyes to work delicately by candlelight. And we will do something to the dear little love compensated tomorrow for her disappointment, and I hope she will not mind then."
This hint was enough, Lucy immediately remembered and replied: "In fact, you are very wrong, Lady Mideltown; I'm just waiting to know if you can have your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already, don't disappoint the little angel about everything in the world: and if you want me at the card table now, I'm determined to finish the basket after dinner."
"You're very good, I hope it doesn't hurt your eyes – would you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be very disappointed, I know if the basket wasn't ready tomorrow because even though I told you she certainly wouldn't, I'm sure she depends on it being done.
Lucy approached her work table directly to her and sat down again with a speed and cheerfulness that indicated that she could feel no greater pleasure than making a filigree basket for a spoiled child.
Lady Mideltown suggested a casino rubber to the others. No one objected except Marianne, who exclaimed with her usual inattention to the forms of general politeness: "Your ladyship will have the goodness to excuse ME – you know that I detest cards. I will go to the pianoforte; I haven't touched that since it was voted." And without further ado, she turned away and went to the instrument.
Lady Mideltown looked as if she thanked Heaven for never giving such a rude speech.
"Marianne can never stay away from this instrument for long, you know, madam," Eleanore said, trying to smooth out the insult; "and I'm not very surprised about it; because it's the very best pianoforte I've ever heard."
The remaining five should now draw their cards.
"Maybe," Eleanore continued, "if I happen to cut out, I can be of use to Miss Lucy Clayhorn by rolling up her papers for her; and there is still so much to do with the basket that it must be impossible, I think, for their work alone, to complete it tonight. I would really like the work if she let me participate in it."
"In fact, I am very grateful to you for your help," Lucy exclaimed, "because I think there is more to do than I thought, and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria."
"Oh, that would be really terrible," said Miss Clayhorn – "Dear little soul as I love her!"
"They are very friendly," Lady Mideltown told Eleanore; "and since you really like the work, maybe you'll be just as pleased not to intervene until another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"
Eleanore happily benefited from the first of these proposals, and so a little of this speech, to which Marianne could never condescend, achieved her own goal and at the same time delighted Lady Mideltown. Lucy gave way to her with readily attention, and so the two beautiful rivals sat side by side at the same table and were busy with extreme harmony in passing on the same work. The pianoforte, where Marianne, wrapped in her own music and thoughts, had forgotten at that time that there was someone else in the room besides her, was fortunately so close to them that Miss Hargrove now decided that she could certainly do it under the protection of her sound, introducing the interesting theme, without running the risk of being heard at the card table.
Chapter 118
With no events greater than these in the Longbourn family and otherwise only slightly beyond the walks to Meryton, which were sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, January and February passed. March was to bring Elizabeth to Hunsford. She hadn't thought very seriously about going there at first; but Charlotte, she soon realized, depended on the plan, and she gradually learned to think about it herself with greater joy and greater certainty. Her absence had intensified her desire to see Charlotte again and weakened her disgust for Mr. Collins. The scheme was novel, and since the home of such a mother and such unsociable sisters could not be impeccable, a small change for its own sake was not unwelcome. The trip would also give her a glimpse of Jane; and in short, as the time came, any delay would have made her very sorry. However, everything went smoothly and was finally done after Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added over time, and the plan became as perfect as it could be.
The only pain was to leave her father, who would surely miss her and who, when it mattered, liked her so little that he told her to write to him and almost promised to answer her letter.
The farewell between her and Mr. Waterhouse was completely friendly; on his side even more. His present aspiration could not make him forget that Elizabeth was the first to arouse and deserve his attention, the first to listen and feel sorry for, the first to be admired; and in his way of saying goodbye, wishing her much joy, reminding her of what to expect from Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting that her opinion of her – her opinion of all – would always agree, lay a concern, an interest she felt, must ever bind her to him with the most sincere consideration; and she separated from him in the conviction that he, whether married or single, must always be her model of kindness and pleasingness.
Her fellow travelers the next day weren't in the way of getting her to find him less enjoyable. Sir William Lucas and his daughter Maria, a cheerful girl but as empty in his head as he was, had nothing to say that was worth listening to, and were greeted with something like this?? a lot of delight is like the rattling of the chaise longue. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but Sir Williams had known her for too long. He could not tell her anything new about the miracles of his presentation and his knighthood; and his courtesies were exhausted, as was his information.
It was a drive of only twenty-four miles, and they started so early that they arrived on Gracechurch Street around noon. As they drove to Mr. Lockhart's door, Jane stood by a salon window and watched her arrival; When they entered the corridor, she was there to greet her, and Elizabeth, who looked her seriously in the face, was happy to see it as healthy and beautiful as ever. On the stairs was a squad of little boys and girls, whose zeal for the appearance of their cousin did not allow them to wait in the salon, and whose shyness, having not seen them for twelve months, prevented them from getting deeper. Everything was joy and kindness. The day passed very pleasantly; in the morning in hustle and bustle and shopping and in the evening in one of the theaters.
Elizabeth then managed to sit next to her aunt. Her first object was her sister; and she was more saddened than amazed to hear, in response to her meticulous questions, that although Jane always struggled to maintain her spirits, there were times of depression. However, it was reasonable to hope that they would not go on for long. Mrs. Lockhart also gave her the details of Miss Woodland's visit to Gracechurch Street and repeated conversations that took place at different times between Jane and her, proving that the former had given up the acquaintance from the heart.
Mrs. Lockhart then brought her niece together for Waterhouse's desertion and complimented her on having endured it so well.
"But my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what kind of girl is Miss King? I'm sorry to think our friend is a mercenary."
"Please, my dear aunt, what is the difference in marriage matters between the mercenary and the cleverness motive? Where does discretion end and stinginess begin? Last Christmas you were afraid that he would marry me because it would be careless; and now, because he's trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out he's a mercenary.'
"If you just tell me what kind of girl Miss King is, I know what to think."
"She's a very good girl, I think. I don't know anything about her.'
'But he did not pay her the slightest attention until the death of her grandfather made her mistress of this fortune.'
"No – what should it do? If he wasn't allowed to win MY affection because I had no money, what reason could there be to sleep with a girl he didn't care about and who was just as poor?'
"But it seems to be an inconvenience to draw your attention to them so soon after this event."
"A man in distress doesn't have time for all the elegant rules of decency that other people might observe. If SHE doesn't mind, why should WE do it?'
"The fact that SHE has nothing against it does not justify HIM. It just shows that she herself is missing something – meaning or feeling."
"Well," Elizabeth exclaimed, "have it as you please. He will be a mercenary, and SHE will be foolish.'
"No, Lizzy, I don't choose that. You know, I'd be sorry to think badly of a young man who has lived in Derbyshire for so long."
'Oh! If that's all, I have a very bad opinion of young men living in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I'm tired of them all. Thank Heaven! I will go tomorrow where I will find a man who does not have a single pleasant quality, who has neither manner nor reason to recommend him. After all, stupid men are the only ones worth recognizing."
"Take care of yourself, Lizzy; this speech tastes very much like disappointment.'
Before they were separated by the end of the play, she had the unexpected luck of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt on a pleasure tour they wanted to take in the summer.
"We haven't decided yet how far it should take us," Said Mrs. Lockhart, "but maybe all the way to the lakes."
No plan could have been more pleasant for Elizabeth, and she accepted the invitation very willingly and gratefully. "Oh, my dear, dear aunt," she exclaimed delighted, "what joy! what bliss! You give me fresh life and strength. Goodbye to disappointment and spleen. What are young men for rocks and mountains? Oh! what transport hours will we spend! And when we return, it won't be like other travelers without being able to give an accurate idea of anything. We WILL know where we went – we WILL remember what we saw. Lakes, mountains and rivers should not be confused in our imagination; Even if we try to describe a particular scene, we will not argue about its relative situation. Let OUR first effusions be less unbearable than those of the general public of travelers.'
Chapter 119
Esther's significance took place with the departure of her cousins ?? to. When she became the only young woman in the salon, the only resident of this interesting section of a family in which she had previously held such a modest third, it was impossible for her to no longer be respected, to think and pay more attention than she had ever been before; and "Where is Esther?" did not become an unusual question, even without being sought for someone's convenience.
Not only at home their value increased, but also in the rectory. In this house, which she had barely entered twice a year since Mr. Norris' death, she became a welcome, invited guest and in the gloom and filth of a November day highly acceptable to Mary Dorset. Their visits there, which began by chance, were continued by advertising. Mrs. Grant, who was really eager to get her sister some change, was able to convince herself through the simplest self-deception that she was kind to Esther and gave her the most important opportunities for improvement by making her frequent calls.
Esther, who had been sent to the village by her aunt Norris for an errand, was showered by a heavy shiver near the rectory; and when she was watched from one of the windows trying to find shelter under the branches and lingering leaves of an oak tree just behind her property, she was forced to enter, though not without a modest reluctance on her part. An official she had resisted; but when Dr. Grant himself went out with an umbrella, there was no choice but to be very ashamed and get into the house as soon as possible; and to poor Miss Dorset, who had just thought in a very desperate state of mind about the gloomy rain and about the ruin of her training plan for that morning and about any chance to see a single creature beyond herself the next, sighed twenty-four hours, the sound of a little hustle and bustle at the front door and the sight of Miss Price, which was dripping with wetness was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the countryside was emphatically demonstrated to her. She was immediately alive again and was among the most active in being useful to Esther, noting that she was wetter than she would initially allow and providing her with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner. and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wetness was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the countryside was emphatically demonstrated to her. She was immediately alive again and was among the most active in being useful to Esther, noting that she was wetter than she would initially allow and providing her with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner. and the sight of Miss Price dripping with wetness was delightful. The value of an event on a wet day in the countryside was emphatically demonstrated to her. She was immediately alive again and was among the most active in being useful to Esther, noting that she was wetter than she would initially allow and providing her with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner. The value of an event on a wet day in the countryside was emphatically demonstrated to her. She was immediately alive again and was among the most active in being useful to Esther, noting that she was wetter than she would initially allow and providing her with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner. The value of an event on a wet day in the countryside was emphatically demonstrated to her. She was immediately alive again and was among the most active in being useful to Esther, noting that she was wetter than she would initially allow and providing her with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner. and provided them with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner. and provided them with dry clothes; and Esther, after being forced to submit to all this attention and being served and served by mistresses and maids, and also obliged to be fixed in her salon for an hour on returning downstairs, while the rain continued, the blessing to see and think something new was thus extended to Miss Dorset and could carry her mood until the time of dressing and dinner.
The two sisters were so kind and kind to her that Esther would have enjoyed her visit if she hadn't believed herself in the way, and she could have foreseen that the weather at the end of the hour would surely clear up and save her from the shame of having Dr. Grant's carriage and horses to take her home, with which she was threatened. Regarding the fear of an alarm that their absence in such ?? Weather at home, she had nothing to suffer in this regard; for since only her two aunts knew she was outside, she was fully aware that no one would feel her, and that Aunt Norris would put her in any cottage during the rain, Aunt Schmidt would no doubt assume that she was in such a cottage.
It began to look brighter when Esther, as she watched a harp in the room, asked some questions about it, which soon led to an admission that she very much wanted to hear it, and to a hard-to-believe confession from her I've never heard it since it's been in Mansfield. Esther herself found it to be a very simple and natural circumstance. Since the arrival of the instrument, she had hardly been in the rectory, there had been no reason for it; but Miss Dorset, who recalled an early wish on the subject, was concerned about her own negligence; and "Shall I play to you now?" and "What do you want to have?" Questions immediately followed with the most ready good mood.
She played accordingly; happy to have a new listener, and a listener who seemed so committed, so full of wonder at the performance, and who did not lack taste. She played until Esther's eyes, which wandered to the window in obviously nice weather, spoke what she thought needed to be done.
"Another quarter of an hour," said Miss Dorset, "and we'll see how it goes. Do not run away at the first moment of its holding. These clouds look alarming."
"But they are being ignored," Esther said. "I watched them. This weather is all from the south."
"South or North, I recognize a black cloud when I see it; and you must not step forward as long as it is so threatening. And besides, I want to play you something else – a very pretty piece – and your cousin's favorite piece?? Edmund. You have to stay and the darling of your cousin ?? hear."
Esther felt she had to; and although she had not waited for this sentence to think of Edmund, such a memory made her especially awake to his idea, and she imagined that he sat in this room again and again, perhaps exactly where she was sitting now and listening to constant joy in the favorite. air, played as it seemed to her, with superior tone and expression; and although she herself was satisfied with it, and glad that he liked everything he liked, she was more sincerely than before eager to walk away in the end; and since this was obvious, she was so kindly asked to call again, to take her on her walk whenever she could, to come and hear more about the harp that she felt it necessary to be done if there was no objection at home.
That was the origin of the kind of intimacy that took place between them within the first fourteen days after Miss Schmidt left – an intimacy that resulted mainly from Miss Dorset's desire for something new and that had little reality in Esther's feelings. Esther went to her every two or three days: it seemed to be a kind of fascination: she couldn't be easy to go without going, and yet it was, without loving her, without ever thinking like her, without a sense of obligation, now when to be sought otherwise there was no one to have; and to derive no greater pleasure from her conversation than occasional amusement, often at the expense of her judgment, when it was raised by jokes about people or topics she wanted to respect. However, she left, and they strolled around Mrs. Grant for many half hours together.
"This is pretty, very pretty," Esther said, looking around as they sat together one day; "Every time I get into this bush, I am more impressed by its growth and beauty. Three years ago, this was nothing but a rough hedge along the top side of the field, never thought of as anything or capable of becoming anything; and now it is transformed into a walk, and it would be difficult to say whether it is most valuable as a convenience or as jewelry; and maybe in another three years we will forget – almost forget what it was before. How wonderful, how wonderful the processes of time and the changes in the human mind!" And following the last train of thought, she soon added: "If one skill of our nature can be called more wonderful than the others, then I think it is memory. There seems to be something more incomprehensible in the powers, errors and inequalities of memory than in any other of our intelligences. Memory is sometimes so reserved, so useful, so obedient; so confused and so weak in others; and still others, so tyrannical, so uncontrollable! Certainly, we are a miracle in every way; but our memory and forgetting abilities seem strangely unexplored."
Miss Dorset, untouched and inattentive, had nothing to say; and Esther, who perceived it, brought her own thoughts back to what she thought was interesting.
"It may seem outrageous of me to praise, but I must admire the taste that Mrs. Grant has shown in all of this. There is such a quiet simplicity in the plan of the hike! Don't try too much!"
"Yes," Miss Dorset replied indifferently, "for a place of this kind, that's very good. One does not think of scope here; and said among us, until I came to Mansfield, I could not have imagined that a country priest would ever strive for a bush or anything like that."
"I'm so glad the evergreens are thriving!" Esther replied. "My uncle's gardener always says the soil here is better than his own, and that's what it looks like from the growth of laurels and evergreen plants in general. The evergreen! How beautiful, how welcome, how wonderful the evergreen! When you think about what an amazing diversity of nature! In some countries, we know that the tree that sheds its foliage is the variety, but that makes it no less surprising that the same soil and the same sun should produce plants that differ in the first rules and laws of their existence. You'll think I'm raving; but when I'm outdoors, especially when I'm sitting outside, I'm very inclined to get into that kind of wondering tension. You can't focus your eyes on the most ordinary natural production without finding food for a rambling imagination."
"To tell the truth," Replied Miss Dorset, "I am something like the famous Doge at the court of Lewis XIV; and may explain that I see no miracle in this bushes but to see myself in it. If someone had told me a year ago that this place would be my home, that I should spend here month after month, as I did, I certainly wouldn't have believed them. I've been here for almost five months now; and also the quietest five months I've ever spent."
"Too quiet for you, I think."
"I should have thought so theoretically myself, but," and her eyes lit up as she spoke, "all in all, I've never had such a happy summer. But on the other hand," with a more thoughtful expression and lowered voice, "you can't say what it might lead to."
Esther's heart beat fast, and she felt quite incapable of suspecting or asking for more. Miss Dorset, however, soon continued with new liveliness –
"I am aware that I reconcile with a country estate much better than I ever expected. I can even imagine that it is pleasant to spend half the year in the countryside, possibly very pleasant. An elegant, medium-sized house in the center of family connections; continuous engagements among them; Commanding the first society in the neighborhood; perhaps even more than those with greater fortunes looked up as leaders and turned from the joyful round of such pleasures to nothing worse than a tete-a-tete with the person one finds most comfortable in the world. There's nothing terrible about such a picture, isn't there, Miss Price? You don't need to envy the new Mrs. Rushmore for such a home."
"Envy of Mrs. Rushmore!" was all Esther was trying to say. "Come, come, it would be very unpleasant of us to treat Mrs. Rushmore strictly, because I look forward to thanking her for many happy, brilliant and happy hours. I expect we will all be in Sotherton for another year. Such a match, as Miss Schmidt did, is a public blessing; for the first joys of Mr. Rushmore's wife must be to fill her house and give the best balls in the country."
Esther was silent, and Miss Dorset fell back into contemplation until, after a few minutes, she suddenly looked up and exclaimed, "Ah! here he is." However, it was not Mr. Rushmore, but Edmund, who then approached her with Mrs. Grant. "My sister and Mr. Schmidt. I am so glad that your oldest cousin is gone, that he can be Mr. Schmidt again. The sound of Mr. Edmund Schmidt has something so formal, so pitiful, like a younger brother, that I detest it."
"How different we feel!" exclaimed Esther. "The sound of Mr. Schmidt is so cold and meaningless for me, so completely without warmth and character! It just stands for a gentleman, and that's all. But in the name of Edmund lies nobility. It is a name of heroism and prestige; of kings, princes and knights; and seems to breathe the spirit of chivalry and warm affection."
"I admit to you, the name is good in itself, and Lord Edmund or Sir Edmund sound delightful; but sink it under the cold, the destruction of a Mr., and Mr. Edmund is no more than Mr. John or Mr. Thomas. Well, are we supposed to disappoint them halfway through their talk if we sit down outdoors at this time of year by getting up before they can start?"
Edmund met them with special pleasure. It was the first time since the beginning of this better acquaintance, which he had heard with great satisfaction, that he saw together. A friendship between two lovers so dear to him was exactly what he could have wished for: and to the benefit of the understanding of the lover, it should be said that he did not consider Esther as the only or even the greater winner of such a friendship.
"Well," said Miss Dorset, "and don't you scold us for our unwiseness? What do you think we sat down for other than to be talked about and begged and asked never to do it again?
"Maybe I would have scolded," Edmund said, "if one of you had sat alone; but while you are doing wrong together, I can overlook many things."
"They can't have sat for long," Mrs. Grant exclaimed, "because when I went to get my scarf, I saw them from the stairwell window, and then they left."
"And really," Edmund added, "the day is so mild that it can hardly be considered careless to sit down for a few minutes. Our weather does not always have to be judged by the calendar. In November, we sometimes take greater liberties than in May."
"At my word," shouted Miss Dorset, "you are two of the most disappointing and callous girlfriends I've ever met! There is no moment of discomfort. You don't know how much we suffered, nor what chills we felt! But I've long thought of Mr. Schmidt as one of the worst subjects to work on in any little maneuver against common sense that can plague a woman. I had very little hope in him from the beginning; but you, Mrs. Grant, my sister, my own sister, I think I had the right to worry you a little."
"Don't flatter yourself, my dearest Mary. You don't have the slightest chance to move me. I have my alarm clocks, but they are somewhere else; and if I could have changed the weather, a good sharp east wind would have blown around you all the time – because here are some of my plants that Robert will leave out because the nights are so mild and I know the end it will be that we will have a sudden change of weather, a hard frost that starts all at once and surprises everyone (at least Robert), and I will lose everyone; and what's worse, Koch just told me that the turkey, which I specifically didn't want to be turned on by Sunday because I know how much more Dr. Grant would enjoy it on Sunday after the rigors of the day, is not tenable beyond tomorrow. These are something like complaints,
"The sweets of housekeeping in a rural village!" said Miss Dorset mischievously. "Recommend me to the gardener and the poultry farmer."
"My dear child, commend Dr Grant to the Dean's Office of Westminster or St Paul's, and I would be as happy about your gardener and poultry farmer as you could be. But we don't have people like that in Mansfield. What should I do?"
"Oh! you can only do what you already do: get plagued very often and never lose your composure."
"Thank you; but you can't escape these little annoyances, Mary, live where we can; and if you have settled in the city and I come to visit you, I dare to say that I will find you with you despite the gardener and the poultry farmer, perhaps precisely because of them. Their seclusion and unpunctuality, or their exorbitant accusations and scams, will provoke bitter complaints."
"I mean being too rich to complain or feel something like that. A big income is the best recipe for happiness I've ever heard of. It can certainly secure the entire myrtle and turkey portion of it."
"You want to get very rich?" said Edmund with a look that had a lot of serious meaning in Esther's eye.
"To be sure. Right? Don't we all do?"
"I can't intend anything that has to be so completely out of my power to command. Miss Dorset can choose her level of wealth. She only has to commit to her number of thousands a year, and there can be no doubt about her arrival. My intention is just not to be poor."
"Through moderation and thrift and by reducing your desires to your income and all that. I understand you – and it is a very appropriate plan for a person in your lifetime with such limited resources and indifferent relationships. What more could you want than decent maintenance? You don't have much time ahead of you; and your relatives are unable to do anything for you or humiliate you by the contrast of their own wealth and meaning. Be honest and poor in any case – but I will not envy you; I don't even think I'll respect you. I have much more respect for those who are honest and rich."
"Their level of respect for honesty, rich or poor, is exactly what I don't deal with at all. I don't want to be poor. Poverty is exactly what I decided against. Honesty, in the in-between, in the middle of worldly circumstances, is all I am concerned about so that you do not look down."
"But I look down on him when he could have been higher. I have to look down on everything that is satisfied with darkness if it could rise to distinction."
"But how can it rise? How can my honesty at least rise to any award?"
This question was not so easy to answer and triggered an "Oh!". quite extensively from the beautiful lady before she could add: "You should have been in parliament, or you should have joined the army ten years ago."
"That's not very expedient now; and as far as my membership of Parliament is concerned, I think I have to wait until there is a special assembly for the representation of younger sons who have little to live on. No, Miss Dorset," he added in a more serious tone, "there are awards that I would feel sorry for if I thought I had no chance – absolutely without a chance and without a chance – but they are of a different kind."
A conscious look as he spoke, and what seemed to be conscious behavior on Miss Dorset's side when she gave a laughing answer, was sad food for Esther's observation; and since she was unable to meet Mrs. Grant, at whose side she was now following the others, as she should, she had almost decided to go home immediately, just waiting for her to dare to say it when the big clock sounded in Mansfield Park, blow three, gave her the feeling, really to have been absent much longer than usual, and brought the previous self-questioning, whether and how she should now say goodbye, to a very quick matter. With undoubted determination, she immediately began her farewell; and Edmund at the same time began to remember that his mother had asked for her,
Esther's haste increased; and without expecting in the slightest the presence of Edmund, she would have rushed away alone; but the general step was accelerated, and they all accompanied them into the house through which it was necessary to go. Dr. Grant was in the vestibule, and when they stopped to talk to him, she learned from Edmund's behavior that he was actually planning to go with her. He also said goodbye. She could only be grateful. At the moment of farewell, Edmund was invited by Dr. Grant to eat his mutton with him the next day; and Esther had little time for an unpleasant feeling on this occasion when Mrs. Grant suddenly turned to her again and asked for the pleasure of her company. This was such a new attention, such a completely new circumstance in the events of Esther's life, that she was quite surprised and embarrassed; and while she stammered her great commitment and her "but she didn't believe it was in her power," she looked at Edmund for his opinion and help. But Edmund, pleased that she was offered such happiness, and realizing with half a glance and half a sentence that she had nothing against it, except because of her aunt, could not imagine that his mother would make any difficulties in sparing her, and therefore resolutely openly gave the advice to accept the invitation; and although Esther herself would not dare such a bold flight of independence for his encouragement, it was soon decided that Mrs. Grant would expect her if nothing to the contrary was heard. pleased that she was offered such happiness, and with half a glance and half a sentence realizing that she had nothing against it, but because of her aunt, could not imagine that his mother would have difficulty sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open recommendation to accept the invitation; and although Esther herself would not dare such a bold flight of independence for his encouragement, it was soon decided that Mrs. Grant would expect her if nothing to the contrary was heard. pleased that she was offered such happiness, and with half a glance and half a sentence realizing that she had nothing against it, but because of her aunt, could not imagine that his mother would have difficulty sparing her, and therefore gave his decided open recommendation to accept the invitation; and although Esther herself would not dare such a bold flight of independence for his encouragement, it was soon decided that Mrs. Grant would expect her if nothing to the contrary was heard.
"And you know what your dinner is going to be," Mrs. Grant said with a smile—"the turkey, and I assure you, a very fine one; because, my dear," turned to her husband, "the cook insists that the turkey be turned on tomorrow."
"Very good, very good," dr. Grant exclaimed, "all the better; I am happy to hear that you have something so good in the house. But Miss Price and Mr. Edmund Schmidt, dare I say, would take their chance. We, none of us, want to hear the menu. A friendly meeting and not a fine dinner is all we have in mind. A turkey or a goose or a mutton leg or whatever you and your chef want to give us."
The two cousins ?? went home together; and apart from the immediate discussion about this engagement, of which Edmund spoke with the warmest satisfaction, as so particularly desirable for them in the intimacy he saw made with so much pleasure, it was a quiet walk; for after he finished this subject, he became thoughtful and unfunny to everyone else.
Chapter 120
Emma's very good opinion of Frank Curcelle was shaken a little the next day when she heard that he had gone to London just to have his hair cut. At breakfast, a sudden freak seemed to have grabbed him, and he had gotten a cart and set off, with the intention of returning for dinner, but without a more important sight that appeared than having his hair cut. It certainly didn't hurt to travel sixteen miles twice on such an errand; but there was a hint of fobbliness and nonsense in it that she couldn't condone. It did not correspond to the rationality of the plan, the moderation of costs or even the selfless warmth of heart that she had thought she had seen in him yesterday. vanity, extravagance, desire for change, restlessness of temperament that needs to do something, good or bad; carelessness about the pleasure of his father and Mrs. Winstone, no matter how his behavior might appear in general; he became liable for all these charges. His father called him just a Coxcomb and thought it was a very good story; but that Mrs. Winstone didn't like it became clear enough by passing it over as quickly as possible and making no other remark than that "all young people would have their little whims."
With the exception of this small spot, Emma found that his previous visit to her friend had only given good ideas about him. Mrs. Winstone was willing to say how attentive and pleasant he had made himself a companion – how much she liked his kind as a whole. He seemed to have a very open temperament – certainly a very cheerful and lively one; she could not find anything wrong with his ideas, many things decidedly correct; he spoke of his uncle with warm respect, liked to speak of him - said he would be the best man in the world if he were left to his own devices; and although one was not connected to the aunt, he acknowledged her kindness with gratitude and always seemed to want to speak of her with respect. This was all very promising; and, except for such an unfortunate desire to have his hair cut, there was nothing to call him unworthy of the excellent honor that her imagination had given him; the honor of being if not really in love with her, at least being very close to her and only being saved by her own indifference (because her decision was still clear never to marry) – in short, the honor of being marked for her by all their mutual acquaintances.
Mr. Winstone, for his part, added a virtue to the bill that must carry some weight. He told her that Frank admired her extraordinarily – thought she was very beautiful and very charming; and since there was so much to say for him, she felt that she could not judge him harshly. As Mrs. Winstone noted, "all the young people had their little whims."
Among his new acquaintances in Surry was a person who was not so lenient. In general, he was judged with great openness in the parishes of Donwell and Highbury; generous allowances were made for the small excesses of such a handsome young man – one who smiled so often and bowed so well; but there was a spirit among them that could not be softened by bows or smiles from his power of reproach – Mr. Hügel. The circumstance was told to him in Hartfield; at the moment he was silent; but Emma heard him say to herself almost immediately afterwards via a newspaper he was holding in his hand, "Hm! just the insignificant, stupid guy I thought he was." She was half in the mood to be angry about it; but the observation of a moment convinced them that it was really only said to ease his own feelings, and was not meant to provoke; and that's why she let it happen.
Although Mr. and Mrs. Winstone were the bearers of bad news in one case, their visit this morning was particularly favorable in other ways. While they were in Hartfield, something happened that led Emma to seek her advice; and luckily, she wanted exactly the advice they gave.
This was the incident: - The Cole's had settled in Highbury for a few years and were very good people - friendly, liberal and not disguised; but on the other hand, they were of little origin, in trade and only moderately noble. When they first came to the country, they had lived quietly in relation to their income, had little company, and little cheap; but the last year or two had brought them a considerable increase in their funds – the house in the city had brought greater profits, and luck in general had smiled at them. With their wealth, their views increased; their desire for a bigger house, their inclination towards more company. They contributed to their house, to their number of servants, to their expenses of all kinds; and by this time they were only surpassed by the Hartfield family in terms of wealth and way of life. Her love of company and her new dining room prepared every body to keep company at dinner; and some parties, mainly among the single men, had already taken place. The normal and best families that Emma could hardly believe they would invite – neither Donwell nor Hartfield nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt them to leave when they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would attach less importance to her rejection than she could have wished for. The Coles were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone. prepared each body for their dinner party; and some parties, mainly among the single men, had already taken place. The normal and best families that Emma could hardly believe they would invite – neither Donwell nor Hartfield nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt them to leave when they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would attach less importance to her rejection than she could have wished for. The Coles were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone. prepared each body for their dinner party; and some parties, mainly among the single men, had already taken place. The normal and best families that Emma could hardly believe they would invite – neither Donwell nor Hartfield nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt them to leave when they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would attach less importance to her rejection than she could have wished for. The Coles were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone. The normal and best families that Emma could hardly believe they would invite – neither Donwell nor Hartfield nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt them to leave when they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would attach less importance to her rejection than she could have wished for. The Coles were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone. The normal and best families that Emma could hardly believe they would invite – neither Donwell nor Hartfield nor Randalls. Nothing should tempt them to leave when they did; and she regretted that her father's known habits would attach less importance to her rejection than she could have wished for. The Coles were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone. s were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone. s were very respectable in their own way, but they should be taught that it was not their job to determine the conditions under which the higher families would visit them. This lesson, she feared very much, they would receive only from herself; she had little hope for Mr. Hill, none for Mr. Winstone.
But she had thought about how to deal with this presumption so many weeks before she appeared that when the insult finally came, she found it affected quite differently. Donwell and Randalls had received their invitation, and no one had come for their father and themselves; and Mrs. Winstone explains it with"I suppose they will not take the liberty to go with you; they know you don't eat out," wasn't quite enough. She felt that she would have liked to have had the power of refusal; and later, when she kept coming up with the idea of gathering a party there that consisted of the very people whose society she preferred the most, she had no idea that she might not have been tempted to accept it. Harriet should be there in the evening, and the Bateses. They had talked about it when they had walked through Highbury the day before, and Frank Curcelle had lamented their absence most seriously. Couldn't the evening end in a dance? had been a question from him. The mere possibility of this seemed like another irritation to their mood; and to be left in solitary splendor, even if one assumed that the omission was meant as a compliment, was only a small consolation.
It was the arrival of that very invitation while the Winstones were in Hartfield, which made their presence so acceptable; because although her first remark when she read it was that "of course it must be rejected," she asked her so soon what they advised her to do, that her advice for her to leave was very quick and successful.
She admitted that, considering all things, she was not entirely non-partisan. The Coles really expressed themselves – there was so much real attention in the way – so much consideration for their father. "They would have asked for the honor earlier, but waited for the arrival of a screen from London that they hoped would save Mr. Lodge from any drought of the air and therefore rather make him pay tribute to his company." On the whole, she was very convincing; and it was briefly agreed among themselves how it could be done without neglecting his comfort – how safe one could rely on Mrs. Goddard, if not Mrs. Bates, to keep him company – Mr. Lodge should be persuaded to agree that his daughter would go out for dinner on a day that is now nearby, and to spend the whole evening separately from him. Emma didn't want him to think it was possible, the hours would be too late and society would be too numerous. He was soon pretty well resigned.
"I'm not a fan of food visits," he said— "I never was. Emma is no more. Overtime does not tolerate us. I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Cole should have done it. I think it would be much better if they stopped by one afternoon next summer and took their tea with us – took us on their afternoon walk; what they could do, since our working hours are so reasonable, and still come home without being outside in the humidity of the evening. I wouldn't expose a body to the dew of a summer evening. However, since they are so anxious to have dear Emma with them, and since you will both be there, and also Mr. Hill to take care of them, I cannot want to prevent it, provided the weather is as it should be, neither damp nor cold nor windy." Then he turned to Mrs. Winstone with a gently reproachful look: "Ah! Miss Taylor, if you hadn't married,
"Well, sir," shouted Mr. Winstone, "since I took Miss Taylor away, it's up to me to give her place if I can; and I'll go straight to Mrs. Goddard if you wish."
But the idea of getting something done in an instant increased Mr. Lodge's excitement, not she let it go. The ladies knew better how to appease it. Mr. Winstone must be quiet and arrange everything carefully.
With this treatment, Mr. Lodge was soon calm enough to speak as usual. "He should be happy to see Mrs. Goddard. He had great respect for Mrs. Goddard; and Emma should write a line and invite her. James was able to take note. But first, an answer must be written to Mrs. Cole."
"You will excuse me as politely as possible, my dear. They will say that I am a completely invalid and am not going anywhere and therefore have to decline their binding invitation; starting with my compliments, of course. But you will do everything right. I don't need to tell you what to do. We have to remember to let James know that the carriage is being sought on Tuesday. With him, I will not be afraid for you. We've never been up there since the new approach was made; but still, I have no doubt that James will take you very safely. And when you get there, you have to tell him when you want to have him picked up again; and you'd better call an early hour. You won't like to stay longer. They get very tired when the tea is over."
"But you don't want me to get away before I'm tired, Dad?"
"Oh! No My darling; but you will soon be tired. There will be a lot of people speaking at the same time. They won't like the noise."
"But, sir," shouted Mr. Winstone, "if Emma gets away earlier, it will blow up the party."
"And it doesn't hurt anything when it happens," Mr. Lodge said. "The sooner each party stops, the better."
"But you don't think about how it may seem to the Cole's. That Emma leaves right after tea is perhaps insulting. They are good-natured people and think little about their own demands; but still, they must feel that rushing away from a body is not a great compliment; and Miss Lodge would think about it more than any other person in the room. You wouldn't want to disappoint and humiliate the Coles, I'm sure, sir; friendly, good people, as they have ever lived and who have been your neighbors for ten years."
"No, at no cost in the world, Mr. Winstone; I am very grateful to you that you remind me of this. I should be very sorry to inflict pain on them. I know what worthy people they are. Perry told me that Mr. Cole never touches malt liqueur. You wouldn't believe it if you looked at him, but he's gallant – Mr. Cole is very gallant. No, I would not be the means to inflict pain on them. My dear Emma, ?? we have to bear that in mind. I'm sure instead of taking the risk of hurting Mr. and Mrs. Cole, you would stay a little longer than you might want. You won't regret being tired. You will be completely safe, you know, among your friends."
"Oh yes, Dad. I am not afraid for myself at all; and I would have no scruples to stay as long as Mrs. Winstone, but because of you. I'm just afraid that you'll sit up for me. I'm not afraid that you won't feel particularly comfortable with Mrs. Goddard. She loves Pique, you know; but when she goes home, I'm afraid you'll be sitting alone instead of going to bed at your usual time – and the idea of that would completely destroy my comfort. You have to promise me not to sit up."
He did so, on the condition of some promises on her part: for example, if she came home cold, she would surely warm herself thoroughly; if she were hungry, she would take something to eat; that their own maid should sit up for them; and that Serle and the butler should, as usual, make sure that everything in the house is safe.
Chapter 121
The next morning was beautiful, and Catherine was almost expecting another attack from the assembled group. Since Mr. She was not afraid of the event: but she would like to spare herself a fight in which the victory itself was painful, and was therefore very happy not to see or hear from them. The Alsinas picked them up at the appointed time; and no new difficulty, no sudden memory, no unexpected summons, no cheeky intrusion to confuse her actions, my heroine was highly unnatural able to fulfill her engagement even though she was concluded with the hero himself. They decided to walk around Beechen Cliff, this noble hill whose beautiful greenery and hanging bushes make it such a striking object from almost every opening in Bath.
"I never look at it," Catherine said as they walked along the riverbank, "without thinking about the south of France."
"So you've been abroad?" said Henry, a little surprised.
"Oh! No, I only mean what I've read. It always reminds me of the country Emily and her father traveled through, in The Mysteries of Udolpho. But you never read novels, dare I say?"
"Why not?"
"Because they're not smart enough for you – gentlemen read better books."
"If you don't like a good novel, you have to be unbearably stupid, be it master or lady. I have read all of Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and most of them with great pleasure. The mysteries of Udolpho, once I had begun them, I could not lie down again; I remember finishing it in two days – my hair was on end all the time."
"Yes," Miss Alsina added, "and I remember that you agreed to read it out loud to me, and that when I was recalled for only five minutes to answer a note, you took the tape to the office instead of waiting for me to Hermitage Walk, and I had to stay until you were done with it."
"Thank you, Eleanor – a most honorable testimony. You see, Miss Fenmore, the injustice of your suspicions. Here I was in my eagerness to move forward, refusing to wait even five minutes for my sister, breaking the promise I had made to read it aloud, and keeping her in suspense at a most interesting point by running away with the tape, which, as you will see, was her own, especially her own. I'm proud when I think about it, and I think it has to solidify me in your good opinion."
"I'm really happy to hear that, and now I'll never be ashamed to like Udolpho myself. But I really thought before, young men despised novels incredibly."
"It's amazing; it may well suggest astonishment when they do – because they read almost as much as women. I myself have read hundreds and hundreds. Do not imagine that you could cope with me in the knowledge of Julias and Lois. If we move on to the details and get involved in the never-ending question "Did you read that?" and 'Have you read that?' I will soon leave you as far behind as – what can I say? – I want a suitable parable. – as far as your friend Emily herself left poor Valancourt when she went to Italy with her aunt. Consider how many years I had the beginning of you. I had started my studies at Oxford while you were a good little girl working on your sampler at home!"
"Not very good, I'm afraid. But now really, don't you think Udolpho is the most beautiful book in the world?"
»The most beautiful – by which you probably mean the most beautiful. That has to depend on the bond."
"Henry," said Miss Alsina, "You are very outrageous. Miss Fenmore, he treats you the same way as his sister. He constantly criticizes me for some incorrectness of the language, and now he takes the same freedom from you. The word "most beautiful", as you used it, did not suit him; and you'd better change it as soon as possible, or we'll be overwhelmed by Johnson and Blair the rest of the way."
"I'm sure," shouted Catherine, "I didn't want to say anything wrong; but it's a beautiful book, and why shouldn't I call it that?"
"Very true," said Henry, "and this is a very nice day, and we're going for a very nice walk, and you're two very nice young ladies. Oh! That's really a very nice word! It goes for everything. Originally, it may have only been used to express cleanliness, decency, tenderness or sophistication – people were nice in their clothes, in their feelings or in their choice. But now every praise on every topic is summed up in this one word."
"Actually," his sister exclaimed, "it should only be applied to you, without any praise. You are nicer rather than wise. Come, Miss Fenmore, let us leave it to him to think about our mistakes in all decency, while praising Udolpho with the words we like best. It is a very interesting work. You love that kind of reading?"
"To tell the truth, I don't like anyone else."
"Indeed!"
"That means I can read poems and plays and things like that and I have no aversion to travel. But history, really serious history, can't interest me. Can you do that?"
"Yes, I'm interested in history."
"I wish I was too. I read it a little out of a sense of duty, but it doesn't tell me anything that doesn't annoy or tire me out. The quarrels of the popes and kings with wars or plagues on each side; the men all so good to nothing and hardly any women – it is very tiring: and yet I often find it strange that it should be so boring, because much of it has to be invention. The speeches that are put in the mouths of the heroes, their thoughts and designs – the most important thing about all this must be invention, and invention is what delights me about other books."
"Historians, you think," said Miss Alsina, "are not happy with their highs. They show imagination without arousing interest. I like history – and I'm very happy to take the wrong with the truth. In the main facts, they have sources of information in previous stories and records that can be relied on as well, I conclude, as on anything that does not really fall under one's own observation; and as for the little embellishments that you're talking about are embellishments, and I like them as such. When a speech is well written, I read it with pleasure, by whomever it may be given – and probably with much greater if the production of Mr. Hume or Mr. Robertson, than if the real words of Caractacus, Agricola or Alfred the Great".
"You love history! And so Mr. Allen and my father; and I have two brothers who don't like it. So many cases in my small circle of friends are remarkable! At this pace, I will no longer pity the historians. If people like to read their books, that's all good, but to put so much effort into filling large volumes that, as I used to think, no one would ever readily admit to trying only for the agony of little boys and girls, always seemed to me like a hard fate; and although I know that everything is very right and necessary, I have often wondered about the courage of the person who could intentionally sit down to do it."
"That little boys and girls should be tortured," Henry said, "no one familiar with human nature in a civilized state can deny at all; but on behalf of our most respected historians, I must note that they may very well be offended because they supposedly have no higher goal, and that by their method and style they are perfectly suited to torment readers of the most advanced reason and maturity throughout life. I use the verb 'torment', as I have found, as your own method, rather than 'instruct', assuming that they are now considered synonymous."
"You think I'm foolish to call class a torment, but if you had been so used to hearing poor little children first letters and then learning to spell, if you had ever seen for a whole morning how stupid they can be together, and how tired my poor mother is at the end of it, As I have the habit of seeing at home almost every day of my life, you allow that "torment" and "teach" could sometimes be used as synonymous words."
"Very likely. But historians are not responsible for the difficulty of learning to read; and even yourself, who do not seem particularly friendly to a very strict, very intense application, may be made to acknowledge that it is very well worth the effort to be tormented for two or three years of your life for your own sake and be able to read the rest of it. Consider, if reading hadn't been taught, Mrs. Radcliffe would have written for free— or maybe not written at all."
Catherine agreed – and a very warm eulogy from her about the merits of this lady concluded the topic. The Alsinas were soon busy with another one to whom she had nothing to say. They looked at the country through the eyes of people accustomed to drawing, and decided with all the desire of real taste about its ability to form into images. Here Catherine was completely lost. She knew nothing about drawing, nothing about taste, and she listened to them with an attention that brought her little use, because they spoke in sentences that hardly gave her any idea. However, the little she could understand seemed to contradict the very few ideas she had previously had in this matter. It seemed as if there was no good view left from the top of a high hill, and as if a clear blue sky was no longer proof of a beautiful day. She was deeply ashamed of her ignorance. An inappropriate disgrace. Where people want to stick, they should always be ignorant. To come with a well-informed mind means to come with the inability to serve the vanity of others, which a reasonable person always wants to avoid. Especially a woman, if she has the misfortune of knowing something, should hide it as much as possible.
The benefits of natural folly in a beautiful girl have already been laid out by the great pen of a sister author; and to their treatment of the subject, I would just like to add, in order to do justice to men, that although for the larger and less important part of gender, nonsense in women is a great increase in their personal stimuli, a part of them is too reasonable and too well informed to want more in women than ignorance. But Catherine didn't know her own advantages – she didn't know that a handsome girl with a loving heart and a very ignorant mind can necessarily attract a smart young man unless the circumstances are particularly unfavorable. In the present case, she confessed and lamented her lack of knowledge, declaring that she would give everything in the world to be able to draw; and immediately followed a lecture on the painterly, in which his instructions were so clear that she soon began to see beauty in everything that was admired by him, and her attention was so serious that he was completely satisfied that she had a great natural taste. He spoke of foregrounds, distances and second distances – side screens and perspectives – light and shadow; and Catherine was such a hopeful scholar that when they reached the top of Beechen Cliff, she voluntarily rejected the whole city of Bath as unworthy of being part of a landscape. Pleased with their progress and afraid of tiring them with too much wisdom at once, Henry let the subject sink, through a slight transition from a piece of boulders and the withered oak he had placed near his summit, to oaks in general, to forests, their enclosures, fallow land, crown land and government, he soon found himself in politics; and from politics it was a simple step to silence. The general pause that followed his brief treatise on the State of the Nation was ended by Catherine, who in a rather solemn tone uttered the following words: "I have heard that indeed something very shocking will soon come out of London."
Miss Alsina, to whom this was mainly addressed, was frightened and replied hastily: "Indeed! And what nature?"
"I don't know who the author is. I've only heard that it's supposed to be more terrible than anything we've encountered so far."
"Good heavens! Where could you hear something like that?"
"A special friend of mine reported about it yesterday in a letter from London. It's supposed to be tremendously terrible. I expect murder and all the like."
"You speak with amazing serenity! But I hope your friend's reports were exaggerated; and if such a design is known in advance, the government will undoubtedly take appropriate measures to prevent it from coming into force."
"The government," Henry said, trying not to smile, "has neither the desire nor dares to interfere in such matters. There must be murder; and the government doesn't care how much."
The ladies stared. He laughed and added, "Come on, should I make sure you understand each other, or leave them to each other, as best you can find an explanation? No – I will be noble. I will prove myself to be a man, no less through the generosity of my soul than through the clarity of my head. I have no patience with those of my gender, as I despise sometimes surrendering to understanding your gender. Perhaps women's abilities are neither healthy nor pronounced – neither energetic nor eager. Maybe they want observation, judgment, judgment, fire, genius and wit."
"Miss Fenmore, don't care what he says; but do you have the goodness to convince me of this terrible uproar."
"Uprising! What an uproar?"
"My dear Eleanor, the turmoil only takes place in your own brain. The confusion there is scandalous. Miss Fenmore has spoken of nothing more terrible than a new publication coming soon, in three duodecimal volumes, two hundred and seventy-six pages each, with a frontispiece to the first, two tombstones and a lantern – do you understand? And you, Miss Fenmore – my stupid sister misunderstood all your clearest expressions. They spoke of expected horrors in London – and instead of immediately understanding how any reasonable being would have done that such words could only refer to a borrowing library, they immediately imagined a mob of three thousand men gathering at St. George's Field's, attacking the bank, threatening the Tower, the streets of London flowing blood, A detachment of the Twelfth Light Dragoons (the nation's hopes) was called from Northampton to suppress the insurgents, and brave Captain Frederick Alsina, at the moment of the attack at the head of his squad, threw his horse from a brickbat to an upper window. Forgive their stupidity. The sister's fears have contributed to the woman's weakness; but it is by no means a simpleton in general."
Catherine looked serious. "And now, Henry," Said Miss Alsina, "since you've made us understand each other, you might as well get Miss Fenmore to understand herself — unless you want her to think you're unbearably rude to your sister and a big animal your opinion of women in general. Miss Fenmore is not used to your strange behaviors."
"I will be very happy to introduce them better to them."
"No doubt; but this is not an explanation of the present."
"What should I do?"
"You know what you should do. Clean up your character handsomely in front of her. Tell her that you really appreciate women's understanding."
"Miss Fenmore, I really appreciate the understanding of all the women in the world – especially those – whoever they may be – with whom I happen to be."
"That's not enough. Be more serious."
"Miss Fenmore, no one can value the understanding of women higher than I do. In my opinion, nature has given them so much that they never feel the need to use more than half."
"We won't hear anything more serious from him now, Miss Fenmore. He is not in a sober mood. But I assure you that he must be completely misunderstood if he ever gives the appearance of saying something unjust about a woman or something unkind about me."
Catherine found it easy to believe that Henry Alsina could never be wrong. His manner may sometimes surprise, but his opinion always had to be fair: and what she did not understand, she admired almost as much as what she did. The whole walk was delightful, and although it ended too early, its conclusion was also delightful; her friends accompanied her to the house, and before they said goodbye, Miss Alsina respectfully turned to both Mrs. Allen as well as Catherine and asked for the pleasure of her company to have dinner the day after next. No difficulties were made on Mrs. Allen's side, and the only difficulty on Catherine's side was to hide the excess of her lust.
The morning had passed so enchantingly that it banished all her friendship and natural affection, because no thought of Bella or James had crossed her path during her walk. When the Alsinas were gone, she became amiable again, but she was amiable for some time without effect; Mrs. Allen had no intelligence to give to alleviate their fear; she hadn't heard of any of them. Towards the end of the morning, however, Catherine, who had the opportunity to get an indispensable meter loop that had to be bought without a moment of hesitation, went out into town and overtook the second Miss Dorfman on Bond Street as she approached Edgar's building between two of the sweetest girls in the world who had been her dear friends all morning. She soon learned that the party had taken place after Clifton. "They left at eight this morning," said Miss Anne, "and I'm sure I don't envy them for their energy. I think you and I are very good at getting out of the mess. It must be the most boring thing in the world, because at this time of year there is no human soul in Clifton. Belle drove with your brother, and John drove Maria."
Catherine expressed the joy she really felt when she heard this part of the arrangement.
"Oh! yes," replied the other, "Mary is gone. She was pretty wild to go. She thought it was something very fine. I can't say I admire their taste; and for my part, I was determined from the beginning not to leave, no matter how much pressure they put me under."
Catherine, who doubted this a little, couldn't help but reply: "I wish you could have left too. Too bad you couldn't all go."
"Thank you; but I don't care. In fact, I wouldn't have left under any circumstances. That's what I just said to Emily and Sophia when you overtook us."
Catherine was still not convinced; but glad that Anne should have the friendship of an Emily and a Sophia as a consolation, she said goodbye without much discomfort and returned home, pleased that the party had not been prevented by her refusal to participate, and wished this with all her heart it might be too pleasant to allow James or Bella, to be annoyed by their resistance even longer.
Chapter 122
The time was now approaching for the return of Dame Russell: the day was even fixed; and Anne, who was engaged to join her as soon as she moved, was looking forward to moving to Kellynch soon and began to think about how likely it would affect her own comfort.
It would take them to the same village as Captain Cambridge, within half a mile of him; they had to attend the same church, and there had to be traffic between the two families. That was against them; but on the other hand, he spent so much time in Uppercross that if she moved away from there, she could be considered more like she was leaving him behind than approaching him; and on the whole, she believed she had to be the winner in this interesting question, almost as sure as she did when she changed domestic society by leaving poor Mary for Lady Russell.
She wished she could avoid ever seeing Captain Cambridge in the hall: these rooms had witnessed previous meetings that would be made too painful for her; but she was even more concerned about the possibility that Lady Russell and Captain Cambridge could not meet anywhere. They didn't like each other, and no new acquaintance could do any good now; and if Lady Russell saw them together, she might think that he had too much self-control and she had too little.
These points formed her main concern in anticipating her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough. Her usefulness to little Charles would always add some sweetness to the memory of her two-month visit there, but it quickly gained strength, and she had nothing else to stay for.
The conclusion of her visit, however, was varied in a way that she had not even imagined. Captain Cambridge, after being invisible and unheard for two whole days in Uppercross, reappeared among them to justify himself through a relationship, which had kept him away.
A letter from his friend, Captain Cheval, who had finally found him out, had brought the news that Captain Cheval was based in Lyme with his family for the winter; that they are therefore quite unknowingly within twenty miles of each other. Captain Cheval had never been in good health since a severe wound he sustained two years ago, and Captain Cambridge's concern to see him had led him to go to Lyme immediately. He had been there for twenty-four hours. His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honored, a lively interest in his friend aroused, and his description of the beautiful country around Lyme so lovingly maintained by the Party that a serious desire arose to see Lyme for himself, and a plan to go there was the consequence.
The young people were all eager to see Lyme. Captain Cambridge spoke of going there again, it was only seventeen miles from Uppercross; although in November the weather was by no means bad; and in short, Lois, who was the most zealous of the zealous, had made the decision to leave, and in addition to the pleasure of doing what she wanted, now armed with the idea of merit, going her own way, depressed all the wishes of her father and mother to postpone it to the summer; and they should go to Lyme – Charles, Mary, Anne, Grace, Lois and Captain Cambridge.
The first ill-considered plan had been to go there in the morning and return in the evening; but Mr. Cumberland would not agree to that because of his horses; and on reasonable consideration, a day in the middle of November wouldn't leave much time to see a new place after subtracting seven hours, as the nature of the land required to go there and back. You should therefore stay there the night and not be expected back before dinner the next day. This was perceived as a significant change; and although they all met at a fairly early breakfast hour in the Great House and set off very punctually, it was so far after noon until the two carriages, Mr. Cumberland's carriage with the four ladies, and Charles' curriculum, in which he drove the captain, drove Cambridge, descended the long hill to Lyme,
After securing accommodation and ordering dinner at one of the inns, the next thing to do was undoubtedly to go straight down to the sea. They came too late in the year for any entertainment or variety that Lyme could offer as a public place. The rooms were closed, the lodgers almost all left, hardly a family left except the residents; and since there is nothing to admire about the buildings themselves, the remarkable location of the city, the main street that almost rushes into the water, the walk to the Cobb that goes around the pretty little bay that is busy in season with bathing machines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful cliff line that stretches east of the city, is what the eye of the stranger will seek; and it must be a very strange stranger who sees no stimuli in the immediate vicinity of Lyme to make him want to know better. The scenes in its neighborhood, Charmouth, with its heights and vast stretches of land, and even more, its sweet, secluded bay surrounded by dark cliffs, where fragments of low rocks lie among the sands, make it the happiest place to watch the current of the tides, to sit in tireless contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of Up Lyme; and especially Pinny with its green gorges between romantic rocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards proliferated lavishly, explain that some generations must have passed since the first partial collapse of the cliff prepared the ground for such a state, where such a wonderful and so beautiful scene is shown,
The group of Uppercross, passing by the now abandoned and melancholic-looking rooms and still descending, soon found themselves on the seashore; and just lingering, as everyone has to dwell and look forward to a first return to the sea that ever deserved to see at all, they went to the Cobb, both their destination in itself and on Captain Cambridge's account: for in a small house, near the foot of an old pier of unknown date, were the Hinesville. Captain Cambridge came in to visit his friend; the others went on, and he was to join them on the Cobb.
They were by no means tired of wonder and admiration; and not even Lois seemed to feel that they had separated from Captain Cambridge for a long time when they saw him come after them with three companions, all of whom were already described as Captain and Mrs. Cheval, and a Captain Bean, who was.
Captain Bean had been a first lieutenant of the Laconia some time ago; and the account that Captain Cambridge had previously given of him on his return from Lyme, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and an officer whom he had always held in high esteem, which must have impressed him well in the appreciation of all the listeners, followed by a small story of his private life that made him completely interesting in the eyes of all the ladies. He had been engaged to Captain Cheval's sister and was now mourning her loss. They had waited a year or two for luck and promotion. Luck came, his prize money as a lieutenant was great; finally came the promotion; but Esther Cheval did not live to see it. She had died the previous summer while he was at sea. Captain Cambridge thought it was impossible for a man to cling more to a woman than poor Bean Esther Cheval, or for him to suffer more deeply from the terrible change. He considered his predisposition to be of the kind that had to suffer heavily, combining very strong feelings with calm, serious and reserved manners and a determined taste for reading and sedentary pursuits. To end the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the Chevals seemed to be strengthened, if possible, by the event that shattered all their views on the alliance, and Captain Bean now lived completely with them. Captain Cheval had taken his current house for half a year; his taste, health and fortune, all of which lead him to a cheap residence by the sea; and the splendor of the land and the retreat of Lyme in the winter, seemed to be exactly adapted to Captain Bean's state of mind. The sympathy and goodwill towards Captain Bean was very great.
"And yet," Anne said to herself as they approached society now, "he may not have a sadder heart than I do. I can't believe his prospects are so spoiled forever. He is younger than I am; younger in feeling, if not actually; younger than a man. He will gather again and be happy with another.
They all met and were introduced. Captain Cheval was a tall, dark man with a reasonable, benevolent expression; a little lame; and of strong facial features and lack of health, much older looking than Captain Cambridge. Captain Bean looked and was the youngest of the three, and a small man compared to the two. He had a pleasant face and a melancholic charisma, as it should be, and withdrew from the conversation.
Captain Cheval, although he did not come close to Captain Cambridge in manners, was a perfect gentleman, unartificial, warm-hearted and accommodating. However, Mrs. Cheval, a little less polished than her husband, seemed to have the same good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their desire to consider the whole society as their own friends, because the friends of Captain Cambridge, or friendlier than their requests for their promise to dine with them. Dinner already ordered at the inn was finally accepted, albeit reluctantly, as an excuse; but they seemed almost offended that Captain Cambridge should bring such a company to Lyme without taking it for granted that they should dine with them.
In all of this, there was so much affection for Captain Cambridge and such an enchanting charm in a level of hospitality so unusual, so different from the usual style of invitations with give and take and dinner with formality and pomp, that Anne felt her mood it is unlikely that he will benefit from an increasing acquaintance among his officer brothers. "That would have been all my friends," was her thought; and she had to contend with a great tendency towards lowliness.
When they left the Cobb, they all went into the house with their new friends and found rooms as small as no one but those who invite from the heart thought it possible to take in so many. Anne herself was amazed for a moment; but it was soon lost in the more pleasant feelings that arose from the sight of all the ingenious inventions and nice arrangements of Captain Cheval to make the actual space the best use, to compensate for the shortcomings of the hostel furniture and to defend the windows and doors against the expected winter storms. The variety in the furnishing of the rooms, where the common needs that the owner provided in the common indifferent need, a few objects made of a rare type of wood, excellently processed, were contrasted, and with something curious and valuable from all the distant lands that Captain Cheval had visited, were more than amusing for Anne; As much as everything was connected to his profession, the fruit of his work, the effect of his influence on his habits, the image of tranquility and domestic happiness it offered, made it something more or less as satisfaction for them.
Captain Cheval was not a reader; but for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Bean, he had invented excellent accommodations and designed very pretty shelves. His lameness prevented him from moving much; but a spirit of usefulness and ingenuity seemed to give him a constant occupation within. He drew, he painted, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys for the children; he made new power pins and pins with improvements; and when all else was done, he sat down to his large fishing net in a corner of the room.
Anne thought she had left a great fortune behind when they calmed down the house; and Lois, whom she passed, erupted in delight of admiration and delight at the character of the Navy; their kindness, their fraternity, their openness, their sincerity; protesting that she was convinced that sailors had more value and warmth than any other group of men in England; that they only knew how to live and that they only deserved to be respected and loved.
They went back to get dressed and eat; and so well the scheme had already replied that nothing wrong was found; although it was "so completely out of season", and the "no thoroughfare of Lyme" and the "no expectation of company" had earned many apologies from the managers of the inn.
Anne found herself so much more hardened to be in Captain Cambridge's company at the time, when she had initially imagined that it could ever be that sitting at a table with him and exchanging the usual pleasantries that participate in it (they never got beyond that) became a mere nothingness.
The nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again by tomorrow, but Captain Cheval had promised them a visit in the evening; and he also came and brought his friend with him, which was more than had been expected, since it had been agreed that Captain Bean had the whole appearance of being depressed by the presence of so many strangers. However, he ventured among them again, although his mood certainly did not seem suitable for the cheerfulness of the party in general.
While Captains Cambridge and Cheval conducted the conversation on one side of the room and, drawing on earlier days, provided anecdotes galore to keep and entertain the others, it fell to Anne to be placed more separately from Captain Bean; and a very good impulse of her nature forced her to start an acquaintance with him. He was shy and inclined to abstraction; but the engaging gentleness of her facial expression and the gentleness of her behavior soon showed their effect; and Anne was well compensated for the first effort of the effort. He was obviously a young man with considerable taste in reading, albeit mainly in poetry; and apart from the conviction that she had given him at least one evening to discuss topics that his ordinary companions probably had nothing to complain about, she hoped to be of real use to him with some suggestions about the duty and benefits of the fight against suffering, which of course had resulted from their entertainment. For although he was shy, he did not seem to be reserved; it had rather the appearance of feelings that were happy to break their usual limitations; and after talking about poetry, the richness of the present age, and making a brief comparison of the first-class poets, they tried to find out whether Marmion or The Lady of the Lake should be preferred and what rank the Giaour and The Bride of Abydos occupied; and moreover, as the Giaour was to be pronounced, he was so intimately acquainted with all the most tender songs of one poet and all the passionate descriptions of hopeless torments of the other; he repeated with such trembling feeling the various lines that represented a broken heart or a spirit destroyed by misery, which looked as if he wanted to be understood, that she dared to hope that he did not always read only poems, and to say that she believed that the misfortune of poetry, rarely safely enjoyed by them, which they fully enjoyed; and that the strong feelings that alone could really appreciate it were exactly the feelings that it should taste only sparingly.
His looks did not torment him, but pleased with this allusion to his situation, she was encouraged to continue; and the feeling in herself the right of age of opinion, she dared to recommend a greater permission of prose in his daily study; and when she was asked to provide further details, she mentioned such works of our best moralists, such collections of the most beautiful letters, such memoirs of precious and suffering characters that came to her mind at that moment, destined to awaken and strengthen the spirit through the highest commandments, and the strongest examples of moral and religious perseverance.
Captain Bean listened attentively and seemed grateful for the interest involved; and although with a shake of the head and sighs expressing his low confidence in the effectiveness of books of grief like his, he noted the names of those she recommended and promised to procure and read them.
When the evening was over, Anne was amused by the thought of coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man she had never seen before; nor could she, on more serious consideration, fail to fear that she, like many other great moralists and preachers, had been eloquent on a point where her own conduct would not stand up to scrutiny.
Chapter 123
Eleanore began in a firm, if cautious tone.
"I would not deserve the trust with which you have honored me if I do not feel a desire for its continuation or further curiosity on this subject. I will therefore not apologise for bringing it up again."
"Thank you," Lucy cried heartily, "for breaking the ice; you have calmed my heart;
"I'm offended! How could you accept that? Believe me," and Eleanore said it with the truest sincerity, "nothing is further from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for trust, that wasn't honorable and flattering to me?"
"And yet I assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "it seemed to me to be a coldness and a displeasure in your way, which was quite unpleasant to me. I was sure you were angry with me; and since then I have been arguing with myself because I have taken the liberty to bother you with my affairs, but I am very glad that it was only my own whim, and that you really do not blame me if you knew what a comfort it was for me to lighten my heart when I spoke to you about it, I'm sure of what I think about every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook everything else.
"In fact, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief for you to acknowledge your situation and to be assured that you will never have reason to regret it. Her case is very unfortunate; You seem to me to be surrounded by difficulties, and you will need all your mutual affection to support you among them. Mr. Gastonois, I think, is completely dependent on his mother."
"He has only two thousand pounds himself; it would be madness to marry with it, although for my part I could give up any prospect of more without a sigh. I was always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him, but I love him too much to perhaps rob him of everything his mother could give him if he married to please her. We will have to wait, maybe many years. With almost any other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect, but I know Edward's affection and consistency can't take anything away from me."
"This conviction must be everything for you, and it is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in yours. Of course, if the strength of your mutual bond had failed, as would have been the case between many people and in many circumstances, this would have happened during a four-year engagement, your situation would indeed have been pathetic.
Lucy here looked up; but Eleanore took great care to protect her face from any expression that might give her words a suspicious tendency.
"Edward's love for me," Lucy said, "has been pretty much put to the test by our long, very long absence since our first engagement, and she passed the exam so well that I should doubt it unforgivably. I can safely say that he didn't worry me for a moment from the beginning."
Eleanore hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this claim.
Lucy continued. "I am also inherently rather jealous, and because of our different life situations, his being so much more in the world than I am and our constant separation, I was inclined enough to suspect to have found out the truth at a moment when there had been the slightest change in his behavior towards me when we met, or any dejection that I couldn't explain, or if he had spoken more of a lady than another, or in some way less seemed happier with longstaple than before. I'm not saying that I'm generally particularly attentive or quick-sighted, but in such a case I'm sure I couldn't be fooled."
"All of this," Eleanore thought, "is very pretty, but it can't hurt either of us."
"But what," she said after a brief silence, "are your views? to all the fatigue of the many years of tension it may involve you in, rather than risk risking their displeasure for a while by admitting the truth?"
"If we could be sure it would only be for a while! But Mrs. Gastonois is a very stubborn, proud woman, and in her first tantrum, when she heard it, she would very likely secure Robert everything and the idea of it, for Edwards' sake, scares off all my tendency to act hastily."
"And for your own sake, or you drive your disinterest beyond reason."
Lucy looked at Eleanore again and remained silent.
"Do you know Mr. Robert Gastonois?" asked Eleonore.
"Not at all – I never saw him;
"A great Coxcomb!" repeated Miss Clayhorn, whose ear had captured these words through a sudden pause in Marianne's music. – "Oh, they're talking about their darling.
"No sister," Lucy exclaimed, "you're wrong, our darling.
"I can be responsible for the fact that Miss Hargrove is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "For he is one of the most humble, most beautifully dazed young men I have ever seen; but as for Lucy, she's such a smart little creature, you can't figure out who SHE likes."
"Oh," Miss Clayhorn shouted and looked at her significantly, "I dare say Lucy's admirer is just as humble and pretty dazed as Miss Hargrove's."
Eleanore blushed involuntarily. Lucy bit her lip and looked at her sister angrily. For a while there was a mutual silence. Lucy initially put an end to this by saying in a quieter tone, although Marianne then gave them the powerful protection of a very great concert:
"I will honestly tell you about a plan that has recently come to my mind to make things happen; in fact, I am obliged to introduce you to the secret, because you are an affected party. I dare say that you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the Church to any other profession; now my plan is for him to take orders as soon as possible, and then through your interest, which you would surely use for him out of friendship, and I hope out of consideration for me, your brother could be persuaded to give him Norland a living, which, I hear, is very good and the current incumbent probably won't live long. That would be enough for us to get married, and for the rest we can rely on time and chance."
"I would always be happy," Eleanore replied, "to show a sign of my appreciation and friendship for Mr. Gastonois; but don't you realize that my interest on such an occasion would be completely unnecessary? He is the brother of Mrs. John Hargrove – THAT must be recommendation enough for her husband."
"But Mrs. John Hargrove would not very much approve of Edward's appointment."
"Then I rather suspect that my interest would have very little effect."
They remained silent again for many minutes. Finally, with a deep sigh
, Lucy exclaimed,
"I think it would be the smartest way to end the business immediately by breaking up the engagement. We seem to be so troubled from all sides that although it would make us unhappy for a while, maybe we should be happier soon, but you won't give me your advice, Miss Hargrove?"
"No," Eleanore replied with a smile that hid very excited feelings, "on such a topic, I certainly won't do that. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you if it were not on the side of your wishes."
"You're actually wrong with me," Lucy replied with the grand celebration; "I don't know anyone whose judgment I think of as much as yours; and I really believe that if you were to say to me, 'I definitely advise you to end your engagement to Edward Gastonois, it will be more fortunate of both of you, I should decide to do it right away.
Eleanore blushed over the insincerity of Edward's future wife and replied, "This compliment would effectively keep me from giving any opinion on the subject if I had formed one. It increases my influence far too much; the power to separate two people so tenderly connected is too much for an indifferent person."
"Because you are an indifferent person," Lucy said somewhat angrily, emphasizing these words, "your judgment can rightly carry such weight with me. If you could be biased in any way according to your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth mentioning."
Eleanore considered it wiser not to give an answer so that they could not provoke each other to an undue increase in convenience and impartiality; and was even partially determined never to mention the topic again. Another pause of many minutes therefore followed this speech, and Lucy was still the first to finish it.
"Are you going to be in town this winter, Miss Hargrove?" she said with all her usual complacency.
"Certainly not."
"I'm sorry," replied the other, as her eyes lit up at the information, "I would have been so happy to meet you there! But I dare say that you will do all this and the sister will ask you to come to them."
"It won't be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."
"What bad luck! I was completely dependent on meeting you there. Anne and I are supposed to go to some relatives at the end of January who have wanted us to visit them for several years! But I only go to see Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no appeal to me; I don't feel like it."
Eleanore was called to the card table soon after the end of the first sentence, and thus the confidential conversation of the two ladies was over, to which both submitted without reluctance, since nothing had been said on either side to make them like each other less than before; and Eleanore sat down at the card table with the melancholic conviction that Edward was not only without affection for the person his wife was supposed to be; but that he did not even have the chance to become reasonably happy in marriage, which would have given a sincere affection to HER side, because only self-interest could persuade a woman to hold a man to an engagement of which she seemed so thoroughly aware he was tired.
From that time on, the subject was never taken up again by Eleanore, and when Lucy, who rarely missed an opportunity to introduce it, and was especially anxious to inform her confidant of her joy every time she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calm and caution and dismissed, as soon as politeness allowed it; because she felt such conversations were a luxury that Lucy did not deserve and that was dangerous to her.
Miss Clayhorn's visit to Barton Park was extended far beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favor increased; they could not be spared; Sir John didn't want to hear about her departure; and despite their numerous and long-arranged commitments in Exeter, despite the absolute need to return immediately to fulfill them at the end of each week, they were persuaded to stay in the park for almost two months and to assist in the proper celebration of this festival, which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners, to proclaim its significance.
Chapter 124
Each object on the next day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and their spirits were in a state of pleasure; for she had seen her sister look so good that she banished all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern journey was a constant source of joy.
When they left the country road towards the alley to Hunsford, every eye was looking for the rectory, and every bend expected to bring it into view. The piles of Rosings Park formed their border on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the memory of everything she had heard about its inhabitants.
Finally the rectory was recognizable. The garden sloping down to the street, the house in it, the green stakes and the laurel hedge, everything announced the arrival. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate that led to the house via a short gravel path, in the midst of the nods and smiles of the whole society. In no time they were all out of the carriage and were happy about their sight. Mrs. Collins greeted her friend with the most vivid joy, and Elizabeth was always more pleased with her coming when she saw herself so lovingly received. She immediately saw that her cousin's manners were not changed by his marriage; his formal courtesy was exactly what she had been, and he held her at the gate for a few minutes to hear and satisfy his questions about her whole family. They were brought into the house at that time with no delay other than his reference to the properness of the entrance; and as soon as they were in parkour, he greeted them a second time with sumptuous formality in his modest apartment, repeating all his wife's refreshment offers on time.
Elizabeth was ready to see him in his glory; and she could not help but imagine that he was particularly addressing her in depicting the good condition of the room, his view and his furniture, as if he wanted to make her feel what she had lost when she rejected him. But although everything seemed neat and comfortable, she could not please him with a sigh of remorse, but looked at her friend rather surprised that she could seem so cheerful with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said something that his wife could reasonably be ashamed of, which was certainly not uncommon, she involuntarily turned her gaze to Charlotte. Once or twice she could see a slight redness; but in general, Charlotte wisely did not listen. After sitting long enough to admire every piece of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to report on their journey and everything that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited her to take a walk in the large and beautifully landscaped garden, which he took care of himself. Working in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the serenity of expression with which Charlotte spoke about the health of the exercise, and affirmed that she encouraged her as much as possible. Here he led the way through every sidewalk and zebra crossing, leaving them barely a break to express the praise he asked for, and every look was shown with an accuracy that left beauty completely behind. He could count the fields in all directions and knew how many trees were in the farthest cluster. But of all the views that his garden, or that the land or kingdom could boast, none could be compared to the view of rosings granted by an opening in the trees that bordered the park almost opposite the front of his house. It was a pretty, modern building in a good location on a sloping site.
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them around his two meadows; but the ladies, who had no shoes to encounter the remains of a white hoop, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte led her sister and friend around the house, most likely to have the opportunity to show it without her husband's help. It was quite small but well built and practical; and everything was prepared and arranged with a neatness and consistency for which Elizabeth Charlotte did all the credit. If Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there really was an atmosphere of great comfort everywhere, and with Charlotte's obvious pleasure in it, Elizabeth assumed that he often had to be forgotten.
She had already learned that Lady Catherine was still in the country. While they were at dinner, it was talked about again when Mr. Collins came in and remarked
,
"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honor of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh in church the following Sunday, and I don't need to say that you will be happy about her. She is quite sociable and condescending, and I have no doubt, but you will be honored with part of her notification when the service is over. I hardly hesitate to say that she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honors us during your stay here. Her attitude towards my dear Charlotte is charming. We eat at Rosings twice a week and are never allowed to walk home. Your lady's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I should say one of the carriages of your ladyhood, because it has several.'
"Lady Catherine is indeed a very respectable, reasonable woman," Charlotte added, "and an extremely attentive neighbor."
"Very true, my dear, that's exactly what I'm saying. She's the kind of woman you can't meet with too much reverence."
The evening was mainly spent talking about news from Hertfordshire and recounting what had already been written; and when it was closed, Elizabeth had to reflect on Charlotte's level of satisfaction in the solitude of her room, understand her speech in leadership and serenity in dealing with her husband, and acknowledge that everything was very well done. She also had to anticipate how her visit would go, the calm tenor of her usual pursuits, the annoying interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the cheerfulness of her handling of rosings. A vivid imagination soon took care of everything.
Around the middle of the next day, as she got ready for a walk in her room, a sudden noise downstairs seemed to confuse the whole house; and after listening for a moment, she heard someone running up the stairs in a hurry, shouting loudly at her. She opened the door and met Maria at the landing site, who breathlessly shouted with excitement:
"Oh, my dear Eliza! hurry up and come to the dining room, because there is such a sight! I'm not going to tell you what it is. Hurry up and come down immediately.'
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Mary did not want to tell her anything more, and they ran down to the dining room facing the alley in search of this miracle; There were two ladies who stopped in a low phaeton at the garden gate.
"And that's all?" cried Elisabeth. "I at least expected the pigs to be brought to the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter."
'La! My dear," said Maria, rather frightened by the mistake, "it's not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Just look at them. She is a rather small creature. Who would have thought it could be so thin and small?'
"She's horribly rude to leave Charlotte outside with all the wind. Why doesn't she come in?'
"Oh, Charlotte says she almost never does. It's the biggest favor when Miss de Bourgh comes in."
"I like her appearance," said Elizabeth, who has been haunted by other ideas. She looks sickly and upset. Yes, it will do him a lot of good. She will make him a very decent woman."
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both talking to the ladies at the gate; and Sir William stood in the door to Elizabeth's great distraction, in earnest consideration of greatness, and bowed constantly when Miss de Bourgh looked in that direction.
Finally there was nothing more to say; the ladies drove on, and the others returned to the house. Mr. Collins barely saw the two girls when he began to congratulate them on their happiness, which Charlotte explained by telling them that the whole company was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.
Chapter 125
"But why would Mrs. Grant ask Esther?" said Ms. Schmidt. "How did she come up with the idea of asking Esther? Esther never dines there in this way. I can't do without her, and I'm sure she doesn't want to leave. Esther, you don't want to leave, do you?"
"If you ask her such a question," Edmund shouted, preventing his cousin from speaking, "Esther will immediately say no; but I am sure, my dear mother, she wants to go; and I see no reason why she shouldn't."
"I can't imagine why Mrs. Grant would think of asking her? She's never done that before. She asked your sisters from time to time, but she never asked Esther."
"If you can't do without me, Ma'am...", Esther said in a self-denying tone.
"But my mother will have my father with her all evening."
"Of course I will."
"Suppose you accept my father's opinion, Ma'am."
"This is well thought out. I will, Edmund. I will ask Sir Thomas as soon as he comes in if I can do without them."
"As you like, Ma'am, on this head; but I meant my father's opinion on whether or not the invitation was accepted; and I think he will see it as right from both Mrs. Grant and Esther that it is the first invitation to be accepted."
"I don't know. We will ask him. But he will be very surprised that Mrs. Grant should even ask Esther."
There was nothing more to say, or that could be said for any purpose until Sir Thomas was present; but the theme, which was about her own evening consolation for tomorrow, was so much in Lady Schmidt's mind that half an hour later, on his way from his plantation to his dressing room, he stopped by for a minute, she called him back again when he had almost closed the door, with "Sir Thomas, pause for a moment – I have something to tell you."
Her tone of calm dullness, for she never bothered to raise her voice, was always heard and noticed; and Sir Thomas came back. Their story began; and Esther immediately slipped out of the room; because even listening to the topic of conversation with her uncle was more than her nerves could bear. She was anxious, she knew that – perhaps more anxious than she should be – because what was it, after all, whether she left or stayed? but if her uncle were to think and decide for a long time, and with very serious looks, and these serious glances directed at her, and finally decided against her, she might not be able to appear really submissive and indifferent. Their cause, meanwhile, went well. It began on the part of Lady Schmidt with: "I have something to tell you that will surprise you. Mrs. Grant invited Esther for dinner."
"Well," said Sir Thomas, as if he waited even longer for the surprise.
"Edmund wants her to leave. But how can I spare them?"
"She will be late," said Sir Thomas, taking out his watch; But what is your difficulty?"
Edmund was forced to speak and fill in the gaps in his mother's story. He told the whole thing; and she just had to add, "So strange! because Mrs. Grant never asked her about it."
"But isn't it very natural," Edmund noted, "that Mrs. Grant wishes to procure such a pleasant visitor for her sister?"
"Nothing can be more natural," said Sir Thomas after a short reflection; "If there were no sister in this case, I don't think anything could be more natural. Mrs. Grant's courtesy to Miss Price, to Lady Schmidt's niece, could never need an explanation. The only surprise I can feel is that this should be the first time it gets paid. Esther was absolutely right when she gave only a conditional answer. She seems to feel the way she should. But since I come to the conclusion that she wants to leave, since all the young people like to be together, I see no reason why she should be denied the estate."
"But can I do without them, Sir Thomas?"
"In fact, I think you can."
"She always makes tea, you know, when my sister isn't here."
"Maybe your sister can be persuaded to spend the day with us, and I'm certainly at home."
"All right, Esther is allowed to go, Edmund."
The good news soon followed her. Edmund knocked on her door on the way to his own.
"Well, Esther, it's all happily done, and without the slightest hesitation on the part of your uncle. He had only one opinion. Thou shalt go."
"Thank you, I'm so glad," was Esther's instinctive response; but when she turned away from him and closed the door, she could not resist the feeling: "And why should I rejoice? for am I not sure to see or hear something there that hurts me?"
Despite this conviction, however, she was happy. As simple as such an appointment may seem in other eyes, in her eyes it had novelty and importance, because with the exception of the day in Sotherton, she had hardly ever eaten out before; and although it was now only half a mile and only three people, it was still an outdoor meal, and all the small interests of preparation were pleasure in themselves. She had neither sympathy nor support from those who should have entered into her feelings and directed her tastes; for Lady Schmidt never thought of being useful to anyone, and Mrs. Norris, when she came the next morning due to an early visit and an invitation from Sir Thomas, was in a very bad mood and seemed only out to diminish her niece's pleasure, both present and future, as much as possible.
"On my word, Esther, you are very lucky to encounter so much attention and forbearance! You should be very grateful to Mrs. Grant for thinking of you and your aunt for letting you go, and you should consider it something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real reason to go into company in this way or ever have dinner at all; and you can't rely on it ever being repeated. You also do not have to imagine that the invitation is intended as a special compliment to you; Mrs. Grant considers it a courtesy of ours to take a little note of you, otherwise it would never have occurred to her, and you can be very sure that you would not have done it if your cousin Julia had been asked at home at all."
Mrs. Norris had now so brilliantly destroyed Mrs. Grant's share of the favor that Esther, who saw herself speak, could only say that she was very close to her Aunt Schmidt, that she had spared her, and that she tried to arrange her aunt's evening work in such a way that she would not be missed.
"Oh! Rely on it, your aunt can do very well without you, otherwise you would not be allowed to leave. I will be here, so you can rest easy with your aunt. And I hope you will have a very pleasant day and find everything very delightful. But I have to note that five is the clumsiest of all possible numbers to sit down at a table; and I can only be surprised that such an elegant lady as Mrs. Grant should not invent anything better! And also around their huge big wide table that fills the room so terribly! Had the doctor been content to take my dining table when I got away, as anyone in their right mind would have done, instead of having this absurd new own that is wider, literally wider than the dining table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! because people are never respected when they step out of their actual sphere. Remember, Esther. Five – only five to sit at this table. However, you will have enough of it for dinner for ten, dare I say."
Mrs. Norris took a breath and moved on.
"The nonsense and stupidity of people stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves proves me right to give you a hint, Esther, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I ask and implore you not to speak and talk and express your opinion as if you were one of your cousins?? as if you were dear Mrs. Rushmore or Julia. That never works, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and although Miss Dorset is kind of at home in the rectory, you should not take her place. And if you get away at night, you should stay as long as Edmund wants. Leave it to him to sort that out."
"Yes, Ma'am, I shouldn't think of anything else."
"And if it rains, which I think is very likely, because I have never experienced it as more threatening on a wet evening in my life, you have to cope as well as possible and not expect the carriage to be sent to you. I am certainly not going home tonight, and therefore the carriage will not depart at my expense; So you have to decide what could happen and take your stuff accordingly."
Her niece thought that was perfectly reasonable. She judged her own claims for comfort as low as Mrs. Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon after, just opening the door, said, "Esther, what time would you let the carriage come?" she felt a certain astonishment that made it impossible for her to speak.
"My dear Mr. Thomas!" cried Mrs. Norris, red with anger, "Esther can walk."
"Walk!" sir Thomas repeated in a tone of the most undeniable dignity and came further into the room. "My niece goes to dinner for an appointment at this time of year! Does twenty minutes after four suit you?"
"Yes, Lord," was Esther's humble response, given with the feelings of almost a criminal toward Mrs. Norris; and she couldn't bear to stay with her in a seemingly triumphant state, and followed her uncle out of the room after just staying behind him long enough to hear these words spoken in angry excitement –
"Unnecessary! way too nice! But Edmund leaves; true, it's on Edmund's account. I noticed that he was hoarse on Thursday night."
But Esther couldn't impose that. She felt that the carriage was alone for her, and her uncle's consideration for her, immediately after such ideas from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude when she was alone.
The coachman drove around for a minute; another minute brought down the Lord; and since the lady had sat in the salon for many minutes in scrupulous fear of delay, Sir Thomas bid her farewell in time as his own correct punctuality habits required.
"Now I have to look at you, Esther," Edmund said with the kind smile of a loving brother, "and tell you how much I like you; and the way I can judge that in this light, you really look very pretty. What are you wearing?"
"The new dress that my uncle was kind enough to give me for my cousin's wedding. I hope it's not too fine; but I thought I should wear it as soon as I could, and that I wouldn't have such an opportunity all winter. I hope you don't think I'm too fine."
"A woman can never be too fine as long as she is dressed all in white. No, I don't see any jewelry on you; nothing but what is perfectly right. Your dress looks very pretty. I like these shiny spots. Doesn't Miss Dorset have a dress too?"
As they approached the rectory, they passed close to the stable yard and carriage house.
"Heyday!" said Edmund, "here is company, here is a carriage! who do they have to meet us?" And lowered the side glass to distinguish it: "This is Dorset's, Dorset's Barouche, I protest! There are his own two men pushing it back to its old quarters. He's here, of course. That's quite a surprise, Esther. I will be very happy to see him."
There was no reason, no time for Esther to say how much she felt different; but the idea of having such an other watching her greatly increased the anxiety with which she performed the very terrible ceremony of entering the salon.
In the salon was certainly Mr. Dorset, who had arrived just long enough to get ready for dinner; and the smiles and delighted looks of the three others standing around him showed how welcome his sudden decision was to come to them for a few days after his departure from Bath. There was a very cordial meeting between him and Edmund; and with the exception of Esther, pleasure was general; and even for them, his presence could have an advantage, since any addition to society is more likely to have to pass on to its favorite. Forbearance, having to sit quietly and unsupervised. She was soon aware of this herself; for although, despite the opinion of her Aunt Norris, she had to submit according to her own decency to be the main lady in company, and all the small differences that result from this, she found, while they were at the table, there was such a joyful flow of conversation in which she did not have to participate – there was so much to say between the siblings about Bath, so much between the two young men about hunting, so much about politics between Mr... Dorset and Dr. Grant and all together between Mr. Dorset and Mrs. Grant to give her the best view, just listen in peace and have a very enjoyable day. However, she could not compliment the newly arrived gentleman on a plan to extend his stay in Mansfield and send his hunters from Norfolk, proposed by Dr. Grant, recommended by Edmund and warmly urged by the two sisters, was soon in possession of his spirit, and he even seemed to want to be encouraged by her, to decide. Their opinion was asked about the likely continuation of the open weather, but their answers were as short and indifferent as politeness allowed. She couldn't wish him to stay, and she would much rather he talk to her.
Her two absent cousins, especially Mary, thought very much of seeing him; but no embarrassing memory affected his mood. Here he was back on the same ground that everyone had been on before, and apparently so willing to stay without Miss Schmidts and be happy as if he had never known Mansfield in another state. She only heard her talk about him in general until they were all gathered in the salon again, when Edmund, who was busy with Dr. Mrs. Grant, who was busy at the tea table, he began to talk more details about his other sister of them. With a meaningful smile that made Esther hate him quite a bit, he said, "Well! Rushmore and his beautiful bride are in Brighton as far as I know; happy man!"
"Yes, they've been there for about fourteen days, Miss Price, aren't they? And Julia is with them."
"And Yates-san, I suppose, is not far away."
"Sir. Yates! Oh! we don't hear anything from Yates-san. I can't imagine him appearing much in the letters to Mansfield Park; You, Miss Price? I think my friend Julia knows better than talking to her father with Yates-san."
"Poor Rushmore and his forty-two speeches!" Dorset continued. No one can ever forget them. Poor fellow! I see him now – his effort and his despair. Well, I am very mistaken if his beautiful Mary ever wants him to give her forty-two speeches"; and added, with a temporary seriousness, "She's too good for him – way too good." And then he changed his tone back to soft gallantry and turned to Esther: "You were Mr. Rushmore's best friend. Your kindness and patience can never be forgotten, your tireless patience in trying to allow him to learn his part – by trying to give him a mind that nature had denied – to stir him an understanding out of your abundance! Maybe he himself doesn't have enough sense to appreciate your kindness,
Esther blushed and said nothing.
"It's like a dream, a pleasant dream!" he exclaimed, bursting out again after thinking for a few minutes. "I will always look back on our theatrical performances with great joy. There was such an interest, such a liveliness, such a widespread spirit. Everyone felt it. We were all alive. Every hour of the day there was employment, hope, anxiety, busyness. Always a small objection, a small doubt, a small fear that needs to be overcome. I've never been happier."
With silent indignation, Esther repeated to herself: "Never happier! – Never happier than when you did what you need to know, it was unjustifiable! – Never happier than when you behaved so dishonorably and insensitively! Oh! what a corrupt mind!"
"We were unlucky, Miss Price," he continued quietly to avoid the possibility of being heard by Edmund, and was not aware of her feelings at all, "we were really unlucky. Another week, just another week, would have been enough for us. I think if we had had events – if Mansfield Park had only had the government of the winds for a week or two, around the equinox, there would have been a difference. Not that we have endangered his safety by a huge weather – but only by a constant headwind or a lull. I think Miss Price, at this time of year we would have allowed ourselves a week of rest in the Atlantic."
He seemed determined to be answered; and Esther turned her face away and said with a firmer tone than usual, "As for me, sir, I wouldn't have delayed his return a day. My uncle disapproved of everything so much when he arrived that in my opinion everything had gone pretty far enough."
Never in her life had she talked to him so much at once and never so angry with someone; and when her speech was over, she trembled and blushed with her own audacity. He was surprised; but after a few moments of silent contemplation about her, he replied in a calmer, more serious tone, and as if the sincere result of the conviction: "I think you are right. It was more pleasant than cautious. We got too loud." And if he had then filmed the conversation, he would have involved her on another topic, but her answers were so shy and reluctant that he couldn't get ahead in any.
Miss Dorset, who had repeatedly eyed Dr. Grant and Edmund, now remarked, "These gentlemen must have a very interesting point to discuss."
"The most interesting thing in the world," her brother replied – "how to make money; how to turn a good income into a better one. Dr. Grant gives Schmidt instructions about the life he will enter so soon. I think he takes orders in a few weeks. They were in the dining room. I'm glad to hear that Schmidt will be doing so well. He will have a very pretty income with which he can make ducks and erpel, and it will be earned without much effort. I fear he will have no less than seven hundred a year. Seven hundred a year is a fine thing for a younger brother; and since he will of course still live at home, it will be everything for his menus plaisirs; and a sermon for Christmas and Easter, I suppose, will be the sum of all sacrifices."
His sister tried to laugh at her feelings by saying, "Nothing amuses me more than the easy way in which everyone settles the abundance of those who have much less than themselves. You'd look pretty empty, Henry, if your menus were limited to seven hundred a year."
"Maybe I could; but everything you know is completely comparative. Birthright and habit must govern the business. For a cadet from the family of a baronet, Schmidt is certainly well off. When he is four or twenty-five, he has seven hundred a year and nothing to do."
Miss Dorset could have said that there would be something to do and suffer that she could not take lightly; but she controlled herself and let it pass; and tried to appear calm and carefree when the two gentlemen joined them shortly afterwards.
"Schmidt," said Henry Dorset, "I will definitely come to Mansfield to hear you at your first sermon. I will come on purpose to encourage a young beginner. When should it be? Miss Price, wouldn't you join in encouraging your cousin? Don't you want to commit to keeping a close eye on him all the time - as I will - so as not to say a word; or just look the other way just to write down a particularly beautiful sentence? We will provide ourselves with tablets and a pen. When will it be? You have to preach in Mansfield, you know, so that Sir Thomas and Lady Schmidt can hear you."
"I will stay away from you, Dorset, as long as I can," Edmund said. because you would rather upset me, and I would be more sorry to see you doing it than almost any other man."
"Won't he feel that?" thought Esther. "No, he can't feel anything as he should."
Now that society was all united and the keynote speakers attracted each other, it remained calm; and when a whist table was formed after tea – actually formed for the pleasure of Dr. Grant by his attentive wife, although it was not to be assumed – and Miss Dorset took her harp, she had nothing else to do but listen; and her calm remained undisturbed for the rest of the evening, except when Mr. Dorset occasionally addressed a question or observation to her, the answer she could not avoid. Miss Dorset was too upset about what was considered humor for something other than music. With this she calmed down and amused her friend.
The certainty that Edmund would take orders so soon hit her like a blow that had been delivered and still hoped insecurely and from afar was felt with resentment and humiliation. She was very angry with him. She had believed her influence more. She had begun to think of him; she felt that she had great consideration, with almost determined intentions; but she would now meet him with his own cool feelings. It was clear that he could not have serious views, no true attachment, by putting himself in a situation that he needed to know would never condescend to. She would learn to do the same in his indifference. From now on, she would allow his attention beyond the immediate amusement without any idea. If he could control his affection in this way, hers should not harm her.
Chapter 126
Frank Curcelle came back; and when he made his father's dinner wait, it was not known in Hartfield; because Mrs. Winstone was too scared that he was a favorite. with Mr. Lodge to betray any imperfection that could be hidden.
He came back, had his hair cut and laughed at himself with a very good grace, without really being ashamed of what he had done. He had no reason to wish his hair longer to hide a confusion of the face; no reason not to want the money spent to improve his mood. He was as intrepid and as lively as ever; and after seeing him, Emma moralized like this:
"I don't know if it should be like this, but stupid things stop being stupid when they are done by reasonable people in an outrageous way. Malice is always malice, but foolishness is not always foolishness. – It depends on the character of those who deal with it. Mr. Hill, he is not an insignificant, stupid young man. If he were, he would have done it differently. He would have either boasted about the performance or been ashamed of it. It would have been either the boast of a Coxcomb or the excuses of a mind too weak to defend its own vanities. No, I'm absolutely sure he's not insignificant or silly."
With Tuesday came the pleasant prospect of seeing him again, for a longer period of time than before; the judgment of his general manners, and by inference, the importance of his manners towards them; to guess how soon it might be necessary for them to throw cold into their air; and imagine what the observations of all those who saw them together for the first time might be.
She wanted to be very happy, even though the scene was played by Mr. Cole; and without being able to forget that among the shortcomings of Mr. Alton even in the days of his favor, none had bothered her more than his tendency to dine with Mr. Cole.
Her father's comfort was abundantly assured, both Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Goddard could come; and their last pleasant duty before leaving the house was to pay their respects to them while they sat together after dinner; and while her father lovingly noticed the beauty of her dress, to make amends for everything in their power to the two ladies by helping them to large pieces of cake and full glasses of wine, for whatever he involuntarily took care of their constitution, she might have forced her to practice while eating. - She had prepared them a plentiful dinner; she wished she could know that they were allowed to eat it.
She followed another carriage to Mr. Cole's door; and rejoiced to see that it belonged to Mr. Hills; because Mr. Hill, who didn't keep horses, had little money left, and had a lot of health, activity, and independence, was, in Emma's opinion, too suitable to get around as much as possible and not use his carriage as often as the owner of Donwell Abbey wanted. She now had the opportunity to express her applause while she came warmly from the heart, for he stopped to hand her out.
"This is coming as you should," she said; "like a gentleman. - I am very happy to see you."
He thanked her and remarked, "What luck that we arrive at the same moment! because if we had met first in the salon, I doubt if you would have thought I was a gentleman more than usual.
"Yes, I should, I'm sure I should. There is always a look of awareness or hustle and bustle when people come in a way that they know is among them. You think you can do it very well, I dare say, but with you it's a kind of show-off, a expression of artificial carelessness; I always watch it when I meet you in these circumstances. Now you have nothing to try. They are not afraid of being supposedly ashamed. They don't aspire to look bigger than any other body. Now I'm going to be really happy to go into the same room with you."
"Nonsensical girl!" was his answer, but by no means in anger.
Emma had as much reason to be happy with the rest of the party as she did with Mr. Hill. She was received with a warm respect that could only please, and she was given all the consistency she could wish for. When the Winstones arrived, the kindest looks of love were the strongest admiration for them, of husband and wife; the son approached her with a joyful desire that marked her as his special object, and at dinner she found him sitting next to her – and, as she firmly believed, not without a certain skill on his side.
The company was quite large as it included another family, a proper, harmless country family that the Coles had the advantage of naming them among their acquaintances, and the male part of Mr. Cox's family, the lawyer of Highbury. The less worthy women were to come in the evening, with Miss Bates, Miss Saxon and Miss Smith; but even at lunch they were too numerous for any topic of conversation to be general; and while politics and Mr. Alton were discussed, Emma was able to leave pretty much all her attention to the kindness of her neighbor. The first distant sound to which she felt committed was the name of Jane Saxon. Mrs. Cole seemed to tell something about her that should be very interesting. She listened and found it very worth listening to. This very dear part of Emma, ?? their imagination, received an amusing delivery. Mrs. Cole said she had visited Miss Bates, and when she entered the room, she immediately noticed a pianoforte – a very elegant-looking instrument – ?? not a grand piano, but a large square pianoforte; and the core of the story, the end of all the dialogues that followed from surprise, demand and congratulations on her side and explanations from Miss Bates, was that this pianoforte had come from Broad Wood's to the greats the day before, astonishment from aunt and niece – completely unexpected; that, according to Miss Bate's account, Jane herself was initially quite perplexed, quite confused about who might have ordered it – but now they were both completely satisfied that it could only be from a quarter; – of course it had to be from Colonel Campbell. Cole said she had visited Miss Bates, and when she entered the room, she immediately noticed a pianoforte – a very elegant-looking instrument – ?? not a grand piano, but a large square piano; and the core of the story, the end of all the dialogues that followed from surprise, demand and congratulations on her side and explanations from Miss Bates, was that this pianoforte had come from Broad Wood's to the greats the day before, astonishment from aunt and niece – completely unexpected; that, according to Miss Bate's account, Jane herself was initially quite perplexed, quite confused about who might have ordered it – but now they were both completely satisfied that it could only be from a quarter; – of course it had to be from Colonel Campbell. Cole said she had visited Miss Bates, and when she entered the room, she immediately noticed a pianoforte – a very elegant-looking instrument – ?? not a grand piano, but a large square piano; and the core of the story, the end of all the dialogues that followed from surprise, demand and congratulations on her side and explanations from Miss Bates, was that this pianoforte had come from Broad Wood's to the greats the day before, astonishment from aunt and niece – completely unexpected; that, according to Miss Bate's account, Jane herself was initially quite perplexed, quite confused about who might have ordered it – but now they were both completely satisfied that it could only be from a quarter; – of course it had to be from Colonel Campbell.
"You can't suspect anything else," Mrs. Cole added, "and I was just surprised that there could ever have been any doubt. But Jane, it seems, had recently received a letter from them, and not a word was said about it. She knows her ways best; but I shouldn't see their silence as a reason why they don't intend to give the gift. Maybe they choose to surprise them."
Mrs Cole had many to agree with her; all who spoke about the subject were equally convinced that it had to come from Colonel Campbell and were equally pleased that such a gift had been given; and there were enough conversations ready for Emma to go her own way and still listen to Mrs. Cole.
"I explain, I don't know when I heard something that gave me more satisfaction! – It has always hurt me a lot that Jane Saxon, who plays so delightfully, should not have an instrument. It seemed quite a pity, especially considering how many houses there are where fine instruments are absolutely thrown away. It's like giving yourself a slap in the face to be sure! and it was only yesterday when I told Mr. Cole, I was really ashamed to look at our new grand piano in the salon while I can't do one note from the other, and our little girls who are just starting out may never make anything of it; and there is poor Jane Saxon, the music master who has nothing of the nature of an instrument, not even the most pathetic old spinet in the world to enjoy herself with. – I said this to Mr. Cole yesterday, and he completely agreed with me; only he loves music so much that he couldn't help but indulge himself when buying, hoping that some of our good neighbors might occasionally be so accommodating as to bring it to a better purpose than we do; and that's really why the instrument was bought – or I'm sure we should be ashamed of it.
Miss Lodge gave the right consent; and when he realized that nothing more could be included in a message from Mrs. Cole, he turned to Frank Curcelle.
"Why are you smiling?" she said.
"No, why are you doing this?"
"Me! I guess I smile with pleasure at the fact that Colonel Campbell is so rich and so liberal. – It's a nice gift."
"Very."
"I'm rather surprised that it's never been done before."
"Maybe Miss Saxon has never been here so long."
"Or that he didn't provide her with her own instrument – which now has to be locked up in London, untouched by anyone."
"This is a fortepiano, and he might think it's too big for Mrs. Bates' house."
"You can say what you want – but your facial expression testifies that your thoughts on this subject are very similar to mine."
"I don't know. Rather, I believe that you give me more credit for acumen than I deserve. I smile because you smile, and will probably suspect what I find suspicious of you; but now I don't see what there is to ask. If Colonel Campbell isn't the right person, who is?"
"What do you say to Mrs. Dixon?"
"Woman. Dixon! very true. I hadn't thought of Mrs. Dixon. She must know as well as her father how acceptable an instrument would be; and perhaps the species, the mystery, the surprise, resembles the scheme of a young woman rather than that of an older man. I dare say it's Mrs. Dixon. I told you that your guesses would guide mine."
"If so, you need to broaden your suspicions and understand Mr. Dixon in it."
"Sir. Dixon. – Very good. Yes, I immediately realize that it must be the joint gift of Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. We talked the other day about him being such a warm admirer of their performance."
"Yes, and what you told me about it confirmed an idea I had before. – I don't want to think about the good intentions of Mr. Dixon or Miss Saxon, but I can't help but suspect both of them to make his marriage proposals to his girlfriend, if he had the misfortune of falling in love with her, or if he became aware of a small affection on her part. You could guess twenty things without guessing exactly the right thing; but I'm sure there must be a specific reason why she decided to come to Highbury instead of going to Ireland with the Campbells. Here she must live a life of deprivation and repentance; there it would have been all enjoyment. As for the pretext of trying their home air, I see that as a mere excuse. – In the summer it could have passed; but what can each body's home air do for them in the months of January, February and March? Good fires and carriages would be much more useful in most cases of delicate health, and dare I say in theirs. I am not asking you to accept all my suspicions, even though you make such a noble confession about it, but I will honestly tell you what they are."
"And, at my word, they have an aura of great probability. Mr. Dixon's preference for her music over her friend's can be answered as very decisive."
"And then he saved her life. Have you ever heard of it? – A water party; and in an accident she fell overboard. He caught them."
"He has. I was there – one from the party."
"Were you really? – Well! – But of course you didn't observe anything, because it seems to you to be a new idea. – If I had been there, I should have made some discoveries."
"I dare say you would; but I, just me, saw nothing but the fact that Miss Saxon was almost thrown off the ship and that Mr. Dixon caught her. – It was the work of a moment. And although the shock and anxiety that followed were very great and much longer lasting – I even think it took half an hour for one of us to feel comfortable again – it was too general a feeling for anything of particular anxiety to be observed. But I'm not saying that you may not have made any discoveries."
The conversation was interrupted here. They were asked to share the awkwardness of a fairly long break between courses, and were required to be as formal and as orderly as the others; but when the table was safely set again, when every corner tableware was placed just right, and occupation and tranquility in general were restored, Emma
said,
"The arrival of this piano is crucial for me. I wanted to know a little more, and that tells me enough. Rely on it, we will soon learn that it is a gift from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon."
"And if the Dixons should deny absolutely any knowledge of it, we have to conclude that it comes from the Campbells."
"No, I'm sure it's not from the Campbells. Miss Saxon knows it's not from the Campbells, otherwise they would have been suspected at first. She wouldn't have been confused if she had dared to hold her. I may not have convinced you, but I am completely convinced that Mr. Dixon is a supervisor in this business."
"In fact, you hurt me if you think I'm not convinced. Your reasoning fully supports my judgment. Although I assumed that you were convinced that Colonel Campbell was the giver, at first I saw it only as paternal kindness and considered it the most natural thing in the world. But when you mentioned Mrs. Dixon, I felt how much more likely it was that it should be the tribute to warm female friendship. And now I can see it in no other light than as an offer of love."
There was no reason to move the matter forward. The conviction seemed genuine; he looked like he felt it. She said nothing more, other topics were on the turn; and the rest of the dinner passed; the dessert succeeded, the children came in and were addressed and admired at the usual pace of conversation; a few clever things said, a few downright silly, but by far neither one nor the other - nothing worse than everyday remarks, boring repetitions, old news and heavy jokes.
The ladies were not long in the salon when the other ladies arrived in their different departments. Emma watched her own little friend's main course; and if she could not enjoy her dignity and grace, she could not only love the blossoming sweetness and the simple way, but also enjoy most warmly that light, cheerful, unsentimental being that in the middle of it gave her so much relief of lust from the torments of disappointed affection. There she sat – and who would have thought how many tears she had shed lately? Being in company, being nicely dressed and seeing others nicely dressed, sitting and smiling and looking pretty and saying nothing was enough for the happiness of the present hour. Jane Saxon looked superior and moved superiorly;
With such a large society, there was no need for Emma to approach it. She did not want to speak of the pianoforte, she felt too much of a secret herself to consider the appearance of curiosity or interest to be fair, and therefore deliberately stayed away; but from the others the topic was introduced almost immediately, and she saw the blushing of consciousness with which congratulations were received, the blushing of guilt that accompanied the name "my excellent friend Colonel Campbell".
Mrs. Winstone, kind-hearted and musical, was particularly interested in the circumstances, and Emma couldn't help but be amused by her persistence in dwelling on the subject; and since she has so much to ask and say about tone, feeling and pedal, completely unsuspicious of the desire to say as little as possible about what she could simply read in the facial expression of the beautiful heroine.
Soon some of the lords joined them; and the very first of the early one was Frank Curcelle. He entered, the first and most beautiful; and after complimenting Miss Bates and her niece en passant, he went straight to the opposite side of the circle where Miss Lodge was sitting; and until he could find a place with her, he would not sit at all. Emma sensed what everyone present had to think. It was his object, and every body had to perceive it. She introduced him to her friend, Miss Smith, and at appropriate moments heard what everyone thought of the other. "He had never seen such a beautiful face and was delighted by her naivety." And she: "Just to make sure it gave him too much of a compliment, but she found that some looked a bit like Mr. Alton." Emma held back her indignation,
at first glance at Miss Saxon an intelligent smile changed between her and the Lord; but it was smartest to avoid language. He told her that he had been impatient to leave the dining room – he hated sitting for long periods of time – was always the first to move when he could – that his father, Mr. Hill, Mr. Cox and Mr. Cole were very busy about community matters – that as long as he stayed, however, it had been pleasant enough, as he generally described them as a group of gentleman-like, had found reasonable men; and spoke so beautifully of Highbury as a whole – found it so abundant in pleasant families – that Emma gradually felt that she was used to despising the place too much. She asked him about Yorkshire society – the extent of the neighbourhood around Enscombe and the species; and could infer from his answers that, as far as Enscombe was concerned, there was very little going on that they were visiting a number of large families, none in close proximity; and even if days were set and invitations were accepted, it was quite possible that Mrs. Curcelle was not in good health and in a good mood to leave; that they made it a point not to visit a fresh person; and that, although he had his separate obligations, he could not escape without difficulty, sometimes without considerable speech, or introduce an acquaintance for one night.
She realized that Enscombe could not satisfy and that Highbury, taken from his best side, could reasonably please a young man who had more peace at home than he would have liked. His importance at Enscombe was very obvious. He didn't boast, but of course it was revealed that he had persuaded his aunt where his uncle couldn't do anything, and when she laughingly noticed it, he admitted that he believed (except for a point or two) that he could persuade her to do something over time. One of those points on which his influence has failed, he then mentioned. He had wished very much to go abroad – had really been looking forward to being allowed to travel – but she didn't want to hear about it. That had happened the year before. Now, he said, he began to no longer have that desire.
The unconvinced point, which he did not mention, Emma suspected as good behavior towards his father.
"I made a most pathetic discovery," he said after a short pause. – "I'll be here for a week tomorrow – half of my time. I never thought that the days would go by so quickly. Tomorrow a week! - And I barely started to enjoy myself. But I just met Mrs. Winstone and others! – I hate the memory."
"Maybe now you're starting to regret that you've spent a whole day getting your hair cut by so few."
"No," he said with a smile, "that's not to be regretted at all. I don't enjoy seeing my friends unless I can imagine being seen."
With the rest of the gentlemen now in the room, Emma was forced to turn away from him for a few minutes and listen to Mr. Cole. When Mr. Cole left and her attention could be restored as before, she saw Frank Curcelle attentively looking through the room at Miss Saxon, who was sitting right across the street.
"What's going on?" she said.
He started. "Thank you for waking me up," he replied. "I think I was very rude; but really, Miss Saxon made her hair in such a strange way – so very strange way – that I can't take my eyes off her. I have never seen anything so extraordinary! – These curls! – That must be their own imagination. I don't see anyone else who looks like them! – I have to go and ask them if it's an Irish fashion. Shall I? – Yes, I will – I declare that I will – and you should see how she perceives it – if she discolors."
He was immediately gone; and Emma soon saw him standing in front of Miss Saxon and talking to her; but about the effect on the young lady, since he had carelessly placed himself exactly between her, exactly before Miss Saxon, she could not distinguish at all.
Before he could return to his chair, he was taken by Mrs. Winstone.
"That's the luxury of a big society," she said, "you can get to anyone and say anything. My dear Emma, ?? I long to talk to you. I've made discoveries and made plans, just like you, and I have to tell them while the idea is still fresh. Do you know how Miss Bates and her niece came here?"
"How? – You were invited, weren't you?"
"Oh! yes – but how were they transported here? – the way they come?"
"They left, I close. How else could they come?"
"Very true. – Well, a little while ago I thought how sad it would be if Jane Saxon went home late at night and as cold as the nights are now. And when I looked at it, although I never saw it seem more beneficial, it occurred to me that it was heated and therefore would be particularly susceptible to colds. Poor girl! I couldn't stand the idea; As soon as Mr. Winstone came into the room and I could reach him, I talked to him about the carriage. You can imagine how willingly he responded to my wishes; and after getting his approval, I made my way straight to Miss Bates to assure her that the carriage would be at her service before she would take us home; because I thought it would make them comfortable right away. Good soul! She was as grateful as possible, you can be sure of that. "No one has ever been as lucky as she has!" – but with many, many thanks – "there was no reason to worry us, because Mr. Hill's car had brought her and was supposed to bring her back home." I was quite surprised; – very happy, I'm sure; but really quite surprised. Such a very friendly attention – and such a thoughtful attention! – the kind of things that so few men would think of. And in short, since I know his habits, I am very inclined to believe that the car was used for their accommodation in the first place. I suspect that he wouldn't have had a pair of horses to himself, and that it was just an excuse to help them." – the kind of things that so few men would think of. And in short, since I know his habits, I am very inclined to believe that the car was used for their accommodation in the first place. I suspect that he wouldn't have had a pair of horses to himself, and that it was just an excuse to help them." – the kind of things that so few men would think of. And in short, since I know his habits, I am very inclined to believe that the car was used for their accommodation in the first place. I suspect that he wouldn't have had a pair of horses for himself, and that it was just an excuse to help them."
"Very likely," Emma said – "nothing more likely. I don't know of any man who would be more likely to do such a thing than Mr. Hill – to do something really good-natured, useful, considerate, or benevolent. He is not a gallant man, but he is a very human one; and this, given Jane Saxon's poor health, would seem to him to be a case of humanity; - and for an act of non-conspicuous kindness, there is no one I would commit myself to more than Mr. Hill. I know he had horses today – because we arrived together; and I laughed at him about it, but he didn't say a word that could be revealed."
"Well," said Mrs. Winstone with a smile, "you believe that in this case you can trust him with simpler, altruistic benevolence than me; for while Miss Bates was speaking, a suspicion came to my mind that I could never get rid of. The more I think about it, the more likely it seems to me. In short, I made a connection between Mr. Hill and Jane Saxon. See what it means to keep you company! – What do you say to that?"
"Sir. Hill and Jane Saxon!" shouted Emma. "Dear Mrs. Winstone, how do you come up with something like this? – Mr. Hill! – Mr. Hill is not allowed to get married! You didn't want little Henry to be cut out of Donwell? – Oh! no, no, Henry must have Donwell. I can't agree with Mr. Hill's marriage at all; and I'm sure it's not likely at all. I'm amazed that you think of something like that."
"My dear Emma, ?? I told you what made me think about it. I don't want the match – I don't want to hurt dear little Henry – but the circumstances gave me the idea; and if Mr. Hill really wanted to get married, wouldn't you stop him because of Henry, a boy of six who doesn't know anything about it?"
"Yes, I would. I couldn't stand Henry being ousted. Hill, get married! – No, I've never had such an idea before, and I can't adopt it now. And Jane Saxon of all people!"
"No, she has always been his first favourite, as you know very well."
"But the unwiseness of such a game!"
"I am not talking about his wisdom; only his probability."
"I don't see any probability in it unless you have a better foundation than the one you mentioned. His good-naturedness, his humanity, as I tell you, would be quite enough to explain the horses. He has a great respect for the Bateses, you know, regardless of Jane Saxon – and is always happy to pay attention to them. My dear Mrs. Winstone, don't get involved in marriage brokerage. You make it very sick. Jane Saxon Mistress of the Abbey! – Oh! no, no; – every feeling is outraged. For his own sake, I wouldn't let him do such a crazy thing."
"Careless, please – but not crazy. Apart from the inequality of wealth and perhaps a small age difference, I can't see anything inappropriate."
"But Mr. Hill doesn't want to get married. I'm sure he doesn't have the slightest idea about it. Do not put it in his head. Why should he get married? — He is as happy as possible alone; with his farm and his sheep and his library and the whole parish; and he loves his brother's children very much. He has no reason to marry, neither to fill his time nor his heart."
"My dear Emma, ?? as long as he thinks so, it is so; but if he really loves Jane Saxon...«
"Nonsense! He doesn't care about Jane Saxon. As for love, I'm sure he doesn't. He would do her or her family all the best;
"Well," Mrs. Winstone said with a laugh, "maybe the best thing he could do for them would be to give Jane such a respectable home."
"If it was good for them, it would certainly be bad for him; a very shameful and degrading compound. How would he endure it if Miss Bates belonged to him? – That she haunted the abbey and thanked him all day for his great kindness to marry Jane? – "So extremely friendly and accommodating! – But he had always been such a very nice neighbor!' And then, for half a sentence, you flee to your mother's old underskirt. 'Not that it was such an old underskirt – because it would still last for quite a while – and she must indeed say gratefully that her petticoats were all very strong.'"
"Shame, Emma! Do not imitate them. You distract me against my conscience. And, at my word, I don't think Mr. Hill would be very concerned about Miss Bates. Little things do not irritate him. She could keep talking; and when he wanted to say something himself, he would just speak louder and drown out her voice. But the question is not whether it would be a bad connection for him, but whether he wants it; and I think he does. I've heard him speak, and you must also hear it so high from Jane Saxon! The interest he has in her – his concern for her health – his concern that she should not have happier prospects! I have heard him speak so warmly on these points! – Such an admirer of her performance on the pianoforte and her voice! I heard him say that he could listen to her forever. Oh! and I had almost forgotten an idea that came to my mind – this pianoforte that someone sent here – even though we were all so content to consider it a gift from the Campbells, couldn't it be from Mr. Hill? I can't help but suspect him. I think he's just the right person for it, even without being in love."
"Then it can't be an argument to prove that he's in love. But I don't think it's even likely for him to do that. Mr. Hill doesn't do anything mysteriously."
"I have repeatedly heard him complain that she has no instrument; more often than I should assume, such a circumstance would occur to him in the ordinary course of things."
"Very good; and if he had intended to give her one, he would have told her."
"You could have scruples of tenderness, my dear Emma. I have a very strong idea that it comes from him. I'm sure he was particularly silent when Mrs. Cole told us about it at dinner."
"They pick up an idea, Mrs. Winstone, and run through it; as you have often accused me of. I don't see any sign of affection – I don't believe anything from the pianoforte – and the proof is just to convince me that Mr. Hill is thinking of marrying Jane Saxon."
They fought the point in the same way for some time; Emma is more likely to gain ground against her friend's opinion; for Mrs. Winstone was most accustomed to giving in; until a little hustle and bustle in the room showed them that the tea was over and the instrument was prepared; – and at the same moment, Mr. Cole, who approached to beg Miss Lodge, would do them the honor of giving it a try. Frank Curcelle, of whom she had seen nothing in the rush of her conversation with Mrs. Winstone, except that he had found a place with Miss Saxon, followed Mr. Cole to add his urgent requests; and since it suited Emma best in every way to lead, she gave a very appropriate docility.
She knew the limits of her own powers too well to try more than she could do with credit; she didn't want taste or spirit in the little things that are generally acceptable, and was good at accompanying her own voice. One accompaniment to her song pleasantly surprised her – a second, light but correct, by Frank Curcelle. At the end of the song, she was duly asked for forgiveness, and everything usual followed. He was accused of having an adorable voice and a perfect knowledge of the music; which was rightly refused; and that he knows nothing about the matter and has no voice at all, flatly claims. They sang together again; and Emma would then cede her place to Miss Saxon, whose performance, both vocally and instrumentally, which she could never hide from herself, was infinitely superior to her own.
With mixed feelings, she sat around the instrument at a distance from the numbers to listen. Frank Curcelle sang again. It seemed that they had sung together once or twice in Weymouth. But the sight of Mr. Hill among the most attentive soon subtracted half of Emma's thoughts; and she fell into a train of thought on the subject of Mrs. Winstone's suspicions, to which the sweet sounds of the united voices gave only brief interruptions. Their objections to Mr. Hill's marriage did not diminish in the slightest. She could see nothing but evil in it. It would be a great disappointment for Mr. John Hill; hence to Bella. A real hurt to the children – an extremely humiliating change and a material loss for all of them – a very great impairment of her father's daily comfort – and, as far as she herself is concerned, she could not bear the idea of Jane Saxon at Donwell Abbey at all. A Mrs. Hill to whom they all have to give way! – No – Mr. Hill must never marry. Little Henry must remain Donwell's heir.
Now Mr. Hill looked back, came and sat down next to her. At first you only spoke of the performance. His admiration was certainly very warm; nevertheless, she thought, but without Mrs. Winstone she would not have noticed. As a kind of touchstone, however, she began to speak of his kindness when he transmitted aunt and niece; and although his response was aimed at shortening the matter, she believed that it only expressed his reluctance to deal with any kindness of her own.
"I often worry," she said, "that I don't dare to make our carriage more useful on such occasions. It's not that I'm unwilling; but you know how impossible my father would find it impossible for James to be used for such a purpose."
"Completely excluded, completely excluded," he replied; And he smiled with such apparent joy at the conviction that she had to take another step.
"This gift from the Campbells," she said, "this pianoforte is a very kind gift."
"Yes," he replied, without the slightest obvious embarrassment. – "But they would have done better if they had informed them. Surprises are stupid things. The pleasure is not increased, and the discomfort is often considerable. I should have expected better judgment from Colonel Campbell."
From that moment on, Emma could have sworn that Mr. Hill had no qualms about giving the instrument. But whether he was completely free of peculiar attachment, whether there were no real preferences, remained somewhat doubtful. Towards the end of Jane's second song, her voice became thick.
"That's enough," he said when it was finished, thinking out loud – "for one evening you sang enough – now be quiet."
However, another song was soon requested. "One more – they wouldn't tire Miss Saxon under any circumstances and only ask for one." And You heard Frank Curcelle say, "I think you could do this without effort; the first part is so very insignificant. The strength of the song falls on the second."
Mr. Hill became angry.
"This guy," he said indignantly, "thinks of nothing more than showing his own voice. That must not be the case." And Touching Miss Bates, who came by at that moment – "Miss Bates, are you crazy that your niece lets herself sing hoarse in this way? Go and get involved. They don't know them."
Miss Bates, in her real concern for Jane, could hardly be grateful before she stepped forward and put an end to all further singing. This is where the concert part of the evening ended, because Miss Lodge and Miss Saxon were the only young female actresses; but soon (within five minutes) the suggestion of dancing – which no one knew exactly where it came from – was so effectively promoted by Mr. and Mrs. Cole that everything was quickly cleared away to create adequate space. Mrs. Winstone, the capital of her country dances, sat and began an irresistible waltz; and Frank Curcelle, who met Emma with the most decent gallantry, had secured her hand and led her upwards.
While waiting for the other young people to mate, Despite the compliments she received for her voice and taste, Emma found time to look around and see what had become of Mr. Hill. That would be an attempt. He was not a dancer in general. If he were now very vigilant about hiring Jane Saxon, that might bode well. There was no immediate appearance. No; he talked to Mrs. Cole – he watched carelessly; Jane was asked by someone else, and he was still talking to Mrs. Cole.
Emma no longer had an alarm for Henry; his interest was still certain; and she led the dance with real spirit and joy. No more than five pairs could be patterned; but the rarity and suddenness made it very delightful, and she found that she fit well together in one partner. They were a couple worth looking at.
Unfortunately, only two dances were allowed. It was getting late, and Miss Bates desperately wanted to go home because of her mother. After a few attempts to start again, they had to thank Mrs. Winstone, looked sad and had made it.
"Maybe it's a good thing," said Frank Curcelle as he accompanied Emma to her carriage. "I must have asked Miss Saxon, and her lazy dancing wouldn't have appealed to me after yours."
Chapter 127
Although Mrs. Jennings had the habit of spending much of the year in the homes of her children and friends, she was not without her own fixed dwelling. Since the death of her husband, who had successfully traded in a less elegant part of the city, she lived in a house on one of the streets near Portman Square every winter. In the direction of this house, as January approached, she began to direct her thoughts, and there one day she abruptly and very unexpectedly asked the elder Misses Hargrove to accompany her. Eleanore, without noticing the changing face color of her sister and the vivid look that expressed no indifference to the plan, immediately gave both a grateful but absolute rejection, in which she believed in expressing their common inclinations. The alleged reason was her firm decision not to leave her mother at this time of year. Mrs. Jennings took note of the cancellation with some surprise and immediately repeated her invitation.
"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can do without you very well, and I ask you to give me your company, because I have put my heart on it. Do not imagine that you will have any inconvenience to me, because I will not avoid you at all, it will only send Betty by carriage, and I hope I can afford that, the three of us will be able to ride very well in my carriage, and when we are in town, if you do not like to go there, where I go, all well and good, you can always go with one of my daughters, your mother will certainly not mind, because I was so lucky in getting my own children out of my hands that she will consider me a very suitable person to take care of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I'm done with you, it shouldn't be my fault. I will say a good word for you to all young men, you can rely on that."
"I have a hunch," Sir John said, "that Miss Marianne wouldn't mind such a plan if her older sister didn't want to join. That's why I would advise both of you to head to the city when you're tired of Barton without saying a word about it to Miss Hargrove."
"No," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I'm sure I'll be tremendously happy about Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Hargrove will go or not, only the more, the better, I say, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together, because if they got tired of me, they could talk to each other and laugh behind my back about my old ways. But one or the other, if not both, I have to have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live with browsing alone, me who was always used to having Charlotte with me until this winter. Come, Miss Marianne, let's close the deal, and if Miss Hargrove gradually changes her mind, why all the better."
"Thank you, madam, I thank you sincerely," Marianne said warmly, "Your invitation has assured me of gratitude forever, and it would give me so much joy, almost the greatest joy I am capable of But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, – I feel the justice of what Eleanore has urged, and if she should become less happy and less comfortable through our absence – oh no, nothing should be tempting me to leave them. It should not, must not be a fight."
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Hargrove could do without her completely; and Eleanore, who now understood her sister and saw the indifference to almost everything else she was driven to by her desire to be with Warwick again, did not resist the plan any further, referring only to her mother's decision, from whom she hardly expected to receive support in her efforts to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne and which she in turn had to avoid for special reasons. Whatever Marianne wished, her mother would like to encourage her - she could not expect to persuade the latter to behave cautiously in a matter in which she could never instill distrust in her; and she did not dare to explain the motive of her own reluctance to go to London. That Marianne, as fussy as she was, was very familiar with Mrs. Jenning's manners and always disgusted by them, to overlook any inconvenience of this kind, which had to hurt her irritable feelings the most, in her pursuit of a goal, was such a strong, so comprehensive proof of the importance of this object for her, as Eleanore despite everything, what had happened, was not willing to testify.
When Mrs. Hargrove was informed of the invitation, she was convinced that such a trip would be a lot of fun for her two daughters, and since she realized through all her loving attention to herself how much Marianne's heart was in it, she did not want to hear them reject the offer on HER account; insisted that both accept it directly; and then, with their usual cheerfulness, began to anticipate a number of benefits that would accrue to all of them from this separation.
"I'm happy about the plan," she exclaimed, "it's exactly what I could wish for. Margaret and I will benefit from this as much as you do. When you and the Mideltowns are gone, we will continue so calmly and happily along with our books and our music! You'll find Margaret so improved when you come back! I also have a small change plan for your bedrooms that can now be done without any inconvenience to anyone. It is very true that you should go to the city, I want every young woman in your state of life to be familiar with the customs and pleasures of London, you are cared for by a motherly good woman, whose kindness to you I can have no doubt about. And in all likelihood, you will see your brother and whatever his mistakes may be or his wife's mistakes, considering whose son he is, I cannot bear that you have become so completely estranged from each other."
"Although with your usual concern for our happiness," Eleanore said, "you have removed every obstacle to the current plan that you have come up with, there is still one objection that I don't think can be easily removed."
Marianne's face lowered.
"And what," said Mrs. Hargrove, "will my dear wise Eleanore propose? What huge obstacle should it now put forward? Let me hear a word about the cost."
"My objection is this: Although I think very well of Mrs. Jennings' heart, she is not a woman whose company can give us pleasure or whose protection will give us consequences."
"This is very true," her mother replied, "but from her company, separate from that of other people, you will hardly have anything, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Mideltown."
"If Eleanore is deterred by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," Marianne said, "at least it doesn't have to stop me from accepting her invitation with very little effort."
Eleanore could not help but smile at this display of indifference to the manners of a person who had often found it difficult for her to convince Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and decided in herself that if her sister insisted on it, she would also leave, as she did not think it was right to leave Marianne to her own judgment alone or to leave Mrs. Jennings to grace from Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination, she was more easily reconciled by remembering that, according to Lucy's calculation, Edward Gastonois should not be in town until February; and that their visit could have ended beforehand without any undue cutback.
"I will let you BOTH go," ms. Hargrove said; "These objections are nonsensical. You'll have a lot of fun being in London, and especially when you're together; and if Eleanore ever condescended to expect pleasure, she would foresee it there from various sources; she might expect to prevent some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."
Eleanore had often wished for an opportunity to try to weaken her mother's dependence on Edward's attachment and herself, so that the shock could be less when the whole truth came to light, and now she forced herself to launch this attack, although it was almost hopeless, to begin her design as calmly as possible: "I really like Edward Gastonois and will always be happy to see him; but as for the rest of the family, I don't care if I'm ever known to them or not."
Mrs. Hargrove smiled and said nothing. Marianne raised her eyes in amazement, and Eleanore suspected that she might as well have kept her mouth shut.
After a very short further discussion, it was finally clear that the invitation should be accepted without restriction. Mrs. Jennings received the news with great joy and many assurances of kindness and care; it wasn't just a pleasure for her either. Sir John was delighted; for for a man whose predominant concern was the fear of being alone, the acquisition of two londoners was something. Even Lady Mideltown went out of her way to rejoice, which was quite out of her way; and the Miss Clayhorns, especially Lucy, had never in their lives been as happy as this news made them.
Eleanore submitted to the order that countered her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected. For herself, it did not matter whether she went to the city or not, and when she saw that her mother was so pleased with the plan and her sister was enthusiastic about it in appearance, voice and behavior, restored to all her usual liveliness and raised to more than her usual cheerfulness, she could not be dissatisfied with the matter and would hardly allow herself to to distrust the consequence.
Marianne's joy was almost a degree greater than happiness, so great was the confusion of her mood and her impatience to leave. Her unwillingness to leave her mother was her only restoration of calm; and at the moment of separation, their grief in this notch was excessive. Her mother's grief was hardly less, and Eleanore was the only one of the three who seemed to consider the separation anything but eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week of January. The Mideltowns should follow in about a week. The Miss Clayhorns kept their station in the park and were only supposed to leave with the rest of the family.
Chapter 128
The triumph of Mr. Collins was complete as a result of this invitation. The power to show his astonished visitors the greatness of his patroness and let her see her courtesy to him and his wife was exactly what he had desired; and that an opportunity to do so should be given so soon was such an example of Lady Catherine's condescension, as he did not know how to admire enough.
"I confess," he said, "that your ladyhood would not have surprised me at all when they asked us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening in rosings. I rather expected, because of my knowledge of their kindness, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such attention? Who would have thought that we would receive an invitation to dinner (an invitation, by the way, including the entire society) immediately after your arrival!'
"I am all the less surprised by what has happened," Sir William replied, "when I know what the manners of the greats really are that my life situation has allowed me to be. At the farm ?? such examples of elegant breeding are not uncommon.'
Throughout the day or the next morning, little was said about anything other than their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins carefully instructed them on what to expect so that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and such a magnificent diner would not overwhelm them entirely.
When the ladies went to the bathroom, he said to Elizabeth
,
"Don't worry about your clothes, my dear cousin. Lady Catherine is far from demanding that elegance of the clothes that become her and her daughter. I would advise you to wear only what is better about your clothes than the rest – there is no reason to do more. Lady Catherine will not think bad of you because you are simply dressed. She likes it when the difference in rank is preserved."
While they were getting dressed, he came to their various doors two or three times to advise them to be quick, as Lady Catherine was very reluctant to have to wait for her dinner. Maria Lucas, who was little accustomed to company, frightened Maria Lucas, who was hardly used to society, with such impressive accounts of her ladyhood and way of life, and she looked forward to her performance in Rosings with as much concern as her father did about his performance at St. James's.
As the weather was nice, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile through the park. Each park has its beauty and its views; and Elizabeth saw a lot to be happy about, even though she wasn't in such a ?? Delightful as Mr Collins expected the scene to inspire her, and was only slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house and his relationship to what that was The glazing as a whole had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
As they climbed the steps to the hall, Mary's concern grew with each passing moment, and even Sir William did not look entirely calm. Elizabeth's courage did not let her down. She had not heard of Lady Catherine, speaking of extraordinary talents or miraculous virtues, and the sheer dignity of money or rank that she thought she could witness without trepidation.
From the entrance hall, from which Mr. Collins pointed out the fine proportions and the finished ornaments with an enraptured face, they followed the servants through an anteroom into the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyhood rose with great condescension to receive her; and since Mrs. Collins had agreed with her husband that the introduction office should be her, it was done properly, without any apology and gratitude he would have deemed necessary.
Although he had been to St. James, Sir William was so deeply impressed by the grandeur that he had just the courage to bow very deeply and take his place without saying a word; and his daughter, almost insanely frightened, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing where to look. Elizabeth found herself completely up to the scene and was able to watch the three ladies in front of her calmly. Lady Catherine was a tall, tall woman with strong facial features who may once have been handsome. Her expression was not conciliatory, and her way of receiving her made her visitors forget her lower rank. It was not made terrible by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in such an authoritative tone that characterized her complacency, and immediately reminded Elizabeth of Mr. Waterhouse;
When, after examining the mother, in whose facial expression and posture she soon discovered a certain resemblance to Mr. Drury, she turned her eyes to the daughter, she could almost have joined Mary's amazement that she was so thin and so small. There was no resemblance between the ladies in figure or face. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; their features, though not simple, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, whose appearance was nothing conspicuous and who was completely occupied with listening to what she said and holding an umbrella in the right direction in front of her eyes.
After sitting for a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins took care of them to point out his beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly told them that it was much better to look at it in the summer.
Lunch was extraordinarily nice, and there were all the servants and plate items that Mr. Collins had promised; and as he had also predicted, at the request of your ladyship, he took his place at the foot of the table and looked as if he felt that life could not deliver anything greater. He carved and ate and praised with delighted zeal; and every dish was praised, first by him and then by Sir William, who had since recovered to the point where he could repeat everything his son-in-law said in a way that Elizabeth was surprised that Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed happy about her exaggerated admiration and gave them a gracious smile, especially when some dish on the table was something new for her. The party didn't provide much to talk about. Elizabeth was willing to speak whenever there was an opening, but she sat between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh, the former of whom was busy listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter didn't say a word to her the whole time. Mrs. Jenkinson was mainly concerned with watching how little Miss de Bourgh ate, urging her to try another dish, and fearing she was unwell. Mary considered speaking impossible, and the lords did nothing but eat and admire.
When the ladies returned to the salon, there was nothing else to do than hear Lady Catherine speak, which she did without interruption until the coffee came in, and expressed her opinion on each subject in such a decisive way as she proved it was not used to her judgment being questioned. She inquired confidentially and accurately about Charlotte's domestic affairs, gave her much advice regarding the administration of all of them; told her how to manage everything in a family as small as hers, and taught her about caring for her cows and poultry. Elizabeth found that there was nothing under the attention of this great lady that could give her an opportunity to dictate something to others. During the breaks of her conversation with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, whose relationships she knew the least about, and whom she observed to Mrs. Collins, was a very posh, pretty girl. She asked her at different times how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than her, if any of them would be married, if they were handsome, where they had been raised, what carriage her father was running, and what had her mother's maiden name been? Elizabeth felt all the impudence of her questions, but answered them very calmly. Lady Catherine then remarked: What carriage did her father have and what had her mother's maiden name been? Elizabeth felt all the impudence of her questions, but answered them very calmly. Lady Catherine then remarked: What carriage did her father have and what had her mother's maiden name been? Elizabeth felt all the impudence of her questions, but answered them very calmly. Lady Catherine then
remarked,
"I believe your father's estate belongs to Mr. Collins. For your sake," I turned to Charlotte, "I rejoice; but otherwise I see no reason to take over estates from the female line. It was not considered necessary in the family of Sir Lewis de Bourgh. Do you play and sing, Miss Mitchell?"
'A little bit.'
'Oh! then - at some point we will be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably better than ... You will try one day. Do your sisters play and sing?"
"One of them does."
"Why haven't you all learned? They should all have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father doesn't have as good an income as yours. Do you draw?'
'No not at all.'
'What, none of you?'
'Not one.'
"This is very strange. But I suppose you didn't have the opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to the city every spring for the good of the gentlemen."
"My mother wouldn't have objected, but my father hates London."
"Has your governess left you?"
"We never had a governess."
"No governess! How was this possible? Five daughters who grew up without a governess at home! I've never heard of anything like this. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your upbringing."
Elizabeth could hardly resist a smile when she assured her that this had not been the case.
"Who taught you then? who looked after you? Without a governess, you must have been neglected.'
"Compared to some families, I think we were; but those of us who wanted to learn never needed the means. We were always encouraged to read and had all the necessary masters. Those who have chosen to remain inactive could certainly do so.'
'Yes, no doubt; but that will prevent a governess, and if I had known your mother, I would have advised her most eagerly to hire one. I always say that there is nothing to do in education without constant and regular instruction, and no one but a governess can give it. It's wonderful how many families I've been able to provide for in this way. I am always happy to get a young person well placed. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully housed by my means; and just the other day I recommended another young person who just happened to be named to me, and the family is very excited about her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you about Lady Metcalf's call yesterday to thank you? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. "Lady Catherine," she said, "you gave me a treasure.
"Yes, madam, everyone."
'Everyone! What, all five at once? Very funny! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the older ones are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?'
"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Maybe SHE is fully young to be in company a lot. But really, madam, I think it would be very hard for younger sisters if they didn't have their share of company and amusements, because the older ones may not have the means or the inclination to marry early. The lastborn has as good a right to the pleasures of youth as the firstborn. And to be held back on SUCH motives! I don't think it would be very likely to promote sisterly affection or tenderness of the mind.'
"At my word," said your ladyhood, "You give your opinion very decisively for such a young person. Please, how old are you?'
"With three younger sisters growing up," Elizabeth replied with a smile, "your ladyhood can't wait for me to own it."
Lady Catherine seemed quite surprised not to receive a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself of being the first creature to ever dare to play with so much dignified impudence.
"You can't be older than twenty, I'm sure, so you don't need to hide your age."
'I'm not one-and-twenty.'
When the gentlemen had joined them and the tea was over, the card tables were set up. Lady Catherine, Sir William and Mr. and Mrs. Collins took a seat at the quadrille; and when Miss de Bourgh decided to play at the casino, the two girls had the honor of helping Mrs. Jenkinson design her party. Their table was incredibly stupid. Hardly a single syllable was uttered that did not refer to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears that Miss de Bourgh was too hot or too cold, or that she had too much or too little light. A lot more happened at the other table. Lady Catherine spoke in general – she stated the mistakes of the three others or told an anecdote about herself. Mr. Collins was busy agreeing to everything your ladyship said, thanking her for every fish she had won, and apologizing if he thought he had won too many. Sir William didn't say much. He kept his memory with anecdotes and noble names.
When Lady Catherine and her daughter had been playing for as long as they wanted, the tables were dismantled, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The group then gathered around the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they would have tomorrow. From these instructions they were called by the arrival of the carriage; and with many acceptance speeches on the side of Mr. Collins and just as many bows on the side of Sir William, they set out. As soon as they drove out of the door, Elizabeth was asked by her cousin to express her opinion about everything she had seen in Rosings, which made her cheaper than it really was for Charlotte's sake. But their praise, although it took them some effort, could not satisfy Mr. Collins at all,
Chapter 129
Henry Dorset had decided by the next morning to give Mansfield another fourteen days, and after calling his hunters and writing a few lines to the admiral to explain, he looked around for his sister while sealing the letter and threw it from him, and when he saw the coast free from the rest of the family, he said with a smile, "And what do you think I want to have fun on the days when I don't hunt, Mary? I've gotten too old to go out more than three times a week; but I have a plan for the days in between, and what do you think it's like?"
"To go and ride with me safely."
"Not directly, although I like to do both, but that would just be an exercise for my body, and I have to take care of my mind. Moreover, all this would be relaxation and enjoyment without the healing alloy of work, and I do not like to eat the bread of idleness. No, my plan is to get Esther Price to fall in love with me."
"Esther Price! Nonsense! No, no. You should go with her two cousins ?? be satisfied."
"But I can't be satisfied without Esther Price without punching a small hole in esther Price's heart. They don't seem to be really aware of their claims to notice it. When we talked about them last night, none of you seemed to notice the wonderful improvement that has taken place in their appearance over the past six weeks. You see them every day and therefore do not notice it; but I assure you, she is a very different creature than in autumn. She was just a quiet, humble, not plain looking girl back then, but now she's absolutely pretty. I used to think she had neither face color nor facial expression; but in her soft skin, which blushed as often as yesterday, lies decisive beauty; and from what I observed on her eyes and mouth, I do not despair that they are expressive enough when she has something to express. And then their air, their manner, their overall ensemble is so indescribably improved! It must have grown at least five centimetres since October."
"Phu! Phoe! That's just because there weren't any big women to compare her to, and because she has a new dress and you've never seen her dressed so well. It's exactly what it was in October, believe me. The truth is that she was the only girl in company that caught your eye, and you must have someone. I always found them pretty – not strikingly pretty – but "pretty enough", as people say; a kind of beauty that grows on you. Her eyes should be darker, but she has a sweet smile; but as for this wonderful degree of improvement, I'm sure that everything can be resolved in a better style of clothing, and you have no one left to look at; and therefore, if you start flirting with her, you will never convince me that this is a compliment to her beauty or that it comes from anything other than your own laziness and foolishness.
Her brother gave this accusation only a smile and soon said: "I don't really know what to think of Miss Esther. I don't understand them. I couldn't say what she would do yesterday. What is their character? Is it solemn? Is she gay? Is she prudish? Why did she withdraw and look at me so seriously? I could hardly get them to speak. Never in my life have I been with a girl for so long, tried to entertain her, and had no success! I have never met with a girl who seemed so serious to me! I have to try to do better. Their looks say, "I'm not going to like you, I'm determined not to like you"; and I say it will."
"Stupid! And that's their attraction! That's because she doesn't care about you, which gives her such soft skin and makes her so much bigger and brings out all those charms and grace! I wish you didn't really make them unhappy; a little love may invigorate her and do her good, but I don't want you to dive her deep, because she's as good a little creature as she ever lived, and has a lot of feeling."
"But it can be for fourteen days," Henry said; "and if she can kill for fourteen days, she must have a constitution that could not save anything. No, I will not do anything to her, dear little soul! I just want her to look at me kindly, both smile at me and blush, hold a chair to myself wherever we are, and be quite lively when I take it and talk to her; to think like I think, to be interested in all my possessions and amusements, to stay longer in Mansfield and to feel when I leave that she will never be happy again. I don't want anything more."
"The moderation itself!" said Maria. "I can't have any scruples now. Well, you will have enough opportunity to make an effort to recommend yourself, because we are together a lot."
And without further objection, she left Esther to her fate, a fate that, had Esther's heart not been guarded in a way unexpectedly by Miss Dorset, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for although there are undoubtedly such invincible young ladies of eighteen years (or one should not read about them) who, against their judgment, can never be persuaded to love by talent, manners, attention and flattery, I have no inclination to believe Esther one of them, or do you think that with so much tenderness and taste, as it belonged to her, the courtship (although the courtship was only fourteen days long) of a man like Dorset had not otherwise given her affection, although there was previously a bad opinion about him that had to be overcome. With all the certainty that love for another and contempt for the peace of mind he had attacked could give him, his incessant attention – continued but not intrusive, and more and more adapting to the gentleness and tenderness of her character – came to her very soon to like him less than before. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought of him as badly as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so dignified, so polite, so serious and impeccably polite that it was impossible not to be polite to him for it. and adapted more and more to the gentleness and tenderness of their character – very soon forced them to reject him less than before. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought of him as badly as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so dignified, so polite, so serious and impeccably polite that it was impossible not to be polite to him for it. and adapted more and more to the gentleness and tenderness of their character – very soon forced them to reject him less than before. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought of him as badly as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so dignified, so polite, so serious and impeccably polite that it was impossible not to be polite to him for it.
Very few days were enough to achieve this; and at the end of those few days, circumstances occurred that tended more to promote his views of pleasing her, as they gave her a certain degree of happiness that had to cause her to be satisfied with everyone. William, her brother, the long absent and beloved brother, was back in England. She herself had written a letter from him, a few hasty happy lines, when the ship came up the canal and anchored in Spithead with the first boat to leave Antwerp; and when Dorset approached her with the newspaper in his hand that he had hoped would bring the first news, he found her trembling with joy at this letter and listening with a fervent, grateful face to the kind invitation that her uncle accepted in response.
Only the day before, Dorset had thoroughly grasped the subject, or had even become aware that she had such a brother or that he was on such a ship, but the interest had been very lively at the time to designate him on his return to the city, to request information about the expected period of the return of Antwerp from the Mediterranean, etc.; and the happiness that accompanied his early investigation of the ship's news the next morning seemed to be the reward for his ingenuity in finding such a method to please them, as well as for his dutiful attention to the admiral by taking care of it for many years on paper, which is considered the earliest naval intelligence. However, it turned out to be too late. All those beautiful first feelings that he had hoped to be the causative agent were already given. But his intention,
This dear William would soon be among them. There could be no doubt that he was immediately placed on leave, for he was still just a midshipman; and since his parents must have already seen him, since he lived locally, and perhaps see him daily, his direct holidays could rightly be given immediately to the sister, who had been his best correspondent for seven years, and the uncle who had done the most for his support and promotion; and accordingly, the response to their response, which set a very early day for his arrival, came as soon as possible; and barely ten days had passed since Esther had been in the excitement of her first dinner visit, when she was in an excitement of a higher nature and in the hall, in the lobby, on the stairs, looking for the first sound of the carriage that was to bring her a brother.
It came happily while she waited like that; and since there was neither ceremony nor anxiety to delay the moment of the meeting, she was with him when he entered the house, and the first minutes of exquisite feelings had no interruption and no witnesses, unless the servants, who were mainly anxious to open the right doors, could be so called. This was exactly what Sir Thomas and Edmund had staged separately, as each proved to each other through the sympathetic willingness with which they both advised Mrs. Norris to stay where she was instead of rushing into the hall as soon as the sounds of arrival reached her.
William and Esther soon showed up; and Sir Thomas certainly had the pleasure of receiving in his protégé a very different person from the one he had endowed seven years ago, but a young man with an open, pleasant expression and open, unskilled but soulful and respectful manners, and those who made him his friend.
It took a long time for Esther to recover from the stirring happiness of such an hour, marked by the last thirty minutes of expectation and the first of fulfillment; it took some time before it could be said that her happiness made her happy, until the disappointment that was inseparable from the change of the person had disappeared and she could see in him the same William as before and could talk to him as her heart had been longing after many years gone by. However, this time came gradually, driven by an affection on his side as warm as her own, and much less burdened by sophistication or self-confidence. She was the first object of his love, but it was a love that his stronger mind and braver temperament made it so natural for him to express it as he felt. In the morning they walked around together with true joy,
apart from the moments of special joy that had aroused, for example, every remarkable or unexpected contemplation of Edmund in the last few months, Esther had never experienced so much happiness in her life as in this unhindered, equal, fearless dealings with her brother and a friend who opened his whole heart to her, told her all his hopes and fears, plans and concerns, which respected this long-thought, dearly deserved and rightly appreciated blessing of promotion; who could give her direct and accurate information about her father and mother, brothers and sisters, of whom she very rarely heard; who was interested in all the comforts and little needs of her home in Mansfield; ready to think of each member of this home as she ordered, or to distinguish herself only by a less conscientious opinion and louder insults of her Aunt Norris, and with which (perhaps the most expensive indulgence of the whole) all the evil and good of her earliest years could be retraced and every previous united pain and joy could be traced back with the most loving memory. An advantage of this, a strengthening of love, in which even the marital bond is under the fraternal one. Children of the same family, of the same blood, with the same first associations and habits have some means of joy in their power that cannot provide later connections; and it must have happened through a long and unnatural alienation, through a divorce that cannot justify a later connection, if such precious remnants of the earliest bonds are ever fully survived. Unfortunately, too often! It is so. Brotherly love, sometimes almost everything, is worse than nothing for others.
Such gracious affection encouraged everyone in the opinion of all who had hearts to appreciate all that was good. Henry Dorset was as impressed as anyone else. He paid tribute to the warm, blunt affection of the young sailor, which led him to say with his hands stretched out to Esther's head: "You know, I'm already starting to like this strange fashion, even though I first heard of such things being done in England, I couldn't believe it; and when Mrs. Brown and the other women showed up at the Commissioner in Gibraltar in the same clothes, I thought they were crazy; but Esther can reconcile me with everything"; and saw with vivid admiration the glow on Esther's cheeks, the glow of her eyes, the deep interest, the sunken attention, while her brother described one of the imminent dangers or terrible scenes,
It was an image that Henry Dorset had the moral taste enough to appreciate. Esther's attraction increased – doubled; for the sensitivity that embellished her face color and illuminated her face was an attraction in itself. He no longer doubted the abilities of her heart. She had feeling, real feeling. It would be something that would be loved by such a girl to arouse the first embers of her young, unadulterated spirit! She interested him more than he had expected. Fourteen days was not enough. His stay was indefinite.
William was often called by his uncle as a speaker. His lectures were amusing to Sir Thomas in themselves, but the main goal in the search for them was to understand the reciter, to know the young man through his stories; and he listened with full satisfaction to his clear, simple, spirited details, saw in them the proof of good principles, expertise, energy, courage and cheerfulness, all that could earn or promise good. As young as he was, William had seen a lot. He had been in the Mediterranean; in the West Indies; back in the Mediterranean; had often been brought ashore by the favor of his captain and had known over the course of seven years all kinds of dangers that sea and war could offer together. By such means in his power, he had a right to be heard; and although Mrs. Norris could fidget around the room, disturbing anyone looking for two needles full of yarn or a used shirt button, while her nephew told him about a shipwreck or engagement, everyone else was paying attention; and even Lady Schmidt could not hear untouched by such horrors, or without sometimes lifting her gaze from her work to say: "My goodness! how unpleasant! I wonder if anyone can ever go to sea."
They gave Henry Dorset a different feeling. He longed to have been at sea and to have seen, done and suffered so much. His heart was warmed, his imagination sparked, and he felt the highest respect for a boy who, before he was twenty, had gone through such physical exertions and given such evidence of his mind. The glory of heroism, usefulness, effort, perseverance made his own habits of selfish indulgence appear in shameful contrast; and he wished he had been a William Price who excelled and worked his way to wealth and success with so much self-respect and joyful zeal instead of being what he was!
The desire was more eager than persistent. He was awakened from the reverie of retrospection and the regret it generated by a question from Edmund about his plans for the hunt the next day; and he found that it was good to immediately be a man of happiness, with horses and horse servants under his command. In one respect, it was better, as it gave him the opportunity to show kindness where he wanted to obey them. With spirit, courage and curiosity about everything, William expressed his inclination to hunt; and Dorset was able to climb him without the slightest inconvenience, and with only a few scruples with Sir Thomas, who knew the value of such a loan better than his nephew, and some fears that esther had imagined away. She feared for William; by no means convinced of everyone that he could tell of his own equestrian skills in different countries, of the climbing games in which he was involved, the rough horses and mules on which he had ridden, or his many short escapes from terrible falls, that he was even up to the management of a highly fed hunter in an English fox hunt ; even before he returned safe and sound, without an accident or discredit, she could not accept the risk or feel obliged to Mr. Dorset to borrow the horse he had fully intended. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire. the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many short escapes from terrible falls, that he was up to the management of a highly fed hunter in an English fox hunt; even before he returned safe and sound, without an accident or discredit, she could not accept the risk or feel obliged to Mr. Dorset to borrow the horse he had fully intended. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire. the rough horses and mules he had ridden, or his many short escapes from terrible falls, that he was up to the management of a highly fed hunter in an English fox hunt; even before he returned safe and sound, without an accident or discredit, she could not accept the risk or feel obliged to Mr. Dorset to borrow the horse he had fully intended. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire. that he was equal to the management of a highly fed hunter in an English fox hunt; even before he returned safe and sound, without an accident or discredit, she could not accept the risk or feel obliged to Mr. Dorset to borrow the horse he had fully intended. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire. that he was equal to the management of a highly fed hunter in an English fox hunt; even before he returned safe and sound, without an accident or discredit, she could not accept the risk or feel obliged to Mr. Dorset to borrow the horse he had fully intended. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire. Dorset for lending him the horse he had intended to produce. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire. Dorset for lending him the horse he had intended to produce. However, when it turned out that it had done no harm to William, she was able to allow it as kindness and even reward the owner with a smile when the animal was made available to him again for a minute; and the next one was made available to him with the utmost warmth and irresistibly as long as he remained in Northamptonshire.
[End volume one of this issue.
Printed by T. and A. Constable,
printers to Her Majesty at
Edinburgh University Press]
Chapter 130
Emma did not regret her condescension of going to the Cole's. The visit brought her many pleasant memories the next day; and everything she might have lost on the side of dignified seclusion must be repaid abundantly in the splendor of popularity. She must have delighted the Cole's – worthy people who deserve to be made happy! – and leave a name that would not pass so quickly.
Perfect happiness, even in memory, is not common; and there were two points where she didn't have it easy. She doubted whether she had not exceeded the duty of woman to woman by revealing to Frank Curcelle her suspicions of Jane Saxon's feelings. It was hardly right; but it had been such a strong idea that she would escape it, and his submission to everything she told was a compliment to her penetration, which made it hard for her to be quite sure she should have kept her mouth shut.
The other circumstance of regret also concerned Jane Saxon; and she had no doubt about that. She openly and unequivocally regretted the inferiority of her own playing and singing. She grieved most sincerely over the idleness of her childhood – and sat down and practiced energetically for an hour and a half.
Then she was interrupted by Harriet's arrival; and if Harriet's praise could have satisfied her, she might soon have been comforted.
"Oh! if only I could play as well as you and Miss Saxon!"
"Don't put us together, Harriet. My game is no more like theirs than a lamp is like sunshine."
"Oh! Honey – I think you're playing the best of the two. I think you play just as well as they do. I'm sure I'd much rather have heard you. Everyone said last night how well you played."
"Those who knew about it must have felt the difference. The truth is, Harriet, that my game is just good enough to be praised, but Jane Saxon's is way beyond that."
"Well, I'll always think that you play as well as they do, or that if there's a difference, no one would ever figure it out. Mr. Cole said how much taste you had; and Mr. Frank Curcelle talked a lot about your taste and that he appreciates taste much more than execution."
"Ah! but Jane Saxon has them both, Harriet."
"Are you sure? I saw that she was executed, but I didn't know she had taste. Nobody talked about it. And I hate Italian singing. - You don't understand a word. Besides, when she plays so well, you know, it's no more than she has to do because she has to teach. The Coxes wondered last night if she would come into a big family. What do you think the Coxes looked like?"
"As always – very vulgar."
"They told me something," Harriet said rather hesitantly; "but it doesn't matter."
Emma had to ask what they had told her, even though she was afraid of producing Mr. Alton.
"They told me that Mr. Martin ate with them last Saturday."
"Oh!"
"He came to her father on business and asked him to stay for dinner."
"Oh!"
"They talked a lot about him, especially Anne Cox. I don't know what she meant, but she asked me if I should stay there again next summer."
"She wanted to be outrageously curious, just like an Anne Cox was supposed to be."
"She said he was very pleasant the day he had dinner there. He sat next to her at dinner. Miss Nash believes that one of the Coxes would be very happy to marry him."
"Very likely. I think they are without exception the most vulgar girls in Highbury."
Harriet had business at Ford. – Emma thought it was smartest to go with her. Another accidental meeting with the Martins was possible and dangerous in their current state.
Harriet, tempted by everything and distracted by half a word, has always been making a purchase for a very long time; and while she was still hanging over the muslin and changing her mind, Emma went to the door for pleasure. Perry hastily passing by, Mr. William Cox getting in at the office door, Mr. Cole's carriage horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter boy on an unruly mule were the liveliest objects she could expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a neat old woman driving home from the store with her full basket, two baits fighting over a dirty bone, and a series of dawdling children around the baker's small bay window, eyeing the gingerbread She knew she had no reason, to complain, and was amused enough; still enough to stand in front of the door. A lively and serene mind can cope with seeing nothing and cannot see anything that does not answer.
She looked down Randalls Road. The scene widened; two people appeared; Mrs. Winstone and her son-in-law; they went to Highbury – to Hartfield, of course. However, they stopped primarily at Mrs. Bates; whose house was a little closer to Randalls than Ford's; and had almost knocked when Emma caught their eye. – Immediately they crossed the road and approached them; and the pleasantness of yesterday's appointment seemed to bring new joy to the current meeting. Mrs. Winstone told her that she would visit the Bateses to hear the new instrument.
"Because my companion told me," she said, "that I promised Miss Bates last night that I would come this morning. I myself was not aware of this. I didn't know I had a fixed day, but as he says, I'm leaving now."
"And while Mrs. Winstone is paying her visit, hopefully," said Frank Curcelle, "I can join your company and wait for them in Hartfield — when you go home."
Mrs. Winstone was disappointed.
"I thought you wanted to go with me. They would be very happy."
"Me! I should be pretty much in the way. But maybe – maybe I'm just as in the way here. Miss Lodge looks like she didn't want me. My aunt always sends me away when she goes shopping. She says I'm fidgeting her to death; and Miss Lodge looks like she could almost say the same thing. What should I do?"
"I'm not in any store of my own here," Emma said; "I'm just waiting for my boyfriend. It will probably be ready soon, and then we will go home. But you better go with Mrs. Winstone and listen to the instrument."
"Well, if you guess. – But (with a smile) if Colonel Campbell should have hired a careless friend, and if it turns out to be indifferent – what can I say? I will not be a support to Mrs. Winstone. She could very well cope on her own. An unpleasant truth would taste good to her lips, but I am the most miserable being in the world when it comes to a bourgeois untruth."
"I don't think so," Emma replied. "I am convinced that you can be just as disingenuous as your neighbors if necessary; but there is no reason to believe that the instrument is indifferent. Quite different if I had understood Miss Saxon's opinion last night."
"Come with us," said Mrs. Winstone, "if you are not very uncomfortable. It doesn't have to stop us for long. Afterwards we drive to Hartfield. We will follow them to Hartfield. I really want you to call me. Such a great deal of attention is felt! and I always thought you meant it."
That's all he could say; and with Hartfield's hope of rewarding him, he returned with Mrs. Winstone to Mrs. Bates' door. Emma looked after them and then joined Harriet at the interesting counter – and tried to convince her with all the power of her own mind that it made no sense to look patterned if she wanted simple muslin; and that a blue ribbon, no matter how beautiful, would never match her yellow pattern. Finally everything was settled, even to the destination of the package.
"Should I send it to Mrs. Goddard, Ma'am?" asked Mrs. Ford. – "Yes – no – yes, to Mrs. Goddard. Only my patterned dress is at Hartfield. No, please send it to Hartfield. But Mrs. Goddard will want to see. – And I could take the patterned dress home with me every day. But I want to have the tape directly – so it's better to go to Hartfield – at least the tape. You could make two packages out of it, Mrs. Ford, couldn't you?"
"It's not worth it to make Ms. Ford the effort of two packages, Harriet."
"It's not anymore."
"No problem in the world, Ma'am," said the courteous Mrs. Ford.
"Oh! but in fact, I would much rather have it in just one. Then please send everything to Mrs. Goddard – I don't know – no, I think Miss Lodge, I might as well have it sent to Hartfield and take it home in the evening. What do you advise?"
"That you don't give the topic half a second anymore. To Hartfield, please, Mrs. Ford."
"Yes, that's the best thing," Harriet said with satisfaction, "I don't want to have it sent to Mrs. Goddard at all."
Voices approached the business – or rather, a voice and two ladies: Mrs. Winstone and Miss Bates met them at the door.
"My dear Miss Lodge," said the latter, "I just walked over to ask you for the favor, come and sit down with us for a while and let us know your opinion about our new instrument; She and Miss Smith. How are you, Miss Smith? – Very good, thank you. And I asked Mrs. Winstone to come with me so I could be sure that I would succeed."
"I hope Mrs. Bates and Miss Saxon are..."
"Very well, I am very attached to you. My mother is doing wonderfully well; and Jane didn't catch a cold last night. How is Mr. Lodge doing? – I am so glad to hear such a good report. Mrs. Winstone told me you are here. – Oh! then, I said, I have to walk over, I'm sure Miss Lodge will allow me to just walk over and ask her to come in; my mother will be so happy to see her – and now we are such a nice company, she can't refuse. '- But, I said, I will be more successful if one of you wants to go with me. 'Oh,' he said, 'wait half a minute until I'm done with my work;' - Because, believe it, Miss Lodge, there he is, in the most courteous way in the world, and fastens the rivet of my mother's glasses. – The rivet has come out, you know, this morning. – So very accommodating! – Because my mother had not needed her glasses – could not put them on. And by the way, each body should have two glasses; indeed, they should. Jane said it. I wanted to take her to John Saunders first, but something prevented me from doing so all morning; first the one, then the other, you can't say what, you know. Once Patty came to say that she thought the kitchen chimney had to be swept. Oh, I said, Patty, don't come to me with your bad news. Here is the rivet of your mistress's glasses out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them from her boy; They are very polite and accommodating to us, the Wallises, always – I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be rude and give a very rude answer, but we have never received anything other than the greatest attention from them. And it can't be for the value of our custom today, because what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us – except dear Jane – and she really doesn't eat anything – make such a shocking breakfast, you would be completely frightened if you saw it. I don't dare to let my mother know how little she eats – so I say one and then the other, and it passes. But around noon she gets hungry, and nothing tastes like her ?? good as these baked apples, and they are extremely healthy, because the other day I took the opportunity to ask Mr. Perry; I met him by chance on the street. Not that I doubted it before – I've heard Mr. Lodge recommend a baked apple so many times. I think that's the only way Mr. Lodge thinks the fruit is healthy through and through. But we often have apple dumplings. Patty makes an excellent apple dumpling. Well, Mrs. Winstone, I hope you prevailed, and these ladies will do us the favor."
Emma would be "very happy to wait for Mrs. Bates etc.", and eventually they left the store, without further delay from Miss Bates as,
"How are you, Ms. Ford? I beg your pardon. I haven't seen you before. As I hear, you have an enchanting collection of new tapes from the city. Jane came back yesterday excited. Thanks, the gloves do very well – just a little too big around the wrist; but Jane takes them in."
"What was I talking about?" she said, starting again when they were all on the street.
Emma wondered what she was going to do with all the potpourri.
"I explain that I can't remember what I was talking about. – Oh! my mother's glasses. So very accommodating from Mr. Frank Curcelle! 'Oh!' he said, 'I think I can fasten the rivet; I really like such work.' – Which, as you know, showed him so much.... In fact, I have to say that as much as I heard from him before and as I expected, he far surpasses everything thing.... Congratulations to you, Mrs. Winstone. He seems to have everything the most tender parents could do.... 'Oh!' he said, 'I can fasten the rivet. I like a job of this kind excessively.' I will never forget his way. And when I took the baked apples out of the cupboard and hoped that our friends would be so kind as to take them, 'Oh!' he said directly, 'Nothing stands in the way of half the good fruit, and these are the most beautiful homemade apples I've ever seen in my life.' That was, you know, so much... And I'm sure by its very nature, it wasn't a compliment. They are indeed very delightful apples, and Mrs. Wallis does them full justice – only we don't let them bake more than twice, and Mr. Lodge promised to bake them three times – but Miss Lodge will be next to none to mention it. The apples themselves are without a doubt the best variety for baking; all from Donwell - some of Mr. Hill's most generous offers. He sends us a sack every year; and certainly nowhere was there such a durable apple as one of its trees – I think there are two of them. My mother says that the orchard was always famous in her young days. But the other day I was really quite shocked – because Mr. Hill called one morning and Jane ate these apples, and we talked about it and said how much she enjoyed them, and he asked if we weren't finished with our supply. "I'm sure you have to be," he said, "and I'll send you another supply; because I have much more than I can ever use. William Larkins let me keep a bigger amount than usual this year. I'll send you a few more before they go for free." So I asked him not to do it – because really, since ours was gone, I couldn't say with absolute certainty that we had a lot left – it was actually only half a dozen; but they should all be kept for Jane; and I could not bear at all that he should send us more, as generous as he had already been; and Jane said the same thing. And when he was gone, she almost argued with me – no, I shouldn't say arguing, because we've never had an argument in our lives; but she was quite saddened that I had owned that the apples were so almost gone; she wished I had made him believe that we had a lot left. Oh, I said, my dear, I said as much as I could. But that same evening, William Larkins came with a big basket of apples, the same variety of apples, at least one bushel, and I was very attached to him, and went down and talked to William Larkins and said everything, as you may guess. William Larkins is such an old acquaintance! I'm always happy to see him. But I later found out from Patty that William said it was all the apples of this variety that his master had; he had brought them all with him – and now his master had no left to bake or cook. William himself didn't seem to mind, he was so happy that his master had sold so many; for William, you know, thinks more of his Master's gain than anything else; but Mrs. Hodges, he said, was quite dissatisfied that they had all been sent away. She couldn't stand the fact that her master shouldn't have another apple pie this spring. He told Patty, but asked her not to make any of it and not to tell us about it, because Mrs. Hodges was sometimes angry, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it didn't mean who ate the rest. And Patty told me, and I was indeed extremely shocked! For nothing in the world, I want Mr. Hill to know about it! He would be so very ... I wanted to withhold it from Jane; but unfortunately I had mentioned it before I knew it." He told Patty, but asked her not to make any of it and not to tell us about it, because Mrs. Hodges was sometimes angry, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it didn't mean who ate the rest. And Patty told me, and I was indeed extremely shocked! For nothing in the world, I want Mr. Hill to know about it! He would be so very ... I wanted to withhold it from Jane; but unfortunately I had mentioned it before I knew it." He told Patty, but asked her not to make any of it and not to tell us about it, because Mrs. Hodges was sometimes angry, and as long as so many sacks were sold, it didn't mean who ate the rest. And Patty told me, and I was indeed extremely shocked! For nothing in the world, I want Mr. Hill to know about it! He would be so very ... I wanted to withhold it from Jane; but unfortunately I had mentioned it before I knew it." I wanted to withhold it from Jane; but unfortunately I had mentioned it before I knew it." I wanted to withhold it from Jane; but unfortunately I had mentioned it before I knew it."
Miss Bates had just finished when Patty opened the door; and their visitors walked up the stairs without having to worry about a regular narration, only haunted by the sounds of their haphazard benevolence.
"Please be careful, Mrs. Winstone, at the turnoff is a step. Please be careful, Miss Lodge, our staircase is quite dark – rather darker and narrower than you could wish for. Miss Smith, please take care of yourself. Miss Lodge, I'm pretty worried, I'm sure you bumped your foot. Miss Smith, the step at the turnoff."
Chapter 131
Early the next day, a message rushed from Bella expressing peace and tenderness in every line, imploring the immediate presence of her friend in a matter of utmost importance, Catherine in the happiest state of trust and curiosity to Edgar's Buildings. The two youngest Miss Dorfmans were alone in the salon; and when Anne stopped calling her sister, Catherine took the opportunity to ask the other for some details of her party yesterday. Mary desired no greater pleasure than to speak of it; and Catherine immediately learned that it had been the most delightful plan in the world overall, that no one could imagine how delightful it had been, and that it had been more delightful than anyone could imagine. That was the information of the first five minutes; the second unfolded so extensively that they had driven directly to the York Hotel, ate a soup and ordered an early dinner, walked down to the drinking hall, tasted the water and laid out some shillings in purses and spars; then they adjourned to eat ice cream at a pastry chef's and hurried back to the hotel, swallowing their dinner in a hurry so as not to be in the dark; and then had a delightful ride back, only the moon had not risen, and it was raining a little, and Mr. Fenmore's horse was so tired that he could hardly bring it forward. to prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful ride back, only the moon had not risen, and it was raining a little, and Mr. Fenmore's horse was so tired that he could hardly bring it forward. to prevent being in the dark; and then had a delightful ride back, only the moon had not risen, and it was raining a little, and Mr. Fenmore's horse was so tired that he could hardly bring it forward.
Catherine listened with deep satisfaction. Apparently, Blaize Castle had never been thought of; and as for all the rest, there wasn't half a moment to regret. Mary's intelligence ended with a tender pour of pity for her sister Anne, who portrayed her as an unbearable cross to be expelled from the party.
"She will never forgive me, I'm sure; but you know, how could I help him? John would let me go because he swore he wouldn't drive her because she had such thick ankles. I dare say that she won't be in a good mood again this month; but I am determined not to be evil; It's no small thing that upsets me."
Bella now entered the room with such an eager step and a look of such happy importance that she took all the attention of her friend. Mary was sent away without further ado, and Bella embraced Catherine and began like this: "Yes, my dear Catherine, it really is; your penetration has not deceived you. Oh! Your bow eye! It sees through everything."
Catherine answered only with a look of astonished ignorance.
"No, my beloved sweetest friend," the other continued, "calm down. I'm amazingly excited about how you perceive. Let's sit together and talk. Well, and you guessed it when you had my note? Clever nature! Oh! My dear Catherine, you alone, who know my heart, can judge my present happiness. Her brother is the most charming of all men. I just wish I was more worthy of him. But what will your excellent father and mother say? Oh! Sky! When I think of them, I'm so excited!"
Catherine's understanding began to awaken: suddenly an idea of truth shot into her mind; and with the natural redness of such a new feeling, she exclaimed, "Good heaven! My dear Bella, what do you mean? Can you – can you really be in love with James?"
This bold assumption, however, she soon understood, only half the fact. The anxious affection she was accused of constantly watching her in every look and action of Bella had received the delightful confession of equal love over the course of her party yesterday. Her heart and faith were equally attached to James. Never before had Catherine heard something so full of interest, amazement and joy. Her brother and friend engaged! New in such circumstances, the significance of it seemed unspeakably great, and she considered it one of those great events from which the ordinary CV can hardly afford to return. She could not express the strength of her feelings; the nature of them, however, satisfied their friend. The happiness of having such a sister was her first effusion,
fortunately, as Catherine sincerely did in the prospect of the connection, however, it must be acknowledged that Bella far surpassed her in tender expectations. "You'll love me so much, my Catherine, than Anne or Maria: I feel like I'll be so much more attached to my dear Fenmore's family than to my own."
This was a friendly match beyond Catherine.
"You are so similar to your dear brother," Bella continued, "that the first moment I saw you, I fell in love with you. But so it is always with me; the first moment regulates everything. On the very first day Fenmore came to us last Christmas – the very first moment I saw him – my heart was irretrievably gone. I remember wearing my yellow dress, with braided braids; and when I came into the salon and introduced him to John, I thought I had never seen anyone so handsome."
Here Catherine secretly acknowledged the power of love; for although she loved her brother immensely and participated in all his gifts, she had never considered him handsome in her life.
"I also remember Miss Andrews drinking tea with us that night and wearing her purple sarsenet; and she looked so heavenly that I thought your brother must surely fall in love with her; I couldn't sleep a wink when I thought about it. Oh! Catherine, the many sleepless nights I had because of your brother! I don't want you to suffer half as much as I did! I have become pathetically skinny, I know that; but I will not hurt you by describing my fear; you've seen enough of it. I feel like I've constantly betrayed myself – so careless when I talk about my fondness for the Church! But I've always been sure that my secret is safe with you."
Catherine felt that nothing could have been safer; but ashamed of a little-anticipated ignorance, she no longer dared to challenge the point, nor to refuse to have been as full of bow penetration and loving sympathy as Bella preferred to look at her. Her brother, she found, was preparing to leave for Fullerton in a hurry to announce his situation and ask for approval; and here was a source of real excitement for Bella's spirit. Catherine tried to convince her, as she herself was convinced that her father and mother would never oppose her son's wishes. "It is impossible," she said, "for parents to be friendlier or more to desire the happiness of their children; I have no doubt that they will agree immediately."
"Fenmore says exactly the same thing," Bella replied; "and yet I dare not expect it; My fortune will be so small; they can never agree to that. Your brother who could marry anyone!"
Here Catherine again recognized the power of love.
"In fact, Bella, you're too humble. The difference of happiness can mean nothing."
"Oh! My sweet Catherine, in your generous heart I know it would mean nothing; but we should not expect such disinterest from many. As for me, I'm sure I just wish our situation was the other way around. If I were in command of millions, if I were the mistress of the whole world, your brother would be my only choice."
This charming attitude, recommended by both meaning and novelty, gave Catherine a most pleasant memory of all the heroines of her acquaintance; and she thought her friend never looked nicer than when she came up with the great idea. "I'm sure they'll agree," was their frequent statement; "I'm sure they'll be happy about you."
"Me for my part," Bella said, "my desires are so modest that the smallest income in nature would suffice for me. Where people are truly connected, poverty itself is wealth; Greatness I detest: I wouldn't settle in London for the universe. A cottage in a remote village would be ecstasy. There are some charming little villas in Richmond."
"Richmond!" shouted Catherine. "You have to settle near Fullerton. They have to be close to us."
"I'm sure I'll be unhappy if we don't. If only I can be around you, I will be satisfied. But this is empty speech! I will not allow myself to think of such things until we have your father's answer. Fenmore says if we send it to Salisbury tonight, we might have it tomorrow. Morning? I know I will never have the courage to open the letter. I know it will be my death."
A reverie followed this conviction – and when Bella spoke again, she was to decide on the quality of her wedding dress.
Their conference was concluded by the worried young lover himself, who came to let out his farewell sigh before leaving for Wiltshire. Catherine wanted to congratulate him, but didn't know what to say, and her eloquence was only in her eyes. From them, however, the eight word types radiated the most expressively, and James was able to combine them with ease. Impatient for the realization of everything he hoped for at home, his farewell did not last long; and they would have been even shorter if he had not been frequently stopped by the urgent pleas of his beauties that he would leave. Twice he was called almost from the door because she was so eager to let him go. "In fact, Fenmore, I have to drive you away. Think about how far you need to drive. I can't bear to see you linger like that. For heaven's sake, don't waste any more time. Go, go, go – I insist."
The two friends, whose hearts were now more united than ever, were inseparable for the day; and in plans of sisterly happiness, the hours flew by. Mrs. Dorfman and her son, who were familiar with everything and apparently only wanted Mr. Fenmore's approval to consider Bella's engagement the happiest circumstance imaginable for their family, were allowed to join their lawyers and increase their quota with meaningful looks and mysterious expressions to fill the level of curiosity that needs to be aroused in the unprivileged younger sisters. To Catherine's simple feelings, this strange kind of restraint did not seem to be meant to be kind or consistently supported; and her unkindness would hardly have refrained from pointing it out if her inconsistency had been less her friend; but Anne and Mary soon calmed their hearts through the wisdom of their "I know what"; and the evening was spent in a kind of joke war, a display of family ingenuity, on the one hand with the mystery of an attacked secret, on the other hand with undefined discovery, all equally acute.
Katharina was back with her friend the next day and tried to encourage her and to dispel the many arduous hours before the letters were delivered; a necessary effort, because as the time of reasonable expectation approached, Bella became more and more desperate, and before the letter arrived, she had put herself in a state of real distress. But when it came, where could you find hardship? "I had no trouble winning the approval of my kind parents, and I was promised that everything in their power would be done to promote my happiness," were the first three lines, and in a moment everything was joyful security. The brightest glow immediately spread over Bella's facial features, all worries and fears seemed gone, her mood became almost too high to control her, and she called herself the happiest of all mortals without scruples.
Mrs. Dorfman embraced her daughter, son, visitor with tears of joy and could have embraced half of the inhabitants of Bath with satisfaction. Her heart was full of tenderness. It was "dear John" and "dear Catherine" with every word; "dear Anne and dear Mary" must immediately share in their bliss; and two "loves" at once before the name Bella were no more than the beloved child had now earned well. John himself was not a creeper of joy. Not only did he give Mr. Fenmore the prestigious distinction of being one of the best Fellows in the world, but he swore off many sentences in his praise.
The letter that gave rise to all this bliss was short and contained little more than this promise of success; and every detail was postponed until James could write again. But Bella could afford to wait for details. What was necessary was included in Mr Fenmore's promise; his honor was obliged to make everything easy; and how their income was to be formed, whether land ownership should be abandoned or financed money rebooked, was a matter that their altruistic spirit did not care about. She knew enough to feel safe in an honorable and quick setup, and her imagination took a quick flight over the accompanying bliss. She saw herself at the end of a few weeks, the gaze and admiration of every new acquaintance in Fullerton, the envy of every esteemed old friend in Putney, with a carriage under her command,
When the contents of the letter were established, John Dorfman, who had only been waiting for his arrival to begin his journey to London, was preparing, to set out. "Well, Miss Fenmore," he said, when he found her alone in the salon, "I've come to bid you farewell." Catherine wished him a good trip. Without the appearance of hearing them, he went to the window, fidgeted around, hummed a melody and seemed completely occupied with himself.
"Shouldn't you be late at Devize?" said Katharina. He did not answer; but after a minute's silence he broke out: "A famous good thing, this marriage plan, to my soul! A clever fantasy by Fenmore and Belle. What do you think, Miss Fenmore? I say it's not a bad idea."
"I'm sure I think it's very good."
"Do you? That's honest, in heaven! However, I am glad that you are not an enemy of marriage. Have you ever heard the old song "Going to One Wedding Brings on Another"? I say you will come to Belle's wedding, I hope."
"Yes; I promised your sister to be with her if possible."
"And then you know" – he turns around and forces a foolish laugh – "I say, then you know that we can try the truth of this old song."
"May we? But I never sing. Well, I wish you a good trip. I'm eating with Miss Alsina today and I have to go home now."
"No, but there is no such damn hurry. Who knows when we might be back together? Not that I will be down again at the end of fourteen days, and devilishly long fourteen days it will seem to me."
"Then why are you staying away for so long?" replied Catherine when she realized he was waiting for an answer.
"But that's nice of you – friendly and good-natured. I won't forget it anytime soon. But you have more good-naturedness and all that than any living person, I believe. A tremendous amount of good-naturedness, and it is not only good-naturedness, but you have so much, so much of everything; and then you have them – by my soul, I don't know anyone like you."
"Oh! My dear, there are a lot of people like me, dare I say, only much better. Good morning."
"But I say, Miss Fenmore, I will come and pay my respects to Fullerton before it is long, if not unpleasant."
"Please do. My father and mother will be very happy to see you."
"And I hope – I hope, Miss Fenmore, you won't regret seeing me."
"Oh! Darling, not at all. There are very few people I regret to see. Society is always cheerful."
"That's just my way of thinking. Just give me a little cheerful company, just let me have the company of the people I love, just let me be where I want and with whom I want, and the devil takes the rest, I say. And I am happy to hear from the heart you say the same thing. But I have the impression, Miss Fenmore, you and I think pretty much the same in most things."
"Maybe we may; but it's more than I ever thought. And as for most things to tell the truth, there aren't many of whom I know my own opinion."
"With Jupiter, I don't do it anymore. It's not my way of occupying my mind with things that don't concern me. My idea of things is simple enough. Let me just have the girl I like, I say, with a comfortable house above my head, and what do I care about all the rest? Happiness is nothing. I am sure of a good income of my own; and if she didn't have a penny, why, all the better."
"Very right. I think like you. If there is luck on the one hand, there can be no reason on the other. No matter which one has it, so that there is enough. I hate the idea that a great fortune is looking for another. And getting married for money, I think is the worst thing there is. Have a nice day. We will be very happy to see you at Fullerton whenever it suits you." And she was gone. It was not in his gallantry to hold them any longer. With such news to be conveyed and such a visit to prepare for, their departure should not be delayed by anything in its way of urging; and she hurried away, leaving him to the undivided awareness of his own happy address and her explicit encouragement.
The excitement she herself had experienced when she first learned of her brother's engagement made her expect to join Mr. and Mrs. Not to cause inconsiderable excitement to everyone by the announcement of the miraculous event. How great was their disappointment! The important affair, which initiated many words of preparation, they had both foreseen since the arrival of their brother; and everything they felt on this occasion was summed up in a desire for the happiness of the young people, with a remark on the lord's side in favor of Bella's beauty and on the lady's side of her great happiness. It was the most surprising callousness for Catherine. However, the revelation of the great secret of James' trip to Fullerton the day before aroused some emotions in Mrs. Allen. She could not listen to this with complete calm,
Chapter 132
Sir William only stayed in Hunsford for a week, but his visit was long enough to convince him that his daughter was very comfortably furnished and had such a man and neighbour as was not often encountered. While Sir William was with them, Mr Collins devoted his morning to driving him out in his gig and showing him the country; but when he left, the whole family returned to their usual occupations, and Elizabeth gratefully noted that they could no longer see her cousin because of the change, because the boss of the time between breakfast and dinner was now also overtaken by him at work in the garden or reading and writing and looking out of the window in his own book room, which was facing the street. The room where the ladies sat was in the back. Elizabeth was at first rather surprised that Charlotte should not prefer the dining room for common use; it was a larger room and had a more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment if they had sat in an equally lively one; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
From the salon they could not distinguish anything in the alley and owed Mr. Collins the knowledge of which carriages drove up and how often Miss de Bourgh in particular drove by in their Phaeton, which he failed to report again and again, although it happened almost every day. She didn't often stop at the rectory and talk to Charlotte for a few minutes, but was hardly ever moved to get out.
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not go to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not consider it necessary to leave as well; and until Elizabeth remembered that there were other family shelters to be taken care of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Every now and then they were honoured with a visit from their ladyhood, and nothing escaped their observation, which passed during these visits in the room. She examined their jobs, looked at their work and advised them to do it differently; criticized the arrangement of the furniture; or has negligently uncovered the maid; and when she accepted a refreshment, she seemed to do it only to find out that Mrs. Collins' cuts of meat were too big for her family.
Elizabeth soon realized that although this great lady was not on behalf of the county peace, she was an extremely active district judge in her own parish, whose smallest concerns were conveyed to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever one of the housekeepers was quarrelsome, dissatisfied or too poor, she went to the village to settle her differences, silence her complaints and scold them to harmony and abundance.
The conversation while eating at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and if one took into account the loss of Sir William and there was only one card table in the evening, each such conversation was the counterpart to the first. Their other commitments were small, as the neighborhood lifestyle was generally out of Mr. Collins' reach. However, Elizabeth was not sick of this, and by and large she spent her time comfortably enough; there were half hours of pleasant conversations with Charlotte, and the weather was so nice for the season that she often had great pleasure outdoors. Her favorite walk, which she walked frequently while the others visited Lady Catherine, was along the open grove that lined this side of the park, where there was a beautiful sheltered path that no one but her seemed to appreciate.
In this quiet way, the first fourteen days of her visit soon passed. Easter was approaching, and the week before was supposed to bring an increase to the family in Rosings, which must be important in such a small circle. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Drury was expected there over the course of a few weeks, and while there weren't many of her acquaintances she didn't favor, his coming would provide a comparatively new sight in her rosings parties, and it might amuse her to see how hopeless Miss Woodland's plans were with him, Given his behavior towards his cousin, for whom he was obviously destined by Lady Catherine, who spoke with the greatest satisfaction of his coming, in words of him spoke of the highest admiration and seemed almost upset that Miss Lucas and she had seen him many times.
His arrival soon became known in the rectory; for Mr. Collins walked all morning within sight of the lodges leading into Hunsford Lane to have the earliest certainty, and after bowing when the carriage turned into the park, he hurried home with the great intelligence. The next morning he hurried to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine who demanded it, because Mr. Drury had brought a Colonel Gill, the younger son of his uncle Lord – and to everyone's great surprise, when Mr. Collins returned, the Lord accompanied him. Charlotte had seen her from her husband's room as they crossed the street and immediately ran into the other, told the girls what honor they could expect, adding
,
"I can thank you, Eliza, for this piece of courtesy. Drury-san would never have come so early to serve me."
Elizabeth barely had time to deny the compliment when her arrival was announced through the doorbell, and shortly thereafter the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Gill, who preceded, was in his thirties, not handsome, but truly the gentleman in person and address. Mr Drury looked exactly as he was used to in Hertfordshire – Mrs Collins complimented him with his usual restraint, and whatever he felt for her friend met her with all the semblance of serenity. Elizabeth made only one kink in front of him without saying a word.
Colonel Gill entered the conversation directly with the willingness and ease of a well-behaved man and spoke very pleasantly; but his cousin, after making a small remark about the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat there for some time without talking to anyone. Finally, however, his courtesy was awakened to the point that he asked Elizabeth about the condition of her family. She replied to him in the usual way, adding after a short pause,
"My oldest sister has been in town for three months. Have you never seen her there?"
She was perfectly reasonable, which he had never done; but she wanted to see if he would reveal any awareness of what had happened between the Woodlands and Jane, and she found that he looked a little confused when he replied that he had never been so happy to meet Miss Mitchell. The issue was not pursued further, and the gentlemen left soon after.
Chapter 133
The appearance of the small living room when they entered was the tranquility itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual occupation, slumbered on one side of the fire, Frank Curcelle at a table next to her, very busy with her glasses, and Jane Saxon, who stood with her back to them and actively occupied
her pianoforte. when he saw Emma again.
"It's a pleasure for me," he said in a rather low voice, "that I'm coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. They find that I try to be useful; Tell me if you think I'll succeed."
"What!" said Mrs. Winstone, "Aren't you done yet? At this pace, you wouldn't make a very good living as a working silversmith."
"I didn't work all the time," he replied, "I helped Miss Saxon keep her instrument stable, it wasn't quite fixed; an unevenness in the ground, I believe. You see, we pinched one leg with paper. That was very nice of you that you were persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would rush home."
He managed to get her to sit next to him; and was busy enough to pick the best baked apple for her and try to get her to help him with his work or advise him until Jane Saxon was ready to sit down at the pianoforte again. Emma already suspected that she was not immediately ready from her nervous state; she hadn't owned the instrument long enough to touch it callously; it must think its way into the power of performance; and Emma couldn't help but feel sorry for such feelings, wherever they came from, and couldn't help but decide never to show them to her neighbor again.
Jane finally got started, and although the first bars were played weakly, the power of the instrument gradually became fully justified. Mrs. Winstone had been delighted before and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with all the right discernment, was described as highly promising overall.
"Whoever Colonel Campbell is busy," Frank Curcelle said to Emma with a smile, "?" the person did not decide badly. I heard a lot about Colonel Campbell's taste in Weymouth; and I'm sure that the softness of the upper notes is exactly what he and the whole group would particularly appreciate. I dare say, Miss Saxon, that he either gave his friend very precise instructions or wrote to Broadwood himself. Don't you think so?"
Jane didn't look around. She was not obliged to listen. Mrs. Winstone had spoken to her at the same moment.
"That's not fair," Emma said in a whisper; "Mine was a random guess. Don't worry them."
He shook his head with a smile and looked like he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon after, he began again,
"How much your friends in Ireland must enjoy your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Saxon. I dare say that they often think of you and wonder what the exact day will be when the instrument comes into your hands. Do you think Colonel Campbell knows that things are moving forward right now? – Do you think it is the result of an immediate order from him, or that he may have sent only a general instruction, an indefinite order? to be dependent on contingencies and amenities?"
He stopped. But she could not hear; she couldn't help but reply,
"Until I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," she said with enforced calm, "I can't imagine anything with confidence. It must all be conjecture."
"Assumptions – yes, sometimes you suspect right and sometimes wrong. I wish I could guess how soon I will make this rivet completely firm. What nonsense you talk, Miss Lodge, when you work hard, if you talk at all; – Your real workers, I suppose, keep their mouths shut; but we gentlemen workers, if we can make a word – Miss Saxon has said something of conjecture. There it is done. I have the pleasure of Madam (to Mrs. Bates), to restore your glasses, which are healed for the moment."
Both mother and daughter thanked him very warmly; to avoid the latter a little, he went to the pianoforte and asked Miss Saxon, who was still sitting on playing something.
"If you're very friendly," he said, "it's going to be one of the waltzes we danced last night; – let me relive them. They didn't enjoy them as much as I did; You looked tired all the time. I think you were glad we didn't dance anymore; but I would have given worlds – all the worlds you ever have to give – for another half hour."
She played.
"What bliss it is to hear a melody again that made you happy! - If I'm not mistaken, it was danced in Weymouth."
She looked up at him for a moment, turned deep red and played something else. He took notes from a chair next to the pianoforte, turned to Emma and said,
"This is something completely new for me. Do you know it? – Cramer. – And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That's what you might expect from such a neighborhood. This was all sent with the instrument. Very attentive of Colonel Campbell, isn't he? – He knew that Miss Saxon couldn't have music here. I particularly honour this part of the attention; it shows that it came so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. Only true affection could have led to this."
Emma wished he was less astute, but could still feel amused; and when she turned her gaze to Jane Saxon, she noticed the remnants of a smile when she saw that for all the deep redness of her consciousness, there had been a smile of secret joy, she had less scruples in amusement and much less remorse about her. - This gracious, sincere, perfect Jane Saxon apparently had very reprehensible feelings.
He brought her all the music, and they watched it together. – Emma took the opportunity to whisper
,
"You speak too clearly. She has to understand you."
"I hope she does. I want her to understand me. I am not ashamed in the slightest of my importance."
"But really, I'm half ashamed and wish I had never taken up the idea."
"I am very glad that you did this and that you told me. I now have a key to all their strange looks and paths. Leave the shame to her. If she does something wrong, she should feel it."
"It's not completely without it, I think."
"I don't see many signs of that. She's playing Robin Adair – his favourite at this moment."
Shortly thereafter, as Miss Bates walked past the window, she saw Mr. Hill on horseback not far away.
"Sir. Hill, I explain! – I need to talk to him, if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would get very cold for you; but I can go to my mother's room, you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful that you all meet like this! – Our little room so honored!"
She was in the next room while she was still talking, and when she opened the window sash there, she immediately caught Mr. Hill's attention, and every syllable of her conversation was heard by the others as clearly as if it had taken place in the same apartment.
»How are you? – How are you? – Very good, thank you. So committed for the carriage last night. We were just in time; My mother is ready for us right now. Please come in; come in. You'll make some friends here."
This is how Miss Bates began; and Mr. Hill seemed determined to be heard in turn, for he said very resolutely and commandingly,
"How is your niece, Miss Bates? – I would like to inquire about all of you, but especially about your niece. How is Miss Saxon doing? – I hope she didn't catch a cold last night. How is she doing today? Tell me how Miss Saxon is doing."
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before listening to it in anything else. The audience was amused; and Mrs. Winstone gave Emma a particularly meaningful look. But Emma still shook her head skeptically.
"I am very attached to you! – You are very attached to the carriage," Miss Bates continued.
He cut them briefly,
"I'm going to Kingston. Can I do something for you?"
"Oh! Darling, Kingston – are you? Mrs. Cole said the other day that she wanted something from Kingston."
"Woman. Cole must send servants. Can I do something for you?"
"No, thank you. But come in. Who do you think is here? – Miss Lodge and Miss Smith; so kind to call to hear the new pianoforte. Put your horse at the crown and come in."
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "five minutes maybe."
"And here are Also Mrs. Winstone and Mr. Frank Curcelle! – Very delightful; so many friends!"
"No, not now, thank you. I couldn't stay for two minutes. I need to get to Kingston as soon as possible."
"Oh! come in. They will be so happy to see you."
"No, no; Your room is full enough. I will call another day and hear the pianoforte."
"Well, I'm so sorry! – Oh! Mr. Hill, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant. – Have you ever seen such a dance? – Wasn't it delightful? – Miss Lodge and Mr. Frank Curcelle; I've never seen anything like it."
"Oh! really very delightful; I can't say anything less because I suppose Miss Lodge and Mr. Frank Curcelle hear everything that happens. And (raises his voice even more) I don't see why Miss Saxon shouldn't also be mentioned. I think Miss Saxon dances very well; and Mrs. Winstone is without exception the very best country dance player in England. Well, if your friends show gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I can't stay to hear it."
"Oh! Mr. Hill, one more moment; something of significance – so shocked! – Jane and I are both so shocked by the apples!"
"What's going on now?"
"When I think about the fact that you sent us all your storage tips. You said you had a lot of them, and now you don't have any. We are really so shocked! Mrs. Hodges might very well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You shouldn't have done it, in fact you shouldn't. Ah! he's out. He can never bear to be thanked. But I thought he had stayed now, and it would have been a shame if he hadn't mentioned it... Well, (returning to the room) I didn't make it. Mr. Hill can't stop. He goes to Kingston. He asked me if he could do anything..."
"Yes," Jane said, "we heard his friendly offers, we heard everything."
"Oh! Yes, my dear, I dare say you could, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Hill spoke out loud. You must have heard everything to be sure. "Can I do anything for you in Kingston?" he said; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Lodge, do you have to go? – You seem to have just arrived – so very accommodating from you."
Emma really thought it was time to be at home; the visit had already lasted a long time; and looking at the clocks, so much of the morning seemed to have passed that Mrs. Winstone and her companion, who also said goodbye, could only afford to walk with the two young ladies to the gates of Hartfield before heading to Randalls.
Chapter 133
The appearance of the small living room when they entered was the tranquility itself; Mrs. Bates, deprived of her usual occupation, slumbered on one side of the fire, Frank Curcelle at a table near her, very busy with her glasses, and Jane Saxon, standing with her back to them and focused on her pianoforte.
But as busy as he was, the young man was able to show a very happy face when he saw Emma again.
"It's a pleasure for me," he said in a rather low voice, "that I'm coming at least ten minutes earlier than I had calculated. They find that I try to be useful; Tell me if you think I'll succeed."
"What!" said Mrs. Winstone, "Aren't you done yet? At this pace, you wouldn't make a very good living as a working silversmith."
"I didn't work all the time," he replied, "I helped Miss Saxon keep her instrument stable, it wasn't quite fixed; an unevenness in the ground, I believe. You see, we pinched one leg with paper. That was very nice of you that you were persuaded to come. I was almost afraid you would rush home."
He managed to get her to sit next to him; and was busy enough to pick the best baked apple for her and try to get her to help him with his work or advise him until Jane Saxon was ready to sit down at the pianoforte again. Emma already suspected that she was not immediately ready from her nervous state; she hadn't owned the instrument long enough to touch it callously; it must think its way into the power of performance; and Emma couldn't help but feel sorry for such feelings, wherever they came from, and couldn't help but decide never to show them to her neighbor again.
Jane finally got started, and although the first bars were played weakly, the power of the instrument gradually became fully justified. Mrs. Winstone had been delighted before and was delighted again; Emma joined her in all her praise; and the pianoforte, with all the right discernment, was described as highly promising overall.
"Whoever Colonel Campbell is busy," Frank Curcelle said to Emma with a smile, "?" the person did not decide badly. I heard a lot about Colonel Campbell's taste in Weymouth; and I'm sure that the softness of the upper notes is exactly what he and the whole group would particularly appreciate. I dare say, Miss Saxon, that he either gave his friend very precise instructions or wrote to Broadwood himself. Don't you think so?"
Jane didn't look around. She was not obliged to listen. Mrs. Winstone had spoken to her at the same moment.
"That's not fair," Emma said in a whisper; "Mine was a random guess. Don't worry them."
He shook his head with a smile and looked like he had very little doubt and very little mercy. Soon after, he began again,
"How much your friends in Ireland must enjoy your pleasure on this occasion, Miss Saxon. I dare say that they often think of you and wonder what the exact day will be when the instrument comes into your hands. Do you think Colonel Campbell knows that things are moving forward right now? – Do you think it is the result of an immediate order from him, or that he may have sent only a general instruction, an indefinite order? to be dependent on contingencies and amenities?"
He stopped. But she could not hear; she couldn't help but reply,
"Until I have a letter from Colonel Campbell," she said with enforced calm, "I can't imagine anything with confidence. It must all be conjecture."
"Assumptions – yes, sometimes you suspect right and sometimes wrong. I wish I could guess how soon I will make this rivet completely firm. What nonsense you talk, Miss Lodge, when you work hard, if you talk at all; – Your real workers, I suppose, keep their mouths shut; but we gentlemen workers, if we can make a word – Miss Saxon has said something of conjecture. There it is done. I have the pleasure of Madam (to Mrs. Bates), to restore your glasses, which are healed for the moment."
Both mother and daughter thanked him very warmly; to avoid the latter a little, he went to the pianoforte and asked Miss Saxon, who was still sitting on playing something.
"If you're very friendly," he said, "it's going to be one of the waltzes we danced last night; – let me relive them. They didn't enjoy them as much as I did; You looked tired all the time. I think you were glad we didn't dance anymore; but I would have given worlds – all the worlds you ever have to give – for another half hour."
She played.
"What bliss it is to hear a melody again that made you happy! - If I'm not mistaken, it was danced in Weymouth."
She looked up at him for a moment, turned deep red and played something else. He took notes from a chair next to the pianoforte, turned to Emma and said,
"This is something completely new for me. Do you know it? – Cramer. – And here are a new set of Irish melodies. That's what you might expect from such a neighborhood. This was all sent with the instrument. Very attentive of Colonel Campbell, isn't he? – He knew that Miss Saxon couldn't have music here. I particularly honour this part of the attention; it shows that it came so thoroughly from the heart. Nothing hastily done; nothing incomplete. Only true affection could have led to this."
Emma wished he was less astute, but could still feel amused; and when she turned her gaze to Jane Saxon, she noticed the remnants of a smile when she saw that for all the deep redness of her consciousness, there had been a smile of secret joy, she had less scruples in amusement and much less remorse about her. - This gracious, sincere, perfect Jane Saxon apparently had very reprehensible feelings.
He brought her all the music, and they watched it together. – Emma took the opportunity to whisper
,
"You speak too clearly. She has to understand you."
"I hope she does. I want her to understand me. I am not ashamed in the slightest of my importance."
"But really, I'm half ashamed and wish I had never taken up the idea."
"I am very glad that you did this and that you told me. I now have a key to all their strange looks and paths. Leave the shame to her. If she does something wrong, she should feel it."
"It's not completely without it, I think."
"I don't see many signs of that. She's playing Robin Adair – his favourite at this moment."
Shortly thereafter, as Miss Bates walked past the window, she saw Mr. Hill on horseback not far away.
"Sir. Hill, I explain! – I need to talk to him, if possible, just to thank him. I will not open the window here; it would get very cold for you; but I can go to my mother's room, you know. I dare say he will come in when he knows who is here. Quite delightful that you all meet like this! – Our little room so honored!"
She was in the next room while she was still talking, and when she opened the window sash there, she immediately caught Mr. Hill's attention, and every syllable of her conversation was heard by the others as clearly as if it had taken place in the same apartment.
»How are you? – How are you? – Very good, thank you. So committed for the carriage last night. We were just in time; My mother is ready for us right now. Please come in; come in. You'll make some friends here."
This is how Miss Bates began; and Mr. Hill seemed determined to be heard in turn, for he said very resolutely and commandingly,
"How is your niece, Miss Bates? – I would like to inquire about all of you, but especially about your niece. How is Miss Saxon doing? – I hope she didn't catch a cold last night. How is she doing today? Tell me how Miss Saxon is doing."
And Miss Bates was obliged to give a direct answer before listening to it in anything else. The audience was amused; and Mrs. Winstone gave Emma a particularly meaningful look. But Emma still shook her head skeptically.
"I am very attached to you! – You are very attached to the carriage," Miss Bates continued.
He cut them briefly,
"I'm going to Kingston. Can I do something for you?"
"Oh! Darling, Kingston – are you? Mrs. Cole said the other day that she wanted something from Kingston."
"Woman. Cole must send servants. Can I do something for you?"
"No, thank you. But come in. Who do you think is here? – Miss Lodge and Miss Smith; so kind to call to hear the new pianoforte. Put your horse at the crown and come in."
"Well," he said thoughtfully, "five minutes maybe."
"And here are Also Mrs. Winstone and Mr. Frank Curcelle! – Very delightful; so many friends!"
"No, not now, thank you. I couldn't stay for two minutes. I need to get to Kingston as soon as possible."
"Oh! come in. They will be so happy to see you."
"No, no; Your room is full enough. I will call another day and hear the pianoforte."
"Well, I'm so sorry! – Oh! Mr. Hill, what a delightful party last night; how extremely pleasant. – Have you ever seen such a dance? – Wasn't it delightful? – Miss Lodge and Mr. Frank Curcelle; I've never seen anything like it."
"Oh! really very delightful; I can't say anything less because I suppose Miss Lodge and Mr. Frank Curcelle hear everything that happens. And (raises his voice even more) I don't see why Miss Saxon shouldn't also be mentioned. I think Miss Saxon dances very well; and Mrs. Winstone is without exception the very best country dance player in England. Well, if your friends show gratitude, they will say something pretty loud about you and me in return; but I can't stay to hear it."
"Oh! Mr. Hill, one more moment; something of significance – so shocked! – Jane and I are both so shocked by the apples!"
"What's going on now?"
"When I think about the fact that you sent us all your storage tips. You said you had a lot of them, and now you don't have any. We are really so shocked! Mrs. Hodges might very well be angry. William Larkins mentioned it here. You shouldn't have done it, in fact you shouldn't. Ah! he's out. He can never bear to be thanked. But I thought he had stayed now, and it would have been a shame if he hadn't mentioned it... Well, (returning to the room) I didn't make it. Mr. Hill can't stop. He goes to Kingston. He asked me if he could do anything..."
"Yes," Jane said, "we heard his friendly offers, we heard everything."
"Oh! Yes, my dear, I dare say you could, because you know, the door was open, and the window was open, and Mr. Hill spoke out loud. You must have heard everything to be sure. "Can I do anything for you in Kingston?" he said; so I just mentioned.... Oh! Miss Lodge, do you have to go? – You seem to have just arrived – so very accommodating from you."
Emma really thought it was time to be at home; the visit had already lasted a long time; and looking at the clocks, so much of the morning seemed to have passed that Mrs. Winstone and her companion, who also said goodbye, could only afford to walk with the two young ladies to the gates of Hartfield before heading to Randalls.
Chapter 134
Anne and Grace, who were the earliest at the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. They went into the sand to watch the flow of the tide, which brought in a fine southeast breeze with all the grandeur that allowed such a shallow shore. They praised the morning; delightful in the sea; sympathized in the joy of the fresh breeze – and remained silent; until Grace suddenly started again--
in case he has another seizure. In fact, I find it quite melancholic, such excellent people as Dr Welt. I wish his friends would suggest it to him. I really think they should. And as far as obtaining a dispensation is concerned, there could be no difficulties in his lifetime and with his character. I just doubt if anything could make him leave his church. He is so strict and conscientious in his views; exaggerated I have to say. Don't you think, Anne, that's too conscientious? Don't you think it's quite a mistake of conscience when a clergyman sacrifices his health for the sake of his duty, which can just as well be done by another person? And even in Lyme, just seventeen miles away, he would be close enough to hear it if people thought there was something to complain about."
Anne smiled more than once during this speech and addressed the subject, just as willing to do good by engaging in the feelings of a young lady as those of a young man, although there was nothing good of a lower level offered here, but general approval? She said everything that was reasonable and appropriate for the business; felt Dr. Shirley's claims to rest as she should; saw how desirable it was to have an active, respectable young man as a pastor, and was even polite enough to point out the advantage of having such a pastor married.
"I wish," said Grace, who was very pleased with her companion, "I wish Lady Russell lived in Uppercross and be familiar with Dr. Shirley. I've always heard of Lady Russell as a woman who has the greatest impact on everyone! I always consider them capable of persuading a person to do anything! I'm afraid of her, as I've told you before, quite afraid of her because she's so very smart, but I respect her extraordinarily and wish we had such a neighbor at Uppercross."
Anne was amused by Grace's way of being grateful, and also amused that the course of events and the new interests of Grace's views should have put her friend in the favor of a member of the Cumberland family in the first place; however, she only had time for a general answer and the wish that such a different woman would be in Uppercross before all the issues suddenly stopped when she saw Lois and Captain Cambridge approaching her. They also came for a walk until breakfast would probably be ready; but Lois immediately remembered that she had something to get in a shop and invited them all to return to town with her. They were all available to her.
When they reached the steps leading up from the beach, a gentleman who was preparing to come down at the same moment politely returned and stopped to make way for them. They climbed up and walked past him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of serious admiration that she could not escape. She looked remarkably good; her very regular, very pretty facial features, to which the flowering and freshness of youth was restored by the fine wind that had blown on their face color and by the invigoration of the eyes that he had also produced. It was obvious that the gentleman (a gentleman by nature) admired her extraordinarily. Captain Cambridge immediately looked at her in a way that showed he had noticed. He gave her a glimpse, a glowing glance that seemed to say, "
After helping Lois with their business and loitering a little, they returned to the inn; and Anne, who quickly went from her own chamber to her dining room, almost ran against the same gentleman when he came out of an adjacent apartment. She had previously suspected that he was a stranger like herself, and decided that a handsome groom who was walking around near the two inns when they returned should be his servant. The grief of both the master and the man supported the idea. It was now proven that he belonged to the same inn as her; and this second meeting, as short as it was, proved again by the appearance of the Lord that he found theirs very beautiful, and by the willingness and decency of his apologies, that he was a man of extraordinarily good manners. He seemed to be about thirty, and although not pretty, he had a pleasant person. Anne wanted to know who he was.
They had almost finished their breakfast when the sound of a carriage (almost the first thing they had heard since they arrived in Lyme) drew half the company to the window. It was a men's car, a curriculum, but only driving from the stable yard to the front door; someone has to leave. It was driven by a grieving servant.
Charles Cumberland made the word curriculum jump up to compare it to his own; the grieving servant aroused Anne's curiosity, and all six were gathered to see when, amid the bows and courtesies of the household, the owner of the curriculum would step out the door and take a seat to drive off.
"Ah!" shouted Captain Cambridge immediately, and with a half-glance at Anne, "it's the real man we passed."
Miss Cumberlands agreed; and after watching him all as far up the hill as possible, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon after.
"Please," Captain Cambridge said immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who just left?"
"Yes, sir, a Mr. Hightower, a gentleman with great fortune, came in from Sidmouth last night. I can say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner, and now continue to Crewkherne, on the way to Bath and London."
"High Tower!" Many had looked at each other, and many had repeated the name before all this had been brought through, even through the cunning speed of a waiter.
"Bless me!" cried Mary; "It must be our cousin; it has to be our Mr. Hightower, it really has to be! Charles, Anne, isn't it? In mourning, you see, just like our Mr. Hightower must be. How extraordinary! In exactly the same inn with us! Anne, doesn't it have to be our Mr. Hightower? My father's next inheritance?
"No, Ma'am, he didn't mention any particular family, but he said his master was a very rich gentleman and would one day be a baronet."
"There! see!" cried Mary in ecstasy, "just as I said! Legacy of Sir Walter Hightower! I was sure that would come out if it were. Rely on it, this is a circumstance that his servants carefully publish wherever he goes. But, Anne, just understand how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish we had known in time who it was that he might have been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other! Do you think he had the Hightower face? I barely looked at him, I looked at the horses, but I think he had something of the high tower face, I wonder, the arms didn't beat me! Oh! the overskirt hung over the panel and hid the weapons, it did, otherwise I would have seen them for sure and also the livree;
"When we take all these very extraordinary circumstances together," captain Cambridge said, "we must consider it a providential order that you should not be introduced to your cousin."
When she caught Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that her father and Mr. Hightower hadn't gotten along so well for many years that it would have been desirable to even try an idea.
At the same time, however, it was a secret satisfaction for herself to have seen her cousin and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman and radiated common sense. She would definitely not mention that she had met with him the second time; fortunately, Mary didn't care much about the fact that they had walked close to him on her previous walk, but she would have felt pretty badly treated if Anne had actually walked against him in the hallway and received his very polite apologies, even though she had never been around him at all; no, the little interview must remain an absolute secret.
"Of course," Mary said, "you'll mention that we've seen Mr. Hightower the next time you write Bath. I think my father should definitely know about it;
Anne avoided a direct answer, but it was precisely the circumstance that she felt was not only unnecessary, but something to be suppressed. She knew the insult inflicted on her father many years ago; Elizabeth's special part in this she suspected; and there was no doubt that Mr. Hightower's idea always caused trouble for both of them. Mary herself never wrote to Bath; all the effort to maintain a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne.
Breakfast wasn't long over when Captain and Mrs. Cheval and Captain Bean joined them; with whom they had arranged to take their last walk through Lyme. They should leave for Uppercross at one and in the meantime all be together and outside as long as they could.
Anne found Captain Bean approaching her as soon as they were all on the street. Their conversation the previous evening did not prevent him from visiting her again; and they went together for some time, talked as before of Mr. Scott and Lord Byron, and were still as incapable as before and as incapable as all the other two readers, to think exactly the same about the merits of both, until something caused an almost general change among their group, and instead of Captain Bean, they had Captain Cheval by their side.
"Miss Hightower," he said quite quietly, "You did a good deed by getting this poor guy to talk so much. I wish he could have such company more often. I know it is bad for him to keep his mouth shut as he is; but what can we do? We can't separate."
"No," anne said, "I can easily think that's impossible; but over time, perhaps – we know what time causes in each case of suffering, and you have to remember, Captain Cheval, that your friend may still be called A young mourner – only last summer, I understand.
"Ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) "June only."
"And he may not know so soon."
"It wasn't until the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape, that he just got into the Grappler. I was in Plymouth, afraid to hear from him; he sent letters, but the grappler had the order for Portsmouth. Since the news must follow him, but who should say it? Not me. I would have most likely walked to the Rah. No one could have done it, except this good guy" (points to Captain Cambridge.) "The Laconia had arrived in Plymouth the week before; no danger that she would be sent back to sea. He had his chance for the rest; Vacation written but without waiting for the return, traveled day and night until he reached Portsmouth, rowed to Portsmouth the grappler at that moment and did not leave the poor guy for a week. He did, and no one else could have saved poor James. You might think, Miss Hightower, if he is dear to us!"
Anne thought about the question with complete determination and replied as much as her own feeling was enough or how his seemed to be endured, because he was too affected to renew the subject, and when he spoke again, it was also something completely different.
That Mrs. Cheval, in her opinion, that her husband would have had enough walking until he returned home, determined the direction for the whole society on her last walk; they accompanied her to her door, then returned and set off. After all their calculations, there was just enough time for that; but as they approached the Cobb, there was such a general desire to walk along again, everyone was so inclined, and Lois soon became so determined that the difference of a quarter of an hour, as it turned out, would not be big difference at all; so with all the friendly farewell and all the friendly exchange of invitations and promises you can imagine, they parted with Captain and Mrs. Cheval at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Bean, who seemed to cling to them last,
Anne found Captain Bean approaching her again. Lord Byron's "dark blue seas" couldn't help but be brought forward by her present point of view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, necessarily different.
There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb comfortable for the ladies, and they agreed to go down the steps to the bottom, and everyone was content to calmly and carefully walk down the steep stairs, with the exception of Lois; She must be jumped over her by Captain Cambridge. During all her walks, he had had to jump her off the running boards; the feeling was delightful for her. The hardness of the patch for her feet made him less ready on the present occasion; however, he did. She was safely downstairs and immediately ran up the steps to be jumped back down to show her joy. He advised her against it, found the jug too big; but no, he argued and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I'm determined, I'll do it." He stretched out his hands; She was half a second too hasty, she fell on the sidewalk at the Lower Cobb, and was taken lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she was not breathing, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around!
Captain Cambridge, who had caught up with her, knelt with her in his arms and looked at her with a face as pale as her own, in an agonizing silence. "She's dead! She's dead!" cried Mary, poignant her husband, and helping with his own horror to make him immobile; and the next moment Grace, who sank under conviction, also lost her mind and would have fallen on the steps if it hadn't been for Captain Bean and Anne, who had caught and supported her between her.
"Is there no one there to help me?" were the first words that erupted from Captain Cambridge, in a tone of despair and as if all his own strength had disappeared.
"Go to him, go to him," Anne exclaimed, "go to him for heaven's sake. I can take care of them myself. Leave me and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them."
Captain Bean obeyed, and at the same moment when Charles broke away from his wife, they were both with him; and Lois was lifted upright and more firmly supported between them, and all that Anne had requested was done, but in vain; while Captain Cambridge, who staggered against the wall in support of him, exclaimed in bitter agony:
"Oh God! her father and mother!"
"A surgeon!" said Anne.
He understood the Word; it seemed to shake him up immediately, and just said, "True, true, a surgeon at this moment," shot away as Anne eagerly suggested—
"Captain Bean, wouldn't it be better for Captain Bean? He knows where to find a surgeon."
Anyone who could think felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in quick moments), Captain Bean had left the poor corpse-like figure completely in the care of his brother and had set off for the city with the utmost speed.
As for the miserable society left behind, it could hardly be said which of the three who were perfectly reasonable suffered the most: Captain Cambridge, Anne or Charles, who, really a very loving brother, hung over Lois with pain-filled sobs, and could only turn his eyes away from one sister to see the other in a state of unconsciousness, or to see the hysterical excitement of his wife calling him for help he couldn't give.
Anne took care of Grace with all the strength, zeal and thoughts that her instinct gave and yet from time to time tried to comfort the others, tried to calm Mary, to invigorate Charles, to appease the feelings of Captain Cambridge. Both seemed to ask them for directions.
"Anne, Anne," cried Charles, "what should be done next?
Captain Cambridge's eyes were also on her.
"Wouldn't it have been better to carry them to the inn? Yes, I'm sure: wear them gently to the inn."
"Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Cambridge, relatively collected, and eager to do something. "I will wear them myself. Cumberland, take care of the others."
By this time, the news of the accident had spread among the workers and boatmen around the Cobb, and many were gathered near them to be useful in any case, if they wanted, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, no, two dead young ladies, because it turned out to be twice as good as the first report. Grace was handed over to some of the best-looking of these good people, because although she was partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this way, Anne walking by their side and Charles caring for his wife, they set off, stepping back with unspeakable feelings, the ground they had passed so recently, so very recently, and so lightheartedly.
They were not from the Cobb before the Chevals met them. Captain Bean had been seen flying past her house, with a facial expression showing that something was wrong; and they had immediately set out, informed and guided as they passed by, towards the spot. As shocked as Captain Cheval was, he brought with him senses and nerves that could be immediately useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what to do. She must be taken to her house; all must go to their house; and wait there for the arrival of the surgeon. They did not hear scruples: they obeyed him; they were all under his roof; and while Lois was transported up the stairs under Mrs. Cheval's guidance and took possession of her own bed, her husband provided everyone she needed with help, liquor, and tonics.
Lois had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, obviously unconscious. However, this had been a life proof of her service to her sister; and Grace, though completely unable to be in the same room with Lois, was saved by the excitement of hope and fear of a return to her own callousness. Mary also became calmer.
The surgeon was with them almost before it seemed possible. They were sick in horror while he was investigating; but he was not hopeless. The head had suffered a severe bruise, but it had seen major injuries from which it had recovered: it was by no means hopeless; he spoke happily.
That he did not see it as a desperate case, that he did not say that a few hours would have to finish it, was felt at first, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a grace period, the joy, deep and silent, after some fervent ejaculations of gratitude had been offered to heaven, one can imagine.
The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Cambridge, Anne was sure that she could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him sitting next to a table, bowing over it with his arms crossed and his face covered, as if overwhelmed by the various feelings of his soul, trying to calm it down through prayer and reflection.
Lois' limbs had escaped. There was no injury except for the head.
It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to do in relation to its general situation. They could now talk to each other and consult each other. That Lois had to stay where she was, however embarrassing it was for her friends to involve the Chevals in such trouble, left no doubt. Their removal was impossible. The Chevals silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had rejoiced and arranged everything before the others began to think. Captain Bean has to give them his room and get another bed somewhere else; and the whole thing was done. They were just worried that the house would not find more space; and yet, perhaps, they could hardly bear it when they "took the children to the maid's chamber or rocked a cot somewhere," thinking that they couldn't find a place for two or three on the side, assuming they might want to stay; However, as for Miss Cumberland, there doesn't have to be the slightest discomfort in leaving her entirely in the care of Mrs. Cheval. Mrs. Cheval was a very experienced nurse, and her nanny, who had lived with her for a long time and traveled with her everywhere, was something else. Between these two, she could not wish for a possible presence day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity in which one felt irresistible. she could not wish for a possible presence day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity in which one felt irresistible. she could not wish for a possible presence day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity in which one felt irresistible.
Charles, Grace and Captain Cambridge were the three who consulted, and for a little while it was just an exchange of perplexity and horror. "Uppercross, the need for someone to go to Uppercross; the news to be delivered; how they might be communicated to Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland; the late morning hour; an hour has passed since they should have left; the impossibility in a tolerable time." Initially, they were capable of nothing more expedient than such proclamations; but after a while, captain Cambridge, who made an effort, said:
"We have to be determined, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is precious. Someone has to decide to leave for Uppercross immediately. Cumberland, either you or I have to go."
Charles agreed, but declared his decision not to leave. He would put as little strain on Captain and Mrs. Cheval as possible; but to leave his sister in such a state, he should not and did not want to. So far it was decided; and Grace first explained the same thing. However, she was soon convinced to think differently. The usefulness of their stay! She who had not managed to stay in Lois' room or look at her, without suffering that made her more than helpless! She had to admit that she couldn't do anything good, but still didn't want to be away until she gave it up, touched by the thought of her father and mother; she agreed, she really wanted to be at home.
The plan had reached this point when Anne, who quietly came down from Lois' room, couldn't help but hear what followed, because the salon door was open.
"Then it's agreed, Cumberland," shouted Captain Cambridge, "that you stay and I take care of your sister's house only needs to be one. Mrs. Charles Cumberland will, of course, wish to return to her children; but if Anne stays, no one is as decent, as capable as Anne."
She paused for a moment to recover from the excitement that was being talked about. The other two warmly agreed with him, and then she appeared.
"They will stay, I'm sure; They will stay and care for her," he shouted, turned to her, and spoke with a glow and yet a gentleness that almost seemed to restore the past. She blushed deeply, and he remembered and moved away. She expressed herself very willing, ready and happy to stay. "She had thought of that and wished she could do it. A bed on the floor in Lois' room would be enough for her if Only Mrs. Cheval thought so."
One more thing, and everything seemed arranged. Although it was quite desirable that Mr and Mrs Cumberland should be alerted beforehand by some of the delay; but the time it takes the Uppercross horses to take them back would be a terrible prolongation of tension; and Captain Cambridge suggested, and Charles Cumberland agreed that it would be much better for him to take a carriage out of the inn and leave Mr. Cumberland's carriage and horses behind to send them home early the next morning if he had the further advantage of sending a report about Lois' night.
Captain Cambridge hurried away to get everything ready and soon be followed by the two ladies. However, when mary became aware of the plan, all peace was over. She was so pathetic and so violent, complained so much about the injustice that she should leave instead of Anne; Anne, who meant nothing to Lois while she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Grace's place! Why shouldn't she be as useful as Anne? And even without Charles going home, without her husband! No, it was too unfriendly. In short, she said more than her husband could endure for long, and since none of the others could resist giving in, there was nothing to do about it; the change from Mary to Anne was inevitable.
Anne had never bowed more reluctantly to Mary's jealous and ill-considered claims; but that's how it has to be, and they made their way to the city, Charles took care of his sister and Captain Bean took care of her. As they hurried on, she remembered for a moment the small circumstances that the same places had experienced earlier in the morning. There she had listened to Grace's plans for Dr. Shirley's departure from Uppercross; further away, she had seen Mr. Hightower for the first time; For a moment, everything that could be given to anyone except Lois or those involved in her well-being seemed.
Captain Bean was extremely considerate of her; and as united as they all seemed to be by the affliction of the day, she felt a growing degree of benevolence toward him and even a pleasure to think that this might be the opportunity to continue their acquaintanceship.
Captain Cambridge was on the lookout for them, and a carriage and four were waiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the road; but his obvious surprise and anger at the replacement of one sister by the other, the change in his facial expression, the amazement, the begun and suppressed expressions with which Charles was heard, made only a humiliating welcome to Anne; or at least have to convince her that she was only appreciated because she could be useful to Lois.
She tried to be composed and just. Without imitating Emma's feelings towards her Henry, she would have taken care of Lois for his sake with a zeal that went beyond the usual claims of respect; and she hoped he would not be so unjust for long as to assume that she would unnecessarily shy away from the office of a friend.
Meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had given them both up and stood between them; and in this way, under these circumstances, full of amazement and emotion for Anne, she left Lyme. How the long stage would pass; how it should affect their manners; she could not foresee what her traffic would be. However, it was all quite natural. He was devoted to Grace; always turned to her; and if he spoke at all, always with the intention of supporting their hopes and lifting their spirits. In general, his voice and behavior were emphatically calm. Sparing Grace from excitement seemed to be the prevailing principle. Only once, when she had mourned the last ill-considered, unfortunate walk to the Cobb and bitterly lamented that it had ever been thought of, he burst out as if he were completely overwhelmed –
"Don't talk about it, don't talk about it," he shouted. "Oh God! that I would not have given in to her at the fatal moment! If I had done what I should do! But so eager and so determined! Love, sweet Lois!"
Anne wondered if it had ever occurred to him to question the correctness of his own previous opinion about universal happiness and the advantage of strength of character; and whether he might not notice that, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits. She thought it could hardly escape him that a convincing temperament sometimes promotes happiness as much as a very determined character.
They made rapid progress. Anne was amazed to recognize the same hills and objects so quickly. Their actual speed, heightened by a certain fear of the end, made the road appear only half as long as the day before. However, it dawned quite a bit before they reached the neighborhood of Uppercross, and there had been complete silence among them for some time, Grace leaning back in the corner with a scarf over her face, giving her hope that she had been crying herself asleep; when, as they climbed their last hill, she was suddenly approached by Captain Cambridge. In a quiet, cautious voice, he
said,
"I thought about what we should do best. It must not appear at first. She couldn't stand it Mrs. Cumberland, do you think that's a good plan?"
She did: he was satisfied and said nothing more. But the memory of the vocation remained a pleasure for her, as proof of friendship and reverence for her judgment, a great pleasure; and when it became a kind of farewell proof, its value did not diminish.
When the tormenting communication in Uppercross was over and he had taken the father and mother as hoped and seen the daughter all the better because she was with them, he announced his intention to return to Lyme in the same carriage; and when the horses were baited, he was gone.
Chapter 135
Eleanore could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings and make a trip to London under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering about her own situation, her acquaintance with this lady had been so short, so completely unsuitable they were age and predisposition, and so many objections she had raised against such a measure just a few days ago! But these objections had all been overcome or overlooked with that cheerful zeal for youth that Marianne and her mother shared equally; and Eleanore, despite all the occasional doubts about Warwick's steadfastness, could not witness the rapture of the delightful expectation that filled the whole soul and shone in Marianne's eyes, without feeling how empty her own view was, how bleak her own state of mind was in comparison, and how much she would like to get involved in the anxiety of Marianne's situation, to keep an eye on the same invigorating object, the same possibility of hope. A short, very short time, however, must now decide what Warwick's intentions were; in all likelihood, he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to leave explained her dependence on finding him there; and Eleanore was determined not only to gain every new light on his character that her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but also to observe his behavior toward her sister with such zealous attention to determine what he was and what he meant before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her observations turn out to be unfavorable, she was determined to open her sister's eyes in any case; Should it be otherwise,
you were on the road for three days, and Marianne's behavior during the trip was a happy example of what one would expect from future complacency and conviviality toward Mrs. Jennings. She sat there in silence almost all the time, immersed in her own meditations, and hardly ever spoke voluntarily, except when some object of painterly beauty in her field of vision elicited a cry of joy from her, directed exclusively at her sister. Therefore, in order to atone for this behavior, Eleanore immediately took over the post of courtesy she had assigned to herself, behaved with the greatest attention toward Mrs. Jennings, talked to her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings, for her part, treated them both with all sorts of kindness, was concerned at every opportunity for her comfort and pleasure, and only worried that she could not get her to choose her own dinner at the inn, nor could she extort a confession that they preferred salmon to cod or boiled poultry to veal chops. They reached the city at three o'clock on the third day, glad to be freed from the confines of a carriage after such a trip, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was nicely and nicely decorated, and the young ladies were immediately brought into possession of a very comfortable apartment. It used to be Charlotte's house, and above the mantelpiece still hung a landscape of colorful silk from her performance, proof that she had spent seven years at a large school in the city with some impact.
Since dinner should not be ready in less than two hours after her arrival, Eleanore decided to use the break to write to her mother and sat down for this purpose. After a few moments, Marianne did the same. "I'm writing home, Marianne," said Eleanore; "Shouldn't you postpone your letter for a day or two?"
"I will NOT write to my mother," Marianne replied hastily, as if to avoid any further request. Eleanore said nothing more; it immediately occurred to her that she had to write Warwick; and the conclusion that immediately followed was that they would have to get engaged, however mysteriously they wanted to conduct the matter. This conviction, though not entirely satisfying, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater zeal. Mariannes was ready in a few minutes; in length it could not be more than one note; it was then folded, sealed and straightened with zealous speed. Eleanore believed he could see a large W in the direction; and as soon as it was finished when Marianne rang, asked the servant who replied to it to take this letter for her to the two-penny mail. So the matter was decided immediately.
Their mood was still very high; but it was a flutter in them that prevented them from giving their sister much pleasure, and that excitement increased as the evening progressed. She could hardly have dinner, and when they later returned to the salon, she seemed anxious to listen to the sound of each carriage.
It was a great satisfaction for Eleanore that Mrs. Jennings, as she was busy in her own room, could see little of what was going on. The tea stuff was brought in, and already Marianne had been disappointed more than once by a knock on a neighboring door, when suddenly a loud sound sounded that could not be confused with any other house, Eleanore was sure that warwick's was announcing approach, and Marianne jumped up and went to the door. Everything was silent; this could not be endured for many seconds; she opened the door, walked a few steps to the stairs, and after listening for half a minute, she returned to the room in all the excitement that the conviction of having heard him would naturally evoke; In the ecstasy of her feelings, at that moment she couldn't help but exclaim, "Oh, Eleanore, it's Warwick, indeed!
It was too much of a shock to endure with calm, and she immediately left the room. Eleanore was also disappointed; but at the same time her consideration for Colonel Bridgerton ensured his reception with her; and she felt particularly offended that a man who was so interested in her sister should perceive that she felt nothing but sorrow and disappointment when she saw him. She immediately saw that he did not miss the fact that he even watched Marianne as she calmed the room, with such astonishment and concern that he hardly remembered what politeness to her demanded.
"Is your sister sick?" he said.
Eleanore replied in some sorrow that she was, and then spoke of headaches, depression and fatigue; and of everything to which she could decently attribute her sister's behavior.
He listened to her with the utmost attention, but seemed to reflect, said nothing more on the subject and began to speak directly of his joy of seeing her in London, leaving behind the usual inquiries about her trip and the friends she had left behind.
In this quiet way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to be both out of tune, and the thoughts of both were busy elsewhere. Eleanore wished very much to ask if Warwick was in town at the time, but she feared that a question about his rival would cause him pain; and finally, by saying something, she asked if he had been in London since she last saw him. "Yes," he replied with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I've been to Delaford once or twice for a few days, but it was never in my power to return to Barton."
This, and the way it was said, immediately reminded her of all the circumstances of his departure from this place, with the discomfort and distrust they had evoked in Mrs. Jennings, and she feared that her question had implied much more curiosity about the subject than she had ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh, Colonel," she said with her usual loud cheerfulness, "I'm tremendously glad to see you — I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner — please forgive me, but I was forced to look around a little bit and manage my affairs; for it's been a long time since I've been home, and you know that you always have a world full of little strange things to do after you've been away for some time; and then I had Cartwright, with whom I have to come to terms with – Lord God, I have been diligent like a bee since dinner!
"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmifer," where I ate."
"Oh, you got that; well, and how is everyone in their house doing? How is Charlotte doing?
"Mrs. Palmifer seemed quite good, and I'm tasked with telling you that you're bound to see her tomorrow."
"Yes, of course I thought so. Well, Colonel, I brought two young ladies with me, you know – that is, you only see one of them now, but somewhere there is another. Your friend, Miss Marianne "Also - which you will not regret. I don't know what you and Mr. Warwick will do between you about her. Yes, it's a beautiful thing to be young and pretty. Now! I was once young, but..." I was never very handsome – bad luck for me. But I have a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Oh! poor man! he has been dead for eight years and longer. But Colonel, where have you been since our separation? And how will your business continue?
He answered all their questions with his usual gentleness, but without satisfying them in any way. Eleanore now began to make the tea, and Marianne had to appear again.
After her entry, Colonel Bridgerton became more thoughtful and quiet than before, and Mrs. Jennings could not persuade him to stay long. That evening, no other visitor appeared, and the ladies unanimously agreed to go to bed early.
Marianne rose the next morning with a relaxed mood and happy looks. The disappointment of the previous evening seemed forgotten in anticipation of what would happen that day. They hadn't finished their breakfast long before Mrs. Palmifer's car stopped outside the door, and after a few minutes she came into the room laughing: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she enjoyed meeting her mother the most or Miss Hargrove's again. So surprised that they came to the city, although she had expected it the whole time; so angry that they accepted their mother's invitation after rejecting their own, even though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they hadn't come!
"Mr. Palmifer will be so happy to see you," she said; "What do you think he said when he heard you came with Mom?
After an hour or two spent her mother chatting, or in other words, in any kind of inquiries about all her acquaintances on the side of Mrs. Jennings and in gratuitous laughter on the side of Mrs. Palmifer, it was suggested by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops, where that morning she had shops that Mrs. Jennings and Eleanore readily agreed to, as they also had some shopping to do; and Marianne, although she initially refused, was prompted to leave as well.
Wherever they went, she was obviously always on guard. Especially in Bond Street, where much of her business was located, her eyes were constantly exploring; and in which ?? Business the party was also busy, its mind was equally distracted from everything that actually lay in front of them, from everything that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied everywhere, her sister could never get her opinion on any object of purchase, as much as it affected both of them equally: she did not enjoy anything; was only impatient to be back home, and could only control her anger at the boredom of Mrs. Palmifer, whose gaze was captivated by everything beautiful, precious or new, with difficulty; who was eager to buy everything, couldn't decide on anything, and wasted her time in rapture and indecision.
It was late morning when they returned home; and as soon as they had entered the house, Marianne eagerly flew up the stairs, and when Eleanore followed her, she saw her turn away from the table with a sad expression on her face declaring that no Warwick had been there.
"Hasn't a letter been left here for me since we went out?" she said to the servant, who then entered with the packages. It was denied. "Are you sure of that?" She replied. "Are you sure that no servant, doorman has left a letter or note?"
The man replied that none had.
"How very strange!" she said in a quiet and disappointed voice as she turned away to the window.
"How strange, indeed!" Eleanore repeated in herself, looking at her sister with discomfort. "If she hadn't known he was in town, she wouldn't have written to him as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and when he is in town, how strange that he neither comes nor writes! Oh! My dear mother, you must be wrong if you allow an engagement between such a young daughter and such a little-known man to continue in such a dubious, so mysterious way!, I would like to ask, and how will MY interference be endured. "
She decided, after some consideration, that if the apparitions continued for many more days as unpleasant as they were now, she would sharply explain to her mother the need for a serious investigation into the matter.
Mrs. Palmifer and two elderly ladies from Mrs. Jenning's close acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, had dinner with them. The former left her shortly after tea to fulfill her evening duties; and Eleanore had to help create a whist table for the others. Marianne was useless on these occasions as she would never learn the game; but although her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive for her than for Eleanore, for it was spent in all the fear of expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes tried to read for a few minutes; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she turned back to the more interesting occupation of going up and down the room, and every time she came to the window, pause for a moment,
Chapter 136
The manners of Colonel Gill were greatly admired in the rectory, and the ladies all felt that he had to contribute considerably to the joys of their obligations in Rosings. However, it took a few days for them to be invited there – because as long as there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not until Easter Day, almost a week after the Lord's coming, that they were honored by such attention, and then, when they left the Church, they were merely asked to come there in the evening. In the last week, they had seen Lady Catherine or her daughter very little. Colonel Gill had stopped by the rectory more than once over time, but Mr. Drury had only seen them in the church.
The invitation was of course accepted, and at the right time they joined the party in Lady Catherine's salon. She received her ladyship politely, but it was clear that her company was by no means as acceptable as if she could not get anyone else; and she was actually almost captivated by her nephews and talked to them much more, especially Drury, than to any other person in the room.
Colonel Gill seemed really happy to see her; everything was a welcome relief to him in Rosings; and The pretty girlfriend of Mrs. Collins had also aroused his imagination a lot. He now sat down next to her and spoke so pleasantly of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half as well entertained in this room; and they talked with so much spirit and verve that they attracted the attention of both Lady Catherine and Drury-san. HIS eyes had soon and repeatedly been turned to them with a look of curiosity; and that your ladyship shared the feeling after a while was more openly acknowledged, because she did not shy away from shouting:
"What are you saying, Gill? What are you talking about? What do you tell Miss Mitchell? Let me hear what it is.'
"We're talking about music, madam," he said when he couldn't resist an answer.
'The music! Then please speak out loud. It's my joy, of all things. I have to participate in the conversation when you talk about music. I suspect there are few people in England who enjoy music more or have a better natural taste than I do. If I had ever learned, I would have been a great expert. And Anne would do the same if her health condition had allowed her to apply. I'm confident she would have played delightfully. How is Georgiana, Drury?"
Drury-san spoke with loving praise about his sister's abilities.
"I am very pleased to hear such a good report about her," said Lady Catherine; ' and please tell her of me that she can't expect to excel if she doesn't practice a lot.'
"I assure you, Madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice. She practices very constantly."
'So much better. Not too much can be done; and the next time I write to her, I will ask her not to neglect it in any case. I often tell young ladies that you can't achieve excellence in music without constant practice. I've told Miss Mitchell several times that she will never really play well if she doesn't practice anymore; and although Mrs. Collins has no instrument, as I have often told her, she is very welcome to come to Rosings every day and play in Mrs. Jenkinson's room on the pianoforte. In this part of the house, she wouldn't stand in anyone's way."
Drury-san seemed a little ashamed of his aunt's poor upbringing and gave no answer.
When the coffee was over, Colonel Gill reminded Elizabeth that she had promised to play with him; and she sat down directly at the instrument. He pulled a chair up to her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song and then spoke to her other nephew as before; until the latter walked away from her, and made himself a pianoforte with his usual consideration, stood up to command a full view of the face of the beautiful actress. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first appropriate break, she turned to him with a mischievous smile and said
,
"You want to scare me, Drury-san, by coming here in this state to hear me? I won't be worried even though your sister plays so well. I have a stubbornness about me that can never bear to be afraid of the will of others. My courage always increases with every attempt to intimidate me."
"I'm not going to say you're wrong," he replied, "because you couldn't really believe that I intended to worry you; and I have had the pleasure of knowing your acquaintance long enough to know that you take great pleasure in occasionally expressing opinions that are not really your own.'
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself and said to Colonel Gill, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty idea of me and teach you not to believe me a word. I'm especially unlucky when I meet a person in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass off with a certain degree of recognition, who is so able to reveal my true character. In fact, Mr Drury, it is very rude of you to mention everything you knew to my detriment in Hertfordshire – and, allow me, also very apolitical – because it provokes me to take revenge, and such things can come out that will shock your relatives when you hear that."
"I'm not afraid of you," he said with a smile.
"Please let me hear what you accuse him of," shouted Colonel Gill. I want to know how he behaves among strangers."
"Then you will hear it – but be prepared for something very terrible. The first time I saw him in Hertfordshire, you have to know, was on a ball – and what do you think he did on that ball? He danced only four dances, although gentlemen were scarce; and to my knowledge, there was more than one young lady looking for a partner. Drury-san, you can't deny that."
"I didn't have the honor of knowing any lady in the assembly except my own party at the time."
'True; and no one can ever be featured in a ballroom. Well, Colonel Gill, what do I play next? My fingers are waiting for your commands.'
"Perhaps," Drury said, "I should have judged better if I had asked for an introduction; but I am unqualified to recommend myself to strangers.'
"Shall we ask your cousin why?" said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Gill. 'Should we ask him why a reasonable and educated man who has lived in the world is not fit to recommend himself to strangers?'
"I can answer your question," Gill said, "without turning to him. It's because he's not going to bother.'
"I certainly don't have the talent that some people possess," Drury said, "to easily converse with those I've never seen before. I can't understand their tone of conversation or seem interested in their concerns, as I often see.'
"My fingers," Elizabeth said, "don't move as masterfully over this instrument as I see in so many women. They don't have the same power or speed and don't create the same expression. But then I always assumed it was my own fault – because I wouldn't make the effort of practicing. It's not that I don't think MY fingers are as capable as any other woman's of superior execution."
Drury smiled and said, "You're absolutely right. You have used your time much better. No one has granted the privilege of hearing that you can think anything you want. Neither of us perform in front of strangers.'
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who wanted to shout what they were talking about. Elizabeth immediately started playing again. Lady Catherine approached and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Drury:
"Miss Mitchell wouldn't play wrong at all if she practiced more and could have the advantage of a London champion. She has a very good idea of fingering, although her taste does not match that of Anne. Anne would have been a delightful performer if her health had allowed her to learn.'
Elizabeth looked at Drury to see how warmly he agreed with his cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor in any other could she see any sign of love; and from all his behavior toward Miss de Bourgh, she drew this comfort for Miss Woodland that he would just as likely have been able to marry her if she had been his relative.
Lady Catherine continued her remarks about Elizabeth's appearance, adding many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all due respect for courtesy and remained at the request of the gentlemen at the instrument until the carriage of her ladyhood was ready to bring them all home.
Chapter 137
The traffic between the two families had returned by this time closer to the state of autumn than any member of the old intimacy would ever have thought likely. The return of Henry Dorset and the arrival of William Price had a lot to do with it, but much was still thanks to Sir Thomas, who more than tolerated the neighbourly attempts in the rectory. His spirit, now detached from the worries that had first weighed on him, had leisure to find the Grants and their young inmates truly worth a visit; and although he was infinitely exalted to intrigue or invent the most advantageous conjugal institution, which, among the obvious possibilities, might have been one of his dearest, and even as a trifle despised quicksightedness in such points, he could not avoid perceiving, in a great and carefree way,
His willingness, however, after many debates and many doubts as to whether it was worth the effort to agree to the diner in the rectory, when the general invitation was finally dared, "because Sir Thomas seemed so badly inclined, and Lady Schmidt was sluggish!" He came solely from good upbringing and benevolence and had nothing to do with Mr. Dorset, but as a member of a pleasant group: for it was during this visit that he began to think for the first time that someone was in the habit of such idle observations would have thought that Mr. Dorset was the admirer of Esther Price.
The meeting was generally perceived as pleasant as there was a good ratio of speakers and listeners; and the dinner itself was elegant and plentiful, according to the usual style of the grants, and too much according to the usual habits of all to evoke any emotions, except for Mrs. Norris, who could not see the wide table or the number of guests dishes on it with patience, and who always managed to experience something evil when the servants passed behind her chair, and to bring a new conviction that it is impossible under so many courts, but that some must be cold.
In the evening, after the predestination of Mrs. Grant and her sister, it turned out that after assembling the Whist table, there would still be enough space left for a round game, and all as completely obedient and without choice as on such occasions they always are, speculation was decided almost as quickly as Whist; and Lady Schmidt soon found herself in the critical situation of being asked for her own choice between games and either having to draw a card for Whist or not. She hesitated. Fortunately, Sir Thomas was on the spot.
"What should I do, Sir Thomas? Whist and speculation; what will amuse me the most?"
Sir Thomas, after a short reflection, recommended speculation. He was a Whist player himself and might feel like he wouldn't be very amused to have her as a partner.
"Very good," was the satisfied response of your ladyhood; "Then speculation, please, Mrs. Grant. I don't know anything about it, but Esther has to teach me."
Here, however, Esther intervened with anxious assurances of her own equal ignorance; she had never played or seen the game in her life; and Lady Schmidt again felt a moment of indecision; but after everyone had assured her that nothing could be so simple that it was the simplest game of cards, and Henry Dorset came forward with the most serious request to be allowed to sit between her ladyhood and Miss Price and teach it to both was so done; and Sir Thomas, Mrs. Norris and Dr. and Mrs. Grant, who sat at the table of the highest intellectual condition and dignity, the remaining six were arranged around each other under Miss Dorset's leadership. It was a nice agreement for Henry Dorset, who was close to Esther and had his hands full, as he had to manage the cards of two people in addition to his own; for although it was impossible for Esther not to feel mistress of the rules of the game in three minutes, he still had to inspire her game, sharpen her greed and harden her heart, which was a bit difficult work, especially in any competition with William; and as for Lady Schmidt, he must remain responsible for all her fame and fortune throughout the evening; and if he's fast enough to stop them from looking at their cards at the beginning of the deal, he has to instruct them on what to do with them to the end. he must remain responsible for all their fame and fortune throughout the evening; and if he's fast enough to stop them from looking at their cards at the beginning of the deal, he has to instruct them on what to do with them to the end. he must remain responsible for all their fame and fortune throughout the evening; and if he's fast enough to stop them from looking at their cards at the beginning of the deal, he has to instruct them on what to do with them to the end.
He was in a good mood, did everything with happy ease and outstanding in all the lively twists, quick aids and playful impudences that could do the game honor; and the round table as a whole was a very pleasant contrast to the constant sobriety and orderly silence of the other.
Twice Sir Thomas had inquired about the joy and success of his lady, but in vain; no break was long enough for the time it took his measured manner; and very little of her condition could be known until Mrs. Grant was able to go to her and compliment her at the end of the first rubber.
"I hope your ladyhood is happy with the game."
"Oh dear, yes! really very entertaining. A very strange game. I don't know what it's all about. I am never allowed to see my cards; and Mr. Dorset does the rest."
"Schmidt," Dorset said some time later, taking the opportunity for a little dullness in the game, "I never told you what happened to me yesterday on my way home." They had hunted together and were just in the middle of a good run, and at some distance from Mansfield, when it was discovered that his horse had thrown a shoe, Henry Dorset had to give up and make the most of his way back. "I told you that I got lost after passing the old farmhouse with the yews, because I can't bear to ask; but I didn't tell you that with my usual luck – because I never do wrong without making a profit – I was in the right place at the right time that I wanted to see with curiosity. As I turned the corner of a steep flat environment, I suddenly found myself in the middle of a remote little village among gently rising hills; to cross a small stream in front of me, a church that stood on a kind of hill to my right – this church was strikingly large and pretty for the place, and apart from one there was no manor house or half mansion to be seen – suppose the rectory – just a stone's throw from said hill and church. In short, I found myself in Thornton Lacey."
"It sounds like this," Edmund said; "But in which direction did you turn after passing Sewell's farm?"
"I do not answer such irrelevant and insidious questions; However, if I answered everything you could say over the course of an hour, you could never prove it wasn't Thornton Lacey – because it certainly was."
"So you asked?"
"No, I never ask. But I told a man mending a hedge that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed."
"They have a good memory. I had forgotten to ever tell you half as much about the place."
Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending life, as Miss Dorset knew very well; and her interest in a trial for the villain of William Price increased.
"Well," Edmund continued, "and how did you like what you saw?"
"Really a lot. You are a lucky guy. There will be work for at least five summers before the place is habitable."
"No, no, not so bad. The yard must be relocated, I admit that; but I don't know anything else. The house is by no means bad, and if the yard is removed, there can be a very bearable approach."
"The yard has to be completely cleared and planted to close the forge. The house must be turned east instead of north – the entrance and the main rooms, I think, must be on the side where the view is really very nice; I am sure it can be done. And there must be your access, through what is currently the garden. You need to create a new garden where the back of the house is now; which will give him the best aspect of the world, which slopes to the southeast. The soil seems predestined for this. I rode fifty meters up the path, between the church and the house, to look around; and saw how everything could be. Nothing can be easier. The meadows behind what the garden will be, as well as what is now, which spread from the alley in which I stood to the northeast, that is, to the main road through the village, of course, everything must be put together; these are very pretty meadows, finely speckled with wood. They belong to the living, I suppose; if not, you need to buy them. Then the stream – something has to be done with the stream; but I couldn't determine exactly what. I had two or three ideas."
"And I also have two or three ideas," Edmund said, "and one of them is that very little of your plan for Thornton Lacey will ever be put into action. I have to settle for a little less jewelry and beauty. I think the house and the premises can be made comfortable and maintain the atmosphere of a gentlemen's residence without very great cost, and that must be enough for me; and I hope it's enough for everyone who cares about me."
Miss Dorset, a little suspicious and angry about a certain tone of voice and a certain half-glance that accompanied the last expression of his hope, hastily ended her dealings with William Price; and secured his villains at an exorbitant price, he exclaimed: "There I will use my last like a woman with a ghost. No cold wisdom for me. I was not born to sit still and do nothing. If I lose the game, it shouldn't be because I don't aspire to it."
The game belonged to her and just didn't pay her what she had given to secure it. Another deal went on, and Dorset started again with Thornton Lacey.
"My plan may not be the best possible: I didn't have many minutes to formulate it; but you have to make a good deal. The place deserves it, and you'll settle for much less than it can. (Excuse me, your ladyship is not allowed to see your cards. There, leave them in front of you for a moment.) The place deserves it, Schmidt. You talk about giving it the atmosphere of a gentlemen's residence. This will be done by removing the farm; for regardless of this terrible nuisance, I have never seen a house of the kind that had in itself so much the atmosphere of a mansion, so much the appearance of something more than a mere rectory - more than the expenses of a few hundred a year. It's not a jumbled collection of low single rooms with as many roofs as windows; it is not crammed into the vulgar compactness of a square farmhouse: it is a solid, spacious, mansion-like house, as one might assume that a respectable old peasant family had lived from generation to generation for at least two centuries and now spent two to three thousand a year in it. " Miss Dorset listened, and Edmund agreed. " Therefore, you can only give the atmosphere of a mansion if you do something. But it can do much more. (Let me see, Mary; Lady Schmidt offers a dozen for this queen; no, no, a dozen is more than it is worth. Lady Schmidt does not offer a dozen. She will not say anything about it. Go ahead, go on.) By making some of the improvements I've suggested (I'm not really asking you to continue my plan, although I doubt anyone can do anything better, by the way), you can give it a higher character. You can elevate it to a place. From the pure mansion it becomes, through reasonable improvement, the residence of a man with education, taste, modern manners and good connections. All this can be stamped on it; and this house receives such air that its owner is deposed by every creature that travels the road as the great landowner of the parish; especially since there is no real manor house to dispute this point – a circumstance among us to increase the value of such a situation in terms of privileges and independence beyond all calculation. You think with me, I hope" (turns to Esther in a soft voice). "Have you ever seen the place?" and this house receives such air that its owner is deposed by every creature that travels the street as the great landowner of the parish; especially since there is no real manor house to dispute this point – a circumstance among us to increase the value of such a situation in terms of privileges and independence beyond all calculation. You think with me, I hope" (turns to Esther in a soft voice). "Have you ever seen the place?" and this house receives such air that its owner is deposed by every creature that travels the street as the great landowner of the parish; especially since there is no real manor house to dispute this point – a circumstance among us to increase the value of such a situation in terms of privileges and independence beyond all calculation. You think with me, I hope" (turns to Esther in a soft voice). "Have you ever seen the place?"
Esther gave a quick denial and tried to hide her interest in the subject by eagerly paying attention to her brother who was doing such a tough business and so ?? imposed much as he could; but Dorset continued, "No, no, you must not part with the Queen. You bought them too expensive, and your brother doesn't offer half their value. No, no, sir, hands off, fingers off. Your sister does not separate from the queen. She is quite determined. The game will be yours," he turned back to her; "it will certainly be yours."
"And Esther would have much preferred it to be William," Edmund said, smiling at her. must not deceive herself as she pleases!"
"Sir. Schmidt," Said Miss Dorset a few minutes later, "You know Henry as such a capital improver that you can't possibly participate in such a thing at Thornton Lacey without accepting his help. Just think of how useful it was in Sotherton! Just think of what great things were produced there when we all drove around the grounds with him on a hot day in August and watched his genius take fire. There we went, and there we came back home; and what was done there shall not be told!"
Esther's eyes were on Dorset for a moment, with an expression that was more than serious – even reproachful; but when he caught his, they were immediately withdrawn. With some awareness, he shook his head at his sister and replied with a laugh, "I can't say that much has been done in Sotherton; but it was a hot day, and we were all confused after each other." As soon as a general buzz gave him shelter, he added in a low voice, addressed exclusively to Esther: "I would be sorry if my planning skills in Sotherton were assessed day by day. I see things very differently now. Don't think about myself as I looked at the time."
Sotherton was a word to catch Mrs. Norris, and just as she was in the happy leisure that followed, one or the other trick through Sir Thomas' capital game and her own against the great hands of Dr. Humor, "Sotherton! Yes, this is indeed a place, and we had an enchanting day there. William, you have no luck; but the next time you come, dear Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore will hopefully be home, and I am sure I can answer for you to be warmly received by both of them. Your cousins?? are not in the way of forgetting their relatives, and Mr. Rushmore is an extremely gracious man. You're in Brighton now, you know; in one of the best houses there, as Mr. Rushmore's beautiful fortune gives them a right. I don't know the distance exactly, but if you come back to Portsmouth when it's not very far away, you should go over and give them your respects; and I could send a package from you that I would send to your cousins?? would like to be sent."
"I should be very happy, aunt; but Brighton is almost from Beachey Head; and if I could get this far, I couldn't expect to be welcome in such an elegant place like this – poor shabby midshipman as I am."
Mrs Norris began a zealous assurance of kindness that he could rely on when she was stopped by Sir Thomas' emphatic statement: "I do not advise you to go to Brighton, William, as I hope you will soon have more favorable opportunities to meet; but my daughters would be happy to meet their cousins?? to be seen everywhere; and you will find that Mr. Rushmore is genuinely inclined to consider all the connections of our family as his own."
"I'd rather find him as the First Lord's private secretary than anything else," was William's only response in a muted voice that wouldn't go far, and the subject fell.
Until now, Sir Thomas had not seen any notice of Mr Dorset's behaviour; but when the Whist table broke apart at the end of the second game and let Dr. Grant and Mrs. Norris argue about their last game, he became the spectator of the other, he found his niece the object of attention, or rather of professions, of somewhat pointed character.
Henry Dorset was in the first light of another plot about Thornton Lacey; and since he was unable to catch Edmund's ear, he communicated it to his beautiful neighbor with a look of considerable seriousness. His plan was to rent the house himself the following winter so that he could have his own house in this neighborhood; and it was not only for use in the hunting season (as he told her at the time), although this consideration certainly had some weight as he did, despite all the great kindness of Dr. Grant it was impossible for him and his horses to be housed where they are now without material inconvenience; but his attachment to this neighborhood did not depend on a pleasure or a season: he had set his heart on having something there to come to at any time, a small home stable at his disposal where he could spend all the holidays of his year, and he could find that he continued this friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, improved and perfected, which gained in value for him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. where all the holidays of his year could be spent, and he could find that he continued, improved and perfected this friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, which grew in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. where all the holidays of his year could be spent, and he could find that he continued, improved and perfected this friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, which grew in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. and perhaps he found that he continued, improved and perfected this friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, which grew in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. and perhaps he found that he continued, improved and perfected this friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, which grew in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. and perfecting that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, which grew in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. and perfecting that friendship and intimacy with the Mansfield Park family, which grew in value to him every day. Sir Thomas heard it and was not offended. There was no lack of respect in the young man's salutation; and Esther's reception was so decent and modest, so quiet and uninviting that he had nothing to blame about her. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. His reception was so decent and modest, so calm and uninviting that he had nothing to blame her for. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion. His reception was so decent and modest, so calm and uninviting that he had nothing to blame her for. She said little, agreed only here and there, and betrayed no inclination to appropriate any part of the compliment or strengthen his views in favor of Northamptonshire. When Henry Dorset found out who was watching him, he turned to Sir Thomas on the same subject, in a more mundane tone, but still with emotion.
"I want to be your neighbour, Sir Thomas, as you may have heard about Miss Price. May I hope for your consent and that you do not influence your son against such a tenant?"
Sir Thomas, bowing politely, replied: "It is the only way, Sir, where I could not wish you to be established as a permanent neighbour; but I hope and believe that Edmund will live in his own house in Thornton Lacey. Edmund, am I saying too much?"
Edmund first had to hear what was going on in this appeal; but after understanding the question, he was not embarrassed to answer.
"Certainly, sir, I have no idea but where to live. But, Dorset, although I reject you as a tenant, come to me as a friend. Think of the house half as your property each winter, and we will expand the stables according to your own improved plan and with all the improvements to your improved plan that you come up with this spring.
"We will be the losers," Sir Thomas continued. "His walking, although only eight miles, will be an unwanted contraction of our family circle; but I would have been deeply offended if any son of mine had resigned himself to doing less. It's perfectly natural that you haven't thought much about it, Dorset-san. But a church has needs and demands that only a permanently resident clergyman can know and that no representative can satisfy to the same extent. Edmund could, to put it more generally, fulfill Thornton's duty, that is, he could read and preach prayers without giving up Mansfield Park: he could ride over to a nominally inhabited house every Sunday and go to worship; he could be the clergyman of Thornton Lacey for three or four hours every seventh day, if that were enough for him. But it won't. He knows that human nature needs more lessons than a weekly sermon can convey; and if he does not live among his parishioners and proves to be their benefactor and friend through constant attention, he does very little, neither for her nor for his own good."
Mr. Dorset bowed.
"I repeat once again," Sir Thomas added, "that Thornton Lacey is the only house in the neighbourhood where I would not like to serve Mr Dorset as a resident."
Mr. Dorset bowed in thanks.
"Sir Thomas," said Edmund, "undoubtedly understands the duties of a pastor. We have to hope that his son proves that he knows it too."
Whatever effect Sir Thomas' little speech may have on Mr. Dorset, in two of the others, two of his most attentive listeners, Miss Dorset and Esther, it triggered some unpleasant sensations. One of them, who had never before understood that Thornton would be his home so soon and so completely, pondered with dejected eyes what it would be like not to see Edmund every day; and the other, frightened by the pleasant fantasies to which she had previously indulged because of the strength of her brother's description, was no longer able, in the image she had made of a future Thornton, to close the church, to sink the clergyman and to see only the respectable, elegant, modernized and occasional residence of a man of independent fortune considered Sir Thomas with determined resentment as the destroyer of all Of this,
all the pleasantness of their speculation was over for that hour. It was time to finish cards when sermons prevailed; and she was glad to think it necessary to come to a conclusion and refresh her spirits by changing places and neighbors.
The leaders of the group were now gathered irregularly around the fire, waiting for the final separation. William and Esther were the most distant. They stayed together at the otherwise abandoned card table, chatted very comfortably and did not think about the others until some of the others began to think of them. Henry Dorset's chair was the first to be given direction to them, and he sat there silently for a few minutes, watching them; himself, meanwhile observed by Sir Thomas, who was in conversation with Dr. Grant.
"This is the night of the meeting," William said. "If I were in Portsmouth, maybe I should be there."
"But you don't want yourself in Portsmouth, William?"
"No, Esther, I don't. I'll have had enough of Portsmouth and also of dancing if I can't have you. And I don't know if it would be good to go to the meeting, because maybe I won't get a partner. The girls from Portsmouth turn up their noses at anyone who has no commission. You could just as well be nothing as a midshipman. One thing is indeed nothing. They remember the Gregorys; They have become amazingly fine girls, but they will hardly talk to me because Lucy is being courted by a lieutenant."
"Oh! Shame, shame! But forget it, William" (her own cheeks glowed with indignation as she spoke). "It's not worth mentioning. It's not thinking about you; it is nothing more than what the greatest admirals more or less experienced in their time. You have to think about it, you have to try to make it one of the hardships that fall to every sailor, such as bad weather and hard life, only with the advantage that it has an end, that there will come a time when you will have nothing of the kind to endure. If you are a lieutenant! Just remember, William, if you're a lieutenant, how little interest you are in such nonsense."
"I'm starting to believe that I'll never become a lieutenant, Esther. Everyone is made, except me."
"Oh! my dear William, don't talk like that; don't be so despondent. My uncle doesn't say anything, but I'm sure he'll do everything in his power to get you done. He knows as well as you what the consequences are."
She was stopped by the sight of her uncle, who was much closer to them than she had suspected, and everyone felt it necessary to talk about something else.
"Do you like to dance, Esther?"
"Yes very much; only I'll be tired soon."
"I'd love to go to a ball with you and see you dance. Have you never had balls in Northampton? I would love to see you dance, and if you wanted, I would dance with you, because no one would know who I am here, and I want to be your partner again. We used to jump around together a lot, didn't we? when the barrel organ was on the street? I'm a pretty good dancer in my own way, but I dare say you're a better one." And turned to his uncle, who was now close to them: "Isn't Esther a very good dancer, sir?"
Esther, dismayed by such an unprecedented question, did not know in which direction to look or how to be prepared for the answer. Some very serious accusation, or at least the coldest expression of indifference, must worry her brother and cause her to sink to the ground. But on the contrary, it was no worse than: "I'm sorry to have to tell you that I can't answer your question. I've never seen Esther dance since she was a little girl; but I trust that we will both think that she will behave like a noble woman when we see her, which we may soon have the opportunity to do."
"I had the pleasure of seeing your sister dance, Mr. Price," said Henry Dorset, leaning forward, "and I will endeavor to answer any of your questions about this to your complete satisfaction. But I think" (when he saw that Esther looked sad) "it must be at a different time. There is one person in society who doesn't like being talked about Miss Price."
In fact, he had once seen Esther dance; and it was equally true that he would now have responded for her gliding around with calm, light elegance and in admirable time; but in fact, with the best of intentions, he could not remember what her dance had been, and took it for granted that she had been present rather than remembering anything of her.
However, he went for an admirer of their dancing; and Sir Thomas, by no means dissatisfied, prolonged the conversation about dancing in general and was so busy describing the balls of Antigua and listening to what his nephew could tell about the different types of dance that had fallen into his observation. that he had not announced his carriage and was first brought to the attention of Mrs. Norris by the hustle and bustle.
"Come on, Esther, Esther, what are you all about? We're leaving. Don't you see your aunt leaving? Hurry, hurry! I can't bear to keep good old Wilcox waiting. You should always think of the coachman and the horses. My dear Sir Thomas, we have agreed that the carriage should come back for you and Edmund and William."
Sir Thomas could not disagree, as it was his own arrangement, which he had previously communicated to his wife and sister; but that seemed to be forgotten by Mrs. Norris, who had to imagine that she had done everything herself.
Esther's last feeling during the visit was disappointment: for the scarf that Edmund quietly took off the servant to bring it to her and to put her shoulders was seized by Mr. Dorset's faster hand, and she had to be indebted to his more prominent attention.
Chapter 138
Dancing may be dispensed with altogether. There have been cases where young people have spent many, many months in a row without being on any ball of any kind, and suffer neither physical nor mental material damage – but when a beginning is made – once the bliss of the fast movement has been over, albeit lightly, felt – it must be a very heavy set, that doesn't ask for more.
Frank Curcelle had once danced in Highbury and longed to dance again; and the last half hour of an evening, which Mr. Lodge was persuaded to spend with his daughter in Randalls, was spent by the two young people in plans on the subject. Franks was the first idea; and his greatest zeal in persecution; because the lady was the best connoisseur of the difficulties and the most diligent about accommodation and appearance. But she still had enough inclination to show people again how delightfully Mr. Frank Curcelle and Miss Lodge danced – for the one where she didn't have to blush to compare herself to Jane Saxon – and even for simple dancing herself, without any of the evil tools of vanity – to help him first the room, In which they found themselves, to go up and down to see what he could record – and then to take the dimensions of the other parkour,
his first suggestion and his first request that the dance started at Mr. Cole should be finished there – that the same party should be collected and the same musician hired, met with the most readily approval. Mr. Winstone responded to the idea with great pleasure, and Mrs. Winstone willingly agreed to play as long as they wanted to dance; and the interesting task was to calculate exactly who would be there and to divide the indispensable division of the space among each couple.
"She and Miss Smith and Miss Saxon will be three and the two Miss Coxes five," had been repeated many times. "And there are the two Gilberts, young Cox, my father and I, except Mr. Hill. Yes, that will be enough for pleasure. She and Miss Smith and Miss Saxon will be three and the two Miss Coxes five; and there will be plenty of room for five couples."
But soon it was on one side,
"But will there be enough space for five couples? – I really don't think there will be."
On top of each other,
"And five couples are not enough to make getting up worthwhile. Five pairs is nothing if you think about it seriously. It is not enough to invite five couples. It can only be permissible as a thought of the moment."
Someone said Miss Gilbert was expected at her brother's house and had to be invited with the others. Someone else believed that Mrs. Gilbert would have danced the other night if she had been asked. A word was inserted for a second young Cox; and finally, Mr. Winstone named a family of cousins who needed to be included, and another of very old acquaintances who could not be left out, and it became a certainty that the five couple would be at least ten, and a very interesting speculation as to how they could be disposed of.
The doors of the two rooms were directly opposite each other. "Couldn't they use both rooms and dance across the aisle?" It seemed to be the best scheme; and yet it was not so good, but many of them wanted a better one. Emma said it was uncomfortable; Mrs. Winstone was in distress over dinner; and Mr. Lodge was seriously opposed for health reasons. It did indeed make him so unhappy that it could not be endured.
"Oh! no," he said; "it would be the extreme of unwiseness. I couldn't stand it for Emma! – Emma is not strong. She would catch a terrible cold. Poor little Harriet would do the same. So you would all. Mrs. Winstone, you would be pretty much done; don't let them talk about such a wild thing. Pray, don't let them talk about it. This young man (speaks more quietly) is very thoughtless. Don't tell his father, but this young man isn't quite the right guy. He opened the doors very often that evening and kept them very ruthlessly open. He doesn't think about the drought. I don't want to turn you against him, but he's really not the right one!"
Mrs. Winstone regretted such an accusation. She knew how important it was and did everything in her power to eliminate it. All the doors were now closed, the passage plan abandoned and the first scheme of dancing only in the room in which they were located was taken up again; and with such ?? Good will on the part of Frank Curcelle that the space, which a quarter of an hour ago had been considered hardly sufficient for five couples, was now trying to be made up for ten enough.
"We were too magnificent," he said. "We left space unnecessarily. Ten couples can stand here very well."
Emma disagreed. "It would be a lot – a sad amount; and what could be worse than dancing without room to turn?"
"Very true," he replied earnestly; "it was very bad." But he still continued to measure, and still ended with:
"I think it will be a very bearable place for ten couples."
"No, no," she said, "you are quite unreasonable. It would be terrible to stand so close! Nothing is more enjoyable than dancing in a crowd – and a crowd in a small room!"
"There's no denying that," he replied. "I agree with you exactly. A crowd in a small room – Miss Lodge, you have the art of giving pictures in a few words. Exquisite, quite exquisite! – But having come this far, one does not want to give up the matter. It would be a disappointment for my father – and overall – I don't know – I think ten couples could be very good here."
Emma noticed that his gallantry was a little stubborn and that he would rather resist than lose the pleasure of dancing with her; But she accepted the compliment and forgave the rest. Had she ever intended to marry him, it might have been worth the effort to stop and think and try to understand the value of his preference and the character of his temperament; but for all the purposes of their acquaintance, he was quite gracious enough.
Before the middle of the next day he was in Hartfield; and he entered the room with such a pleasant smile that confirmed the continuation of the scheme. It soon turned out that he came to announce an improvement.
"Well, Miss Lodge," he began almost immediately, "your inclination to dance was hopefully not entirely deterred by the horrors in my father's small rooms. I bring a new proposal on this subject: - a thought of my father, which is just waiting for your approval to be put into practice. May I hope for the honor of your hand for the first two dances of this little planned ball, which will not be performed in Randalls, but in the Crown Inn?"
"The Crown!"
"Yes; If you and Mr. Lodge don't see an objection, and I hope you can't, my dad hopes his friends will be kind enough to visit him there. Better accommodations, he can promise them, and a no less grateful welcome than at Randalls. It's his own idea. Mrs. Winstone doesn't mind, provided you're satisfied. We all feel that. Oh! you were absolutely right! Ten couples, in each of Randalls' rooms, would have been unbearable! – Terrible! – I had all the time how right you were, but was too worried to secure anything to want to give it up. Isn't that a good exchange? – You agree – I hope you agree?"
"It seems to me to be a plan that no one can object to if Mr. and Mrs. Winstone don't. I find it admirable; and as far as I can answer that for myself, I will be very happy – it seems to be the only improvement there could be. Dad, don't you think it's an excellent improvement?"
She had to repeat and explain it before it was fully understood; and then, since it was quite new, more representations were needed to make it acceptable.
"No; he thought it was far from one improvement – a very bad plan – much worse than the other. A room in an inn was always damp and dangerous; never properly ventilated or habitable. If they have to dance, they'd better dance at Randalls. He had never been to the room at the Crown in his life – didn't know the people who guarded it from sight. – Oh! no – a very bad plan. They would catch worse colds in the Crown than anywhere else."
"I wanted to state, sir," said Frank Curcelle, "that one of the big recommendations of this change would be the very low risk of a cold — so much less danger in the Crown than in Randalls! Mr. Perry might have reason to regret the change, but no one else."
"Sir," Mr. Lodge said quite warmly, "You are very wrong if you think Mr. Perry is such a person. Mr. Perry is extremely concerned when one of us is sick. But I don't understand how the room at the Crown can be safer for you than your father's house."
"If only because it's bigger, sir. We won't have any opportunity to open the windows at all – not even the whole evening; and it is this terrible habit of opening the windows and letting cold air in on heated bodies that (as you know very well, sir) wreaks havoc."
"Open the windows! – but sure, Mr. Curcelle, no one would think about opening the windows at Randalls. No one could be so careless! I've never heard of anything like this. Dancing with the windows open! I'm sure neither your father nor Mrs. Winstone (that was poor Miss Taylor) would bear it."
"Ah! Sir – but a thoughtless young person sometimes steps behind a window curtain and throws up a sash without being suspected. I have often experienced it myself."
"Do you really have that, sir? – Bless me! I could never have guessed it. But I live outside the world and am often amazed at what I hear. However, this makes a difference; and maybe when we talk about it – but such things require a lot of thought. They cannot be adopted in a hurry. If Mr. and Mrs. Winstone are so accommodating and come over here one morning, we can talk about it and see what can be done."
"But unfortunately, sir, my time is so limited..."
"Oh!" interrupted Emma, ??" there will be enough time to discuss everything. It is in no hurry at all. If it is possible to be with the crown, dad, it will be very convenient for the horses. They will be so close to their own stable."
"They will, my dear. That's a great thing. Not that James ever complains; but it is right to spare our horses if we can. If I could be sure that the rooms are thoroughly ventilated – but is Mrs. Stokes to be trusted? I doubt it. I don't even know them from seeing."
"I can take responsibility for anything like that, sir, because it will be under Mrs. Winstone's care. Mrs. Winstone is committed to running the whole thing."
"So, Dad! – Now you must be satisfied – Our own dear Mrs. Winstone, who is care in itself. Remember what Mr. Perry said so many years ago when I had the measles? "If Miss Taylor commits to packing up Miss Emma, you don't have to worry, sir." How many times have I heard you call it such a compliment to her!"
"Yes, very true. Mr. Perry said it. I will never forget it. Poor little Emma! They were very bad with the measles; that is, you would have been very bad if Perry hadn't had his great attention. He came four times a day for a week. He said it was a very good strain from the beginning – which was our great consolation; but measles is a terrible disease. I hope whenever poor Bella's little ones have the measles, she will be sent to Perry."
"My father and Mrs. Winstone are at the Crown right now," said Frank Curcelle, "and are exploring the possibilities of the house. I left them there and came to Hartfield, impatient with your opinion and hoping you could be persuaded to join them and give your advice immediately. I was asked to say this from both of them. It would be their greatest pleasure if you would allow me to accompany you there. Without you, they can't do anything satisfactorily."
Emma was very happy to be called to such advice; and her father, who tried to reconsider everything while she was gone, the two young people immediately made their way to the crown together. There were Mr. and Mrs. Winstone; pleased to see them and get their approval, very busy and very happy in their different ways; they in a small need; and he, finding everything perfect.
"Emma," she said, "this newspaper is worse than I expected. Appearance! in some places it is terribly dirty; and the paneling is more yellow and deserted than anything I could have imagined."
"My dear, you're too picky," her husband said. "What does all this mean? By candlelight you don't see any of it. It will be as clean as Randalls by candlelight. We never see any of that at our club nights."
The ladies here probably exchanged glances, which meant, "Men never know when things are dirty or not.", and the gentlemen may have been thinking to themselves, "Women will have their little nonsense and unnecessary worries."
However, an embarrassment arose that the gentlemen did not spurn. It looked like a dining room. When the ballroom was built, dinner was out of the question; and a small adjoining map room was the only addition. What was to be done? This map room would now be used as a map room; or, if cards were conveniently declared unnecessary by their four selves, wasn't it still too small for a cozy dinner? Another room of much larger size could be secured for this purpose; but it was at the other end of the house, and you had to cross a long, cumbersome corridor to get there. This made a difficulty. Mrs. Winstone feared droughts for the young people in this passage; and neither Emma nor the gentlemen could bear the prospect of being miserably crowded at dinner.
Mrs. Winstone suggested not having a regular dinner; only sandwiches etc., which are placed in the small room; but this was scouted out as a pathetic proposal. A private dance without sitting down for dinner was declared a shameful betrayal of the rights of men and women; and Mrs. Winstone is not allowed to talk about it again. Then she took another path of expediency, and when she looked into the dubious room, she
remarked,
"I don't think it's that small. We're not going to be many, you know."
And at the same time, Mr. Winstone, who walked through the aisle quickly and with long steps, shouted,
"You talk a lot about the length of this passage, my dear. It's just nothing; and not the slightest drought. from the stairs."
"I wish," said Mrs. Winstone, "you could know which arrangement our guests in general would like best. Doing what would be most pleasant in general must be our goal – if only you could say what that would be."
"Yes, very true," Frank exclaimed, "very true. You want the opinion of your neighbors. I am not surprised about you. If you could find out what the boss of them is – the Cole, for example. You are not far away. Should I call them? Or Miss Bates? It is even closer. – And I don't know if Miss Bates doesn't understand the inclinations of the rest of the people as well as anyone else. I think we want greater advice. Suppose I go and invite Miss Bates to join us?
"Well, please," Mrs. Winstone said rather hesitantly, "if you think it will be useful."
"You won't get anything meaningful from Miss Bates," Emma said. "She will be full of joy and gratitude, but she will not tell you anything. She won't even listen to your questions. I don't see any benefit in consulting Miss Bates."
"But it's so amusing, so extremely amusing! I love to hear Miss Bates talk. And I don't have to bring the whole family, you know."
Here Mr. Winstone joined them, and when he heard what was proposed, he gave him his firm approval.
"Yes, do that, Frank. – Go and get Miss Bates, and let's end the matter immediately. She will enjoy the plan, I'm sure; and I don't know of a more suitable person to show us how to eliminate difficulties. Get Miss Bates. We are growing a bit too beautifully. It is a constant lesson in how to be happy. But get them both. Invite them both."
"Both, sir! Can the old lady?" ...
"The old woman! No, the young lady, certainly. I'll think you're a big fool, Frank, if you bring the aunt without the niece."
"Oh! I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't remember right away. If you wish, I will undoubtedly try to convince them both." And he ran away.
Long before he reappeared and the small, orderly, nimble aunt and her elegant niece – Mrs. Winstone, like a good-natured woman and a good wife – had re-examined the passage and found the evils in it much less than she had previously assumed – in fact very insignificant; and this is where the decision-making difficulties ended. The rest, at least speculatively, went completely smoothly. All the small arrangements for table and chairs, light and music, tea and dinner were made by themselves; or were left as mere trifles that could be settled at any time between Mrs. Winstone and Mrs. Stokes. - Every invited body should surely come; Frank had already written to Enscombe to suggest staying a few days beyond his fourteen days, which could not possibly be refused. And it was to be a delightful dance.
When Miss Bates arrived, she agreed very warmly that it had to be. She was not wanted as a consultant; but as an approver (a much safer character) she was really welcome. Their approval, at the same time general and meticulous, warm and incessant, could only please; and for another half an hour they all went back and forth between the different rooms, some suggested, others participated and everyone was happy about the future. The party didn't end without Emma being safely secured for the first two dances by the hero of the evening, nor without her overheard Mr. Winstone whispering to his wife, "He asked her, my dear. That's right. I knew he would!"
Chapter 139
Catherine's expectations of her visit to Milsom Street were so high that disappointment was inevitable; and accordingly, although she was received most politely by General Alsina and greeted kindly by his daughter, even though Henry was at home and no one else from society, she found her on her return, without spending many hours on her examination, feelings that she had gone to her appointment to prepare for happiness, that it had not granted him. Instead of finding herself improved in the acquaintance with Miss Alsina through the traffic of the day, she hardly seemed to her anymore like ?? familiar as before; Instead of seeing Henry Alsina better than ever in the informality of a family celebration, he had never said so little and had never been so unpleasant; and despite her father's great courtesy to her – despite his thanks, invitations and compliments – it had been a salvation to get away from him. It confused them to explain all this. It could not be General Alsina's fault. That he was completely pleasant and good-natured and a very charming man in general left no doubt, because he was tall and pretty and Henry's father. He could not be responsible for his children's lack of spirits or for their lack of joy in his society. She eventually hoped that the former might have been a coincidence, and the latter she could only attribute to her own stupidity. When Bella heard the details of the visit, she made another statement: "It was all pride, pride, unbearable pride and pride! She had long suspected that the family was very high standing, and that made it safe. She had never heard of such outrageous behavior as Miss Alsina in her life! Not to honour your house with the common good! To behave so haughtily towards their guest! Hard to talk to her!"
"But it wasn't that bad, Bella; there was no arrogance; she was very polite."
"Oh! Don't defend them! And then the brother, he, who seemed so fond of you! Good heavens! Well, the feelings of some people are incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked at you once all day?"
"I'm not saying that; but he didn't seem to be in a good mood."
"How contemptuous! Of all things, impermanence is my aversion. Let me ask you never to think of him again, my dear Catherine; verily, he is unworthy of you."
"Unworthy! I don't think he ever thinks of me."
"That's exactly what I'm saying; he never thinks of you. This fickleness! Oh! How different from your brother and my brother! I really believe John has the most consistent heart."
"But as far as General Alsina is concerned, I assure you that it would be impossible to behave towards me with greater courtesy and attention; His only concern seemed to be to entertain and make me happy."
"Oh! I know nothing evil of him; I don't suspect him of pride. I think he's a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's judgment..."
"Well, I'll see how they relate to me tonight; we will meet them in the rooms."
"And do I have to go?"
"Don't you intend to? I thought it was all done."
"No, since you attach such importance to it, I can't deny you anything. But don't insist that I'm very pleasant, because my heart, you know, will be about forty miles away. And as far as dancing is concerned, don't mention it, I beg; that's out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare say; but I will cut it very short. Ten to one, but he guesses the reason, and that's exactly what I want to avoid, so I'll insist that he keep his guess to himself."
Bella's opinion of the Alsinas did not affect her friend; she was sure that there had been no impudence in the manners of brother or sister; and she did not believe that there was pride in her hearts. The evening rewarded their trust; she was received by one with the same kindness and by the other with the same attention as before: Miss Alsina tried to be close to her, and Henry asked her to dance.
After hearing on Milsom Street the day before that her older brother, Captain Alsina, was expected almost every hour, the name of a very fashionable-looking, handsome young man she had never seen before was not embarrassed now apparently part of her party. She looked at him with great admiration and even thought it possible that some people thought he was more beautiful than his brother, although in her eyes his face was more presumptuous and his facial expression less engaging. His taste and manners were undoubtedly decidedly inferior; for in her ear he not only protested against any thought of dancing herself, but even laughed openly at Henry because he thought it was possible. From the latter circumstance, one can assume that whatever our heroine may think of him, his admiration for her was not very dangerous; It is unlikely that there will be hostility between the brothers or persecution of the lady. He cannot be the instigator of the three villains in cavalry coats, of which she is henceforth forced into a travel carriage and four who will drive away at incredible speed. Meanwhile, Catherine, undisturbed by premonitions of such an evil or any evil at all, apart from having only a short sentence to dance off, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Alsina and listened with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and by finding him irresistible, she became it herself. of which she is later forced into a touring car and four who will drive away at incredible speed. Meanwhile, Catherine, undisturbed by premonitions of such an evil or any evil at all, apart from having only a short sentence to dance off, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Alsina and listened with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and by finding him irresistible, she became it herself. of which she is later forced into a touring car and four who will drive away at incredible speed. Meanwhile, Catherine, undisturbed by premonitions of such an evil or any evil at all, apart from having only a short sentence to dance off, enjoyed her usual happiness with Henry Alsina and listened with sparkling eyes to everything he said; and by finding him irresistible, she became it herself.
At the end of the first dance, Captain Alsina approached her again and, much to Catherine's dissatisfaction, pulled his brother away. Whispering, they withdrew; and although her tender sensitivity was not immediately troubled and presented it as fact, Captain Alsina must have heard a malicious misrepresentation from her, which he now hastily shared with his brother, hoping to separate her forever, she could not let her partner transport out of her eyes without very unpleasant sensations. Their tension was a full five minutes; and she started holding it for a very long quarter of an hour when they both came back and an explanation was given by Asking Henry if she thought her friend, Miss Dorfman, would object to dancing, because his brother would be very happy to be introduced to her. Catherine replied without hesitation that she was very sure that Miss Dorfman did not want to dance at all. The cruel answer was passed on to the other, and he immediately left.
"The brother won't mind, I know that," she said, "because I heard him say beforehand that he hates dancing; but it was very good-natured of him to think about it. I suspect he saw Bella sit down and imagined that she might want a partner; but he is very wrong, for she would not dance at any price in the world."
Henry smiled and said, "How little trouble it can take you to understand the motives of others' actions."
"Why? What do you think?"
"You're not concerned with how likely such a person is to be influenced, what is the incentive that is most likely to affect such a person's feelings, age, situation, and likely lifestyle habits – but how should I be influenced?
"I don't understand you."
"Then we are very unequal, because I understand you completely."
"Me? Yes; I can't speak well enough to be incomprehensible."
"Bravo! An excellent satire on modern language."
"But please tell me what you mean."
"Should I really? Do you really want it? But you are not aware of the consequences; it will put you in a very cruel embarrassment and will certainly provoke a disagreement between us."
"No, no; nor may it; I'm not afraid."
"Well, then I just meant that you attributed my brother's desire to dance with Miss Dorfman solely to your good-naturedness, convinced me that you yourself are superior to the whole world in good-naturedness."
Catherine blushed and refused, and the Lord's predictions were confirmed. However, it was something in his words that rewarded her for the pain of confusion; and this something occupied her so much that she withdrew for some time, forgot to speak or listen, and almost forgot where she was; until, awakened by Bella's voice, she looked up and saw her with Captain Alsina, who was preparing to shake their hand.
Bella shrugged her shoulders and smiled, the only explanation for this extraordinary change that could be given at the time; but since it was not quite enough for Katharina's understanding, she expressed her astonishment in all clarity with her partner.
"I can't imagine how this could have happened! Bella was so determined not to dance."
"And has Bella never changed her mind before?"
"Oh! But, because – And your brother! After what you told him about me, how could he remember to ask her?"
"I can't be surprised at this head. You offer me to surprise me because of your friend, and that's why I am; but as for my brother, his behavior in the business, I must confess, was no more than I believed that he was completely up to him. Your friend's fairness was an open appeal; Their firmness, you know, could only be understood by yourself."
"You laugh; but I assure you, Bella is generally very steadfast."
"It's as much as you should say about everyone. Always being firm often has to be stubborn. When it is right to relax is to examine the judgment; and without reference to my brother, I really believe that Miss Dorfman did not vote badly when she committed herself to the present hour."
The friends could not get together for a confidential conversation until all the dances were over; but then, as they walked through the room arm in arm, Bella explained to herself, "I'm not surprised at your surprise; and I'm really dead tired. He's such a rattle! Amusing enough if my mind had been detached; but I would have given the world to sit still."
"So why didn't you do it?"
"Oh! My darling! It would have looked so special; and you know how I hate to do that. I rejected him as long as I could, but he wouldn't accept rejection. You have no idea how he harassed me. I asked him to apologize and find another partner – but no, not him; after he reached for my hand, there was no one left in the room to think of; and he didn't just want to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely path to convince me; for of all things I hated beautiful speeches and compliments; and so on – and then I realized that there would be no peace if I didn't get up. Also, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might resent it if I didn't, and your dear brother, I'm sure he would have been unhappy if I had sat all evening. I'm so glad it's over! My mood is exhausted from listening to his nonsense: and then, since I'm such a smart young lad, I saw that all eyes were on us."
"He's really very handsome."
"Good looking! Yes, I suppose he can. I dare say that people would admire him in general; but he's not in my beauty style at all. I hate a flowery complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is doing very well. Amazingly conceited, I'm sure. I knocked him down several times in my own way, you know."
The next time the young ladies met, they had a much more interesting topic to discuss. The second letter from James Fenmore was then preserved and his father's kind intentions were fully explained. A livelihood of which was patron and incumbent Mr. Fenmore himself, worth about four hundred pounds annually, was to be ceded to his son as soon as he was old enough to take him over; no slight deduction from family income, no meagre assignment to one in ten children. As a future heir, he was also assured of at least an equivalent estate.
James took this opportunity to express himself with decent gratitude; and the need to wait between two and three years before they could get married, although they were not welcome, no more than he had expected, was borne by him without dissatisfaction. Catherine, whose expectations had been as vague as her ideas about her father's income, and whose judgment was now determined exclusively by her brother, was just as satisfied and congratulated Bella warmly that everything was so pleasantly arranged.
"It's really very adorable," Bella said with a serious face. "Sir. Fenmore behaved really well," said the gentle Mrs. Dorfman, looking anxiously at her daughter. You couldn't expect more from him, you know. If he realizes that he can gradually do more, I dare to say that he will, because I am sure that he must be an excellent, kind-hearted man. Four hundred is really only a small income for starters, but your desires, my dear Bella, are so humble that you don't think about how little you ever want, my dear."
"I no longer wish for my own sake; but I cannot bear to be the means to harm my dear Fenmore, to get him to sit on an income that is barely enough to find one for the general needs of life. For me, it's nothing; I never think about myself."
"I know you never do that, my dear; and you will always find your reward in the affection that everyone feels for you. There has never been a young woman who has been loved as much as you by everyone you know; and I dare say when Mr. Fenmore sees you, my dear child – but let's not worry our dear Catherine by talking about such things. Mr. Fenmore behaved so very well, you know. I have always heard that he is an excellent man; and you know, my dear, we can't assume what if you had had a decent fortune, he would have come out with something more, because I'm sure he must be an extremely liberal man."
"No one can think better about Fenmore-san than I can, I'm sure. But everyone has their faults, you know, and everyone has the right to do what they want with their own money." Catherine was hurt by these insinuations. "I'm very sure," she said, "that my father promised to do as much as he can afford."
Bella gathered. "There is no doubt about that, my sweet Catherine, and you know me well enough to be sure that a much lower income would satisfy me. It's not the lack of more money that makes me a little upset right now; I hate money; and if our union could now take place for only fifty pounds a year, I would leave nothing to be desired. Ah! my Catherine, you have discovered me. There's the sting. The long, long, endless two and a half years that are supposed to pass before your brother can make a living."
"Yes, yes, my dear Bella," said Mrs. Dorfman, "we look perfectly into your heart. You don't have a disguise. We fully understand the present anger; and everyone must love you all the more for such noble, honest affection."
Catherine's unpleasant feelings subsided. She tried to believe that the delay in the wedding was the only source of Bella's regret; and when she saw her as cheerful and kind as ever at her next conversation, she tried to forget that she had thought differently for a minute. James soon followed his letter and was received with the most gratifying kindness.
Chapter 140
"If this open weather continues any longer," Mrs. Jennings said, when they met at breakfast the next morning, "Sir John will not like leaving Barton next week; it's a sad thing for athletes when they lose the joy one day. Poor people ! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it to heart so much."
"That's true," Marianne shouted in a cheerful voice, stepping up to the window to watch the day. "I hadn't thought of that. This weather will keep many athletes in the country."
It was a happy memory, all her good mood was restored by it. "It's indeed enchanting weather for YOU," she continued as she sat down at the breakfast table with a happy expression on her face. "How much they have to enjoy it! But" (with a small concern) "it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of year and after such a series of rains, we will certainly have very little more of it. Frost will set in soon, and in all likelihood with severity. In a day or two, perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer – yes, maybe it will freeze tonight!"
"Anyway," said Eleanore, who wanted to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I would say we'll have Sir John and Lady Mideltown in town by the end of next week."
"Ay, my dear, I assure you that we will. Mary always has her own way."
"And now," Eleanore speculated in silence, "she will write to Combe with today's mail."
But when she did, the letter was written and sent with a privacy that eluded all her vigilance to establish the fact. Whatever the truth may be, and Eleanore was far from feeling any real satisfaction about it, but while she saw Marianne in the mood, she couldn't feel very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in good spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather and even happier in their anticipation of a frost.
The morning was mainly spent leaving cards in the homes of Mrs. Jennings' acquaintances to inform her that she was in town; and Marianne was busy all the time observing the direction of the wind, observing the changes in the sky and imagining a change in the air.
"Don't you find it colder than in the morning, Eleanore? That seems to me to be a very decisive difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my. Yesterday it wasn't like that, I think. The clouds are shining When we also say goodbye, the sun will rise immediately, and we will have a clear afternoon."
Eleanore was alternately scattered and tormented; but Marianne insisted on it and saw every night in the glow of the fire and every morning in the atmosphere the certain signs of approaching frost.
The Miss Hargroves had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings' way of life and acquaintance than with her always friendly behavior towards herself. Everything in her household was run according to the most liberal plan, and except for a few old city friends, whom she had never left to Lady Mideltown's regret, she did not visit anyone where a performance could even upset her young companions. Pleased that she found herself more comfortable in this special place than she had expected, Eleanore was very willing to pay a premium for the lack of real pleasure at each of her evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, were only for cards, to amuse her little.
Colonel Bridgerton, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to see Marianne and talk to Eleanore, who often drew more satisfaction from talking to him than from any other everyday event, but who at the same time saw with great concern his continued appreciation for her sister. She feared that it was a strengthening donation. It hurt her to see the seriousness with which he often watched Marianne, and his mood was certainly worse than in Barton.
About a week after their arrival, it became clear that Warwick had also arrived. His card was on the table when they came back from the morning drive.
"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he was here while we were on our way." Eleanore, pleased with the certainty that he was in London, now dared to say: "Rely on it, he will come back tomorrow." But Marianne hardly seemed to hear her, and at Mrs. Jennings' entry she escaped with the precious card.
This event, while raising the mood of Eleanore, gave all and more than all her former excitement back to those of her sister. From that moment on, her mind was never calm again; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day made her unsuitable for anything. She insisted on being left behind the next morning when the others went out.
Eleanore's thoughts were full of what might happen during her absence on Berkeley Street; but a glimpse of her sister when they returned was enough to inform her that Warwick had not paid a second visit there. A piece of paper was just brought in and placed on the table.
"For me!" cried Marianne and hastily stepped forward.
"No, Ma'am, for my mistress."
But Marianne, not convinced, took it up immediately.
"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how challenging!"
"So you're expecting a letter?" said Eleanore, who could no longer remain silent.
"Yes, a little – not much."
After a short break. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."
"No, Eleanore, this accusation from YOU - you who don't trust anyone!"
"Me!" Eleanore replied in some confusion; "In fact, Marianne, I have nothing to tell."
"Me neither," Marianne replied energetically, "so our situations are the same.
Eleanore, tormented by this restraint in herself that she could not put aside, did not know how to push for greater openness in Marianne under such circumstances.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and she read the note she was given aloud. It came from Lady Mideltown announcing her arrival on Conduit Street the night before and the following evening around the company of her mother and cousins?? begged. Shops of Sir John's side and a severe cold from her prevented her visit to Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted; but as the hour of dating approached, as it was customary for Mrs. Jennings out of courtesy that they should both accompany her on such a visit, Eleanore had some difficulty persuading her sister to leave, for she still hadn't seen any of Warwick; and was therefore no more averse to conversations abroad than unwilling to risk that he would be recalled in their absence.
When the evening ended, Eleanore found that this mood did not change significantly due to a change of residence, because although Sir John had hardly settled in the city, he had managed to gather almost twenty young people around him and amuse them with a ball. However, this was an affair that Lady Mideltown did not approve. In the countryside, an unintentional dance was very much allowed; but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easy to achieve, one risked too much for the satisfaction of some girls when it became known that Lady Mideltown had given a small dance of eight or nine pairs with two violins and a mere sideboard collation.
Mr. and Mrs. Palmifer were from the Party; of the former, whom they had never seen before since their arrival in the city, as he carefully took care to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never got too close to her, they were not given an identification mark. He looked at them lightly, without knowing who they were, and just nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne took a look at the apartment as she entered: it was enough – HE was not there – and she sat down, just as inclined, to receive or communicate pleasure. After gathering for about an hour, Mr. Palmifer strolled to the Miss Hargroves to express his surprise at seeing them in town, even though Colonel Bridgerton had first been informed of their arrival at his home.
"I thought you were both in Devonshire," he said.
"Have you?" replied Eleonore.
"When will you go back?"
"I don't know." And that's where their discourse ended.
Never before in her life had Marianne been so unwilling to dance as on this evening, and never so exhausted from the exercise. She complained about this when they returned to Berkeley Street.
"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason for all this very well; if a certain person who is said to be nameless had been there, you wouldn't have been a bit tired: and to tell the truth, it wasn't very nice of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."
"Invited!" shouted Marianne.
"That's what my daughter Mideltown told me, because apparently Sir John met him somewhere on the street this morning." Marianne said nothing more, but looked extremely hurt. Impatient in this situation to do something that could lead to her sister's relief, Eleanore decided to write to her mother the next morning, hoping to obtain the long-delayed investigation by arousing her fears about Marianne's health; and she was even more eager for this measure when she noticed after breakfast in the morning that Marianne was writing to Warwick again, because she could not assume that it was to another person.
Around noon, Mrs. Jennings went out on business alone, and Eleanore immediately began her letter, while Marianne, too restless for a job, too anxious for a conversation, went from one window to another or sat down at the window fire in melancholic meditation. Eleanore turned very seriously to her mother, told her everything that had happened, her suspicion of Warwick's impermanence and urged her with all duty and affection to demand from Marianne a report on her real situation to him.
Her letter was barely finished when a knock announced a visit and Colonel Bridgerton was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window and hated any kind of company, left the room before he entered it. He seemed more serious than usual, and although he expressed his satisfaction at finding Miss Hargrove alone, as if he had something special to say to her, he sat there for a while without saying a word. Eleanore, convinced that he had to make a message concerning her sister, impatiently awaited its opening. It wasn't the first time she felt the same conviction; for more than once before, starting with the observation "Your sister looks uncomfortable today" or "Your sister seems to be out of the mood", he had come to the point to either reveal or ask, something special about her. After a break of several minutes, her silence was interrupted when he asked her in a somewhat excited voice when he should congratulate her on acquiring a brother? Eleanore was not prepared for such a question, and since she had no answer ready, she was forced to choose the simple and usual way out, to ask what he meant? He tried to smile when he replied, "Your sister's engagement to Mr. Warwick is well known."
"It can't be well known," Eleanore replied, "because her own family doesn't know."
He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I'm afraid my request was outrageous;
"How can this be? Who could you have heard it mentioned?"
"Of many – some you don't know about, others you are most familiar with, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmifer and the Mideltowns. But maybe I still haven't believed it, because where the mind may be quite unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I hadn't accidentally seen a letter in your sister's hand when the servant let me in, in the hand of Mr. Warwick. but I was convinced before I could ask the question: "Has everything been finally clarified? Is it impossible,... But I have no right, and I could have no chance of success." Excuse me for saying so much to Miss Hargrove, but I hardly know what to do, and I depend most on your wisdom. Tell me that everything is determined, that every attempt, that, in short, hiding, when hiding is possible, is all that remains."
These words, which gave Eleanore a direct confession of his love for her sister, touched her very much. She couldn't say anything right away, and even when she recovered, she briefly considered what answer she would give best. The real state of affairs between Warwick and her sister was so ?? Little known that when she tried to explain it, she could easily say too much as she could say too little. However, convinced that Marianne's affection for Warwick could leave no hope for Colonel Bridgerton's success, whatever that affection would be, and at the same time she wanted to protect her behavior from reproach, she considered it extremely prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She therefore admitted that
He listened to her with silent attention, and when she stopped speaking, he rose directly from his seat and said in a moving voice, "I wish her sister all the happiness imaginable; Warwick, so that he might strive to earn them, "– said goodbye and left.
Eleanore did not draw pleasant feelings from this conversation in order to reduce her restlessness on other points; on the contrary, she remained with a melancholic impression of Colonel Bridgerton's misfortune, and was even prevented from wishing it removed, by her fear of the real event that she had to confirm.
Chapter 141
Elizabeth sat alone the next morning and wrote to Jane, while Mrs. Collins and Maria were going to the village on business when she was startled by a doorbell, a sure signal from a visitor. Since she had not heard a carriage, she did not consider it unlikely that it was Lady Catherine, and under this fear put away her half-finished letter to avoid all the outrageous questions when the door opened and to her great surprise Mr. Drury, and only Mr. Drury, entered the room.
He also seemed amazed when he found her alone and apologized for his intrusion by letting her know that he understood that all the ladies would be in the house.
Then they sat down, and when their research on rosings was done, they seemed to run the risk of sinking into complete silence. It was therefore absolutely necessary to think of something, and in that emergence she remembered WHEN she had last seen him in Hertfordshire, and was curious what he would say about her hasty departure, noting:
"How suddenly you all left Netherfield last November, Mr Drury! It must have been a very pleasant surprise for Mr. Woodland to see you all so soon after him; because if I remember correctly, he only left the day before. I hope he and his sisters were fine when you left London?"
"Absolutely, thank you."
She noted that she should not receive a different answer, adding after a short pause
,
"I think I understand that Mr. Woodland doesn't think much of ever returning to Netherfield?"
"I've never heard him say that; but it is likely that he will spend very little time there in the future. He has many friends and is in a phase of life where friends and engagements are constantly increasing.'
"If he only wants to be in Netherfield for a little, it would be better for the neighbourhood if he gave up the place altogether, because then we could possibly get a sedentary family there. But maybe Mr. Woodland took the house not so much for the convenience of the neighborhood as for his own, and we have to expect him to keep it or give it up on the same principle."
"I shouldn't be surprised," Drury said, "if he gave it up as soon as there is a suitable purchase offer."
Elizabeth did not answer. She was afraid to talk about his friend for longer; and since he had nothing else to say, he was now determined to leave him the trouble of finding a topic.
He understood the hint and soon began: "This seems to be a very comfortable house. I think Lady Catherine contributed a great deal when Mr Collins first came to Hunsford."
"I think she did – and I'm sure she couldn't have shown her kindness to a more grateful object."
'Lord. Collins seems very happy with the choice of his wife.'
"Yes, in fact, his friends can be very happy that he met one of the very few reasonable women who would have accepted him or made him happy if they had. My girlfriend has an excellent understanding – although I'm not sure I think her marriage to Mr. Collins is the smartest thing she's ever done. However, she seems to be perfectly happy, and from a cautious point of view, it certainly suits her very well.'
"It must be very pleasant for them to settle down at such a short distance from their own family and friends."
"An easy distance, do you call it? It's almost fifty miles."
"And what are fifty miles of good road? A little more than half a day trip. Yes, I call it a VERY easy distance.'
"I should never have considered removal as one of the ADVANTAGES of the game," Elizabeth exclaimed. "I should never have said that Mrs. Collins lives near her family."
"It is a testament to your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond longbourn's immediate neighborhood seems far away, I suppose."
When he spoke, there was a kind of smile that Elizabeth believed she understood; he must assume that she is thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed when she replied
,
"I'm not saying that a woman can't settle too close to her family. The distance and the near must be relative and depend on many different circumstances. Where there is the happiness of making travel expenses unimportant, distance does not become an evil. But that's not the case HERE. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a pleasant income, but not one that allows frequent travel – and I'm convinced my girlfriend wouldn't call herself close to her family less than half the current distance."
Drury-san pulled his chair up to her a little and said, "You can't have a right to such a strong local bond. YOU can't always have been in Longbourn."
Elizabeth looked surprised. The Lord experienced a change in feeling; he moved back his chair, took a newspaper off the table, flew over it and said in a colder voice,
"Are you happy with Kent?"
This was followed by a brief dialogue about the country, calm and concise on both sides – and soon ended by the entry of Charlotte and her sister, who had just returned from their walk. The Tete-a-Tete surprised her. Drury-san told the mistake that had caused him to disturb Miss Mitchell, and after sitting for a few more minutes without telling anyone much, he left.
'What does that mean?' Charlotte said as soon as he was gone. "My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, otherwise he would never have called us in this familiar way."
But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it didn't seem very likely, even to Charlotte's wishes; and after various conjectures, they could finally only assume that his visit stemmed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was all the more likely of the season. All field sports were over. Inside the doors there was Lady Catherine, books and a pool table, but gentlemen can not always be inside the doors; and near the rectory or the grace of walking to him or the people who lived in it, the two cousins found ???? a temptation from that time to go there almost every day. They called at different times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together and occasionally accompanied by their aunt. It was clear to all of them that Colonel Gill came because he enjoyed their company, a conviction that of course recommended him even more; and Elizabeth was reminded of her former darling George Waterhouse by her own satisfaction of being with him, as well as by his obvious admiration for her; and although when she compared her, she saw that Colonel Gill's manners had less captivating softness, she believed that he was perhaps best informed.
But why Mr. Drury came to the rectory so often was harder to understand. It could not be for society, as he often sat together for ten minutes without opening his lips; and when he spoke, it seemed to be the result of a necessity rather than a choice—a sacrifice for decency, not pleasure for himself. He rarely seemed really lively. Mrs. Collins didn't know what to think of him. That Colonel Gill occasionally laughed at his stupidity proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and since she would have liked to believe that this change was the effect of love and the object of this love her friend Eliza, she seriously set to work to find out. She watched him whenever they were in Rosings and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. Sure, he often looked at her friend, but the expression of this look was questionable. It was a serious, steadfast look, but she often doubted whether there was much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed to be nothing but thoughtlessness.
She had suggested to Elizabeth once or twice that he might be partisan towards her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it was right to push for the topic, otherwise expectations could be raised that could only end in disappointment; because in her opinion it left no doubt that all her friend's dislike would disappear if she could suspect him in her power.
In her friendly plans for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned to marry Colonel Gill. He was incomparably the most pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his life situation was most attractive; but to offset these benefits, Mr. Drury had considerable patronage in the Church, and his cousin could not have one at all.
Chapter 142
William's desire to see Esther dance impressed his uncle not only temporarily. The hope for an opportunity that Sir Thomas had given at that time was out of the question. He remained constantly inclined to satisfy such a kind feeling; to please everyone else who wants to see Esther dance, and to bring joy to young people in general; and after thinking about the matter and making his decision in calm independence, the result appeared the next morning at breakfast, when, after remembering his nephew's words and praising them, he added: "I don't like that, William you should leave Northamptonshire without this pleasure. I'd love to see you both dancing. You talked about the balls in Northampton. Your cousins?? have visited them occasionally; but they wouldn't quite suit us now. The fatigue would be too much for your aunt. I don't think we should think of a Northampton ball. A dance at home would be more suitable; and if-"
"Ah, my dear Sir Thomas!" interrupted Mrs. Norris: "I knew what was coming. I knew what you were trying to say. If dear Julia were at home or Mrs Rushmore was in Sotherton to provide a reason, an opportunity for something like this, you would be tempted to give a dance to the young people in Mansfield. I know you would. If they were at home to decorate the ball, a ball you would have right this Christmas. Thank your uncle, William, thank your uncle!"
"My daughters," Sir Thomas replied, intervening earnestly, "are having fun in Brighton and I hope they are very happy; but the dance I intend to give in Mansfield will be for their cousins. If we could all be gathered together, our satisfaction would undoubtedly be more complete, but the absence of some should not deter others from amusing."
Mrs. Norris had no more word to say. She saw determination in his gaze, and her surprise and anger required a few minutes of silence to calm down. A ball in such a time! His daughters absent and not consulting them themselves! However, there was soon consolation. She must be the maker of everything: Lady Schmidt would of course be spared all thoughts and efforts, and everything would fall on her. She should pay the honor of the evening; and this reflection quickly restored so much of her good mood that she could join the others before her joy and gratitude were all expressed.
Edmund, William and Esther, in their different ways, showed as much grateful joy over the promised ball as Sir Thomas could wish for. Edmund's feelings were for the other two. His father had never done him a favor or shown any more kindness to his satisfaction.
Lady Schmidt was completely calm and satisfied and had no objection. Sir Thomas was committed to making her very little effort; and she assured him "that she did not fear the difficulties at all; in fact, she couldn't imagine that there would be any."
Mrs. Norris was ready with her suggestions as to which rooms he would consider the most suitable, but found everything arranged in advance; and when she had speculated and hinted about the day, it seemed that the day was also fixed. Sir Thomas had enjoyed himself designing a very complete overview of the business; and as soon as she listened calmly, he could read his list of families to be invited, from which, with all due regard to the brevity of the invitation, he calculated to gather enough young people to form twelve or fourteen couples: and was able to explain the considerations that had led him to set the 22nd as the most suitable day. William had to be in Portsmouth on the 24th; the 22nd would therefore be the last day of his visit; but where the days were so few, it would be unwise to commit to earlier. Wife.
The ball was now a fixed thing and before the evening a proclaimed thing to all who concerned it. Invitations were sent by mail, and some young women went to bed that evening with their heads full of joyful worries, as did Esther. For them, the worries were sometimes almost beyond happiness; for young and inexperienced, with few choices and no confidence in their own tastes, "how she should be dressed" was a point of painful concern; and the almost lonely jewelry in her possession, a very pretty amber cross that William had brought her from Sicily, was the greatest need of all, for she had nothing but a piece of tape to attach to it; and even though she had once worn it that way, would it be permissible at such a time in the midst of all the rich ornaments in which she assumed that all the other young ladies would appear in it? And yet not to be worn! William had also wanted to buy her a gold chain, but the purchase had gone beyond his means, and therefore it could humiliate him not to carry the cross. These were anxious considerations; enough to sober their mood, even under the prospect of a ball given mainly for their satisfaction.
The preparations continued in the meantime, and Lady Schmidt continued to sit undisturbed on her sofa. She had some extra visits from the housekeeper, and her maid was in a hurry to make her a new dress: Sir Thomas gave orders, and Mrs. Norris ran around; but all this did not cause her any difficulties, and as she had foreseen, "there were indeed no difficulties in the business."
Edmund was particularly troubled at the time: his thoughts were deeply preoccupied with contemplating two important events that were now nearby and that were to determine his fate in life – ordination and marriage – events of such a serious character that they made up the ball, which one of them would very quickly follow, seem to be less significant in his eyes than in those of any other person in the house. On the 23rd, he went to a friend near Peterborough, in the same situation as him, and they were to be ordained during Christmas week. Half of his fate would then be determined, but the other half could not be courted so smoothly. His duties would be established, but the woman who was supposed to share, invigorate, and reward those duties might still be unattainable. He knew his own mind, but he wasn't always sure he knew Miss Dorset. There were points on which they did not quite agree; there were moments when it did not seem favorable; and although he trusted entirely in their affection, so far determined – almost determined – to make a decision within a very short time, once the variety of shops in front of him was arranged and he knew what he had to offer her, he had many anxious feelings, many doubtful hours about the result. His conviction of their appreciation for him was sometimes very strong; he could look back on a long line of encouragement, and it was just as perfect in the altruistic bond as it was in everything else. But at other times, doubt and concern mixed with his hopes; and when he thought of her well-known aversion to privacy and retirement, her determined fondness for living in London, what else could he expect but a decisive rejection? unless it were an acceptance that would have to be even more disapproved of, and to demand from his side such sacrifices of the situation and employment as the conscience must forbid.
Everyone's problem depended on one question. Did she love him well enough to give up what had previously been essential points? Did she love him well enough to stop making her essential? And this question, which he kept repeating to himself, although it was most often answered with "yes", sometimes had its "no".
Miss Dorset was soon to leave Mansfield, and under these circumstances the "no" and "yes" had alternated recently. He had seen her eyes sparkle when she spoke of the dear friend's letter demanding a long visit to London, and of Henry's kindness to commit to staying where he was until January to take her there; he had heard them speak of the joy of such a journey with a liveliness that contained a "no" in every note. But this had happened on the first day of reckoning, within the first hour of the outbreak of such pleasure, when nothing but the friends she was supposed to visit stood before her. Since then, he had heard her express herself differently, with different feelings, more changeable feelings: he had heard her tell Mrs. Grant to leave her with regret; that she began to believe that neither the friends nor the pleasures she intended were worth the ones she left behind; and although she felt she had to leave, and knew she should enjoy it once she was gone, she was already looking forward to being back in Mansfield. Wasn't there a "yes" in all this?
With such things that he had to think, arrange and rearrange, Edmund could not think much of the evening on his own, which the rest of the family looked forward to with an equally strong interest. Regardless of whether his two cousins ?? Enjoying it, the evening had no higher value for him than any other fixed meeting of the two families. At each meeting, there was hope to receive further confirmation of Miss Dorset's attachment; but the whirlwind of a ballroom may not have been particularly favorable for the excitement or expression of serious feelings. Hiring her early for the first two dances was the only commandment of individual happiness he felt in his power, and the only preparation for the ball he could participate in, despite everything that went around him,
Thursday was the day of the ball; and on Wednesday morning, Esther was still unable to convince herself of what to wear, and decided to seek the advice of the more enlightened and turn to Mrs. Grant and her sister, whose recognized taste would surely make her impeccable; and since Edmund and William had gone to Northampton and she had reason to believe that Mr. Dorset had also failed, she went down to the rectory without much fear of having an opportunity for private conversations; and the privacy of such a discussion was a very important part of it for Esther, as she was more than half ashamed of her own care.
She met Miss Dorset a few meters from the rectory, who was just setting out to visit her, and since it seemed to her that her friend, although she had to insist on turning back, did not want to lose her walk, she explained her matter once, noting that if she were kind enough to express her opinion, everything could be discussed both outside and inside. Miss Dorset seemed happy about the application, and after a short reflection, she urged Esther much more warmly than before to return with her, suggesting going up to her room where they could make themselves comfortable without Dr. and Dr. Mrs. Grant, who were together in the salon. It was exactly the plan that suited Esther; and with great gratitude on their side for this willing and kind attention, they went inside and upstairs, and were soon deep in the interesting topic. Miss Dorset, pleased with the request, gave her her best judgment and taste, made everything easy through her suggestions and tried to make everything pleasant through her encouragement. The dress is arranged in all its larger parts – "But what should you have as a necklace?" said Miss Dorset. "Shall you not carry your brother's cross?" And as she spoke, she loosened a small package that Esther had observed in her hand when she met. Esther admitted her wishes and doubts on this point: she did not know how to carry the cross or how to refrain from it. In response, she was presented with a small jewelry box and asked to choose from several gold necklaces and necklaces. Such had been the package that Miss Dorset was supplied with,
"You see what a collection I have," she said; "more than half than I ever consume or think about. I don't offer them as new. I offer nothing but an old necklace. You must forgive me freedom and commit me."
Esther was still fighting back, with all her heart. The gift was too precious. But Miss Dorset persevered and argued the case with so much loving seriousness through all the heads of William and the cross and the ball and herself to finally succeed. Esther felt compelled to give in so as not to be accused of pride or indifference or any other trifle; and after giving her consent with modest reluctance, she continued to make the selection. She looked and looked and longed to know what might be the least valuable; and was eventually determined in her choice by imagining that a necklace was placed in front of her eyes more often than the rest. It was made of gold, nicely crafted; and although Esther would have preferred a longer and simpler necklace, as it was more suitable for her purpose, she hoped by committing herself to choosing what Miss Dorset wanted to keep the least. Miss Dorset smiled her full appreciation; and hurried to complete the gift by putting the necklace on her and letting her see how good she looked. Esther had not a word to say against it, and apart from what was left of her scruples, she was extremely pleased with such a very fitting purchase. Perhaps she would have preferred to be beholden to another person. But that was an unworthy feeling. Miss Dorset had anticipated her wishes with a kindness that proved her to be a true friend. "When I wear this necklace, I will always think of you," she said, "and feel how kind you were." Esther had not a word to say against it, and apart from what was left of her scruples, she was extremely pleased with such a very fitting purchase. Perhaps she would have preferred to be beholden to another person. But that was an unworthy feeling. Miss Dorset had anticipated her wishes with a kindness that proved her to be a true friend. "When I wear this necklace, I will always think of you," she said, "and feel how kind you were." Esther had not a word to say against it, and apart from what was left of her scruples, she was extremely pleased with such a very fitting purchase. Perhaps she would have preferred to be beholden to another person. But that was an unworthy feeling. Miss Dorset had anticipated her wishes with a kindness that proved her to be a true friend. "When I wear this necklace, I will always think of you," she said, "and feel how kind you were."
"You also have to think of someone else when you wear this necklace," Miss Dorset replied. "You have to think of Henry, because it was primarily his choice. He gave it to me, and with the necklace I entrust you with the whole duty to remember the original giver. It should be a family memory. You must not think of the sister without also bringing the brother."
Esther would have returned the gift immediately in great amazement and confusion. Taking what was the gift of another person, even a brother, impossible! it must not be! and with a zeal and embarrassment that was quite entertaining for her companion, she put the necklace back on the cotton and seemed determined to take either another one or none at all. Miss Dorset thought she had never seen a more beautiful consciousness. "My dear child," she said with a laugh, "what are you afraid of? Do you think Henry will claim the necklace for me, and do you think you wouldn't have been honest with it? or do you imagine that he would feel too flattered when he sees on your beautiful neck a jewelry that he bought for his money three years ago before he knew there was such a neck in the world? or maybe" – with a mischievous look – "you suspect a confederation between us,
With the deepest blush Esther protested against such a thought.
"Well," Miss Dorset replied more seriously, but without even believing her, "to convince me that you have no idea a trick and are as unsuspicious of compliments as I have always found you, take the necklace and say nothing more about it. That it is a gift from my brother does not make the slightest difference in your assumption, as I assure you that it has no effect on my willingness to part with it. He always gives me something. I have so many gifts from him that it's impossible for me to estimate half or remember half. And as for this necklace, I don't think I've worn it six times: it's very pretty, but I never think about it; and although you would welcome anyone else in my jewelry box, you happened to settle on the very one who, if I have the choice, I would rather part with your possessions and see them than from anyone else. Don't say anything more about it, I beg you. Such a little thing is not even worth half as many words."
Esther did not dare to resist any more; and with renewed but less fortunate gratitude, she accepted the necklace again, because in Miss Dorset's eyes there was an expression with which she could not be satisfied.
It was impossible for her not to feel Mr. Dorset's changed behavior. She had seen it for a long time. Obviously, he was trying to please her: he was gallant, he was attentive, he was something like what he had been to her cousins: he wanted, accepted her, cheated her of her calm, as he had betrayed her; and whether he could not take care of this necklace – she could not convince herself of it, because Miss Dorset, pleasing as a sister, carefree as a wife and friend.
Thoughtful and doubtful, and feeling that possessing what she had desired so much did not bring much satisfaction, she now went back home, with a change rather than a reduction in worries since she had previously taken this path.
Chapter 143
The only thing was to make the prospect of the ball completely satisfactory for Emma – it was to be set for one day within the granted period of Frank Curcelle's stay in Surry; for despite Mr. Winstone's confidence, she could not have considered it so impossible that the Curcelles would not allow her nephew to stay a day beyond his fourteen days. However, this was not considered feasible. The preparations have to take time, nothing could be really finished until the third week was started, and for a few days we had to plan, proceed and hope in uncertainty – on the risk – in their opinion, the great risk of all this being in vain.
However, Enscombe was gracious, gracious indeed, if not in words. He apparently did not like his desire to stay longer; but it was not voted against. Everything was safe and prosperous; and since the removal of one worry generally makes way for another, Emma began to ?? who was now sure of her ball to accept as Mr. Hill's next annoyance provocative indifference about it. Either because he wasn't dancing himself, or because the plan had been made without his consultation, he seemed determined not to interest him, determined not to arouse any present curiosity, or to give him future fun. Emma couldn't get a more appreciative response to her voluntary communications than:
"Very good. If the Winstones find it worth the effort to put in all that effort for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say but not to choose pleasures for me. – Oh! yes, I have to be there; I could not refuse; and I will stay awake as much as I can; but I'd rather be at home and look through William Larkins' weekly bill; much sooner, I confess. – Pleasure to watch dance! – I don't, actually – I never look at it – I don't know who does it. – Beautiful dance, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who stand by it usually think of something completely different."
This Emma felt directed against her; and it made them quite angry. However, it was not a compliment to Jane Saxon that he was so indifferent or so outraged; He was not guided by her feelings when he checked the ball again, because she enjoyed the thought of it extraordinarily. It made her lively – open-hearted – she said voluntarily: –
"Oh! Miss Lodge, I hope nothing can happen to prevent the ball. What a disappointment! I am looking forward to it, I confess, with great joy."
So in order not to commit Jane Saxon, he would have preferred the company of William Larkins. No! – she was more and more convinced that Mrs. Winstone was completely wrong with this assumption. On his side was a lot of kind and compassionate affection – but no love.
Oh! there was soon no leisure to argue with Mr. Hill. Two days of joyful security were immediately followed by the overthrow of all things. A letter came from Mr. Curcelle to demand the immediate return of his nephew. Mrs. Curcelle was not doing well – far too bad to do without him; she had been in a very suffering state (so her husband said) when she wrote to her nephew two days ago, although she had not mentioned it out of her usual reluctance to inflict pain and the constant habit of never thinking about herself; but now she was too sick to play and has to ask him to leave for Enscombe immediately.
The contents of this letter were immediately forwarded to Emma in a note from Mrs. Winstone. His walking was inevitable. He must be gone in a few hours, but without real fear of his aunt, in order to alleviate his reluctance. He knew their illnesses; they never happened, except for their own convenience.
Mrs. Winstone added, "He could only take time to rush to Highbury after breakfast and say goodbye to the few friends there whom he could assume were interested in him; and that he could be expected in Hartfield very soon."
This miserable tone was the finale of Emma's breakfast. Once it was read, there was nothing more to do but complain and scream. The loss of the ball – the loss of the young man – and what the young man may feel comfortable! – It was too miserable! – It would have been such a delightful evening! – Everyone so happy! and she and her partner happiest! "I said it would be like that," was the only consolation.
Her father's feelings were quite different. He thought mainly of Mrs. Curcelle's illness and wanted to know how she was treated; and as for the ball, it was shocking to have disappointed dear Emma; but at home they would all be safer.
Emma was ready for her visitor some time before his appearance; but if this affected his impatience at all, his sad look and complete lack of spirit when he came could redeem him. He felt walking away almost too much to talk about it. His dejection was most evident. For the first few minutes he sat there really lost in thought; and when he picked himself up, it was only said:
"Of all terrible things, the farewell is the worst."
"But you will come back," Emma said. "This won't be your only visit to Randalls."
"Ah! – (shakes my head) – the uncertainty of when I might be able to return! – I will try with zeal! – It will be the subject of all my thoughts and worries! – and when my uncle and aunt go to town this spring – but I'm afraid – they didn't move last spring – I'm afraid it's a custom gone by forever."
"Our poor ball has to be given up quite a bit."
"Ah! this ball! – why did we wait for anything? – why not take the pleasure right away? – How often happiness is destroyed by preparation, foolish preparation! – You told us it would be like that. – Oh! Miss Lodge, why are you always right?"
"In fact, I am very sorry to be right in this case. I would have much rather been funny than wise."
"If I can come back, we still have our ball. My father depends on it. Don't forget your engagement."
Emma looked gracious.
"As fourteen days as it was!" he continued; "Every day more precious and delightful than the day before! – every day it makes me less suitable to endure a different place. Happy those who can stay in Highbury!"
"Since you are doing us so much justice now," Emma said with a laugh, "I dare to ask if you didn't come a little doubtful at first? Aren't we exceeding your expectations? I'm sure we do. I'm sure you didn't expect much to like us. You wouldn't have been so long in coming if you had had a pleasant idea of Highbury."
He laughed quite consciously; and although she denied the feeling, Emma was convinced that it had been so.
"And you have to leave this morning?"
"Yes; my father is to come here to me: we go back together, and I have to leave immediately. I'm almost afraid that every moment will bring him."
"Less than five minutes, not even for your friends Miss Saxon and Miss Bates? How unhappy! Miss Bates' strong, argumentative mind might have strengthened yours."
"Yes – I called there; Past the door, I thought it would be better. It was right to do that. I went in for three minutes and was stopped by miss Bates' absence. She was outside; and I found it impossible not to wait for her to come in. She is a woman you can laugh at, laugh at; but you don't want to underestimate that. Then it was better to pay me a visit" –
He hesitated, got up, went to a window.
"Briefly," he said, "maybe, Miss Lodge – I think you can hardly be completely unsuspicious" –
He looked at her as if he wanted to read her mind. She hardly knew what to say. It seemed to be the harbinger of something absolutely serious, which she didn't want. She therefore forced herself to speak, hoping to get it through, and said calmly
,
"You are quite right; so it was quite natural to pay your visit" –
He was silent. She believed that he was looking at her; she probably thought about what she had said and tried to understand the way. She heard him sigh. It was natural for him to feel he had reason to sigh. He couldn't believe she was encouraging him. A few embarrassing moments passed, and he sat down again; and said in a more determined way,
"It was something to feel that I could devote the rest of my time to Hartfield. My respect for Hartfield is very warm." —
He stopped again, got up again, and seemed to be embarrassed. - He was more in love with her than Emma had assumed; and who can say how it would have turned out if his father had not appeared? Mr. Lodge soon followed; and the necessity of effort made him calm.
However, a few more minutes ended the current exam. Mr. Winstone, always vigilant when business was to be done, and as incapable of delaying inevitable calamity as predicting dubious ones, said, "It was time to leave;" and the young man, although he could and did sigh, could not help but agree to say goodbye.
"I will hear from all of you," he said; "This is my greatest consolation. I will hear of everything that is going on among you. I hired Mrs. Winstone to correspond with me. She was kind enough to promise it. Oh! the blessing of a correspondent if you really care about the absent! - she will tell me everything. In their letters I will be back in dear Highbury."
A very friendly handshake, a very serious "goodbye" ended the speech, and Frank Curcelle soon locked out the door. The announcement had been short – briefly their meeting; he had gone; and Emma was so sorry to break up, and foresaw such a great loss to her small company due to his absence that she began to be afraid, regret it and feel it too much.
It was a sad change. They had met almost every day since his arrival. Surely his stay in Randalls had given the last two weeks great spirit – indescribable spirit; the imagination, the expectation to see him that every morning had brought, the certainty of his attention, his liveliness, his manners! It had been a very happy fourteen days, and the sinking into the usual course of the Hartfield days must have been lost. To complete any other recommendation, he had almost told her that he loved her. What strength or consistency of affection he might be exposed to was another point; but now she could not doubt that he has a decidedly warm admiration, a conscious preference for herself; and this conviction, combined with everything else, made her think that she had to be a little in love with him,
"I absolutely have to," she said. "This feeling of listlessness, tiredness, stupidity, this reluctance to sit down and keep me busy, this feeling that everything in the house is dull and bland! — I must be in love; I would be the strangest creature in the world if it wasn't for me – at least for a few weeks. So! Evil for some is always good for others. I will have a lot of mourners for the ball, if not for Frank Curcelle; but Mr. Hill will be happy. He can now spend the evening with his dear William Larkins if he wants."
However, Mr. Hill showed no triumphant luck. On his own, he could not say that he was sorry; his very cheerful gaze would have contradicted him if he had done so; but he said very firmly that he was sorry for the disappointment of others, adding with considerable kindness:
"You, Emma, ?? that you have so little opportunity to dance, you really have no luck; They are very unlucky!"
It took a few days before she saw Jane Saxon to judge her sincere regret in this miserable change; but when they met, their composure was abhorrent. However, she had felt particularly uncomfortable and suffered from headaches to some extent, which led her aunt to explain that if the ball had taken place, Jane would not have been able to participate; and it was mercy to attribute some of their unseemly indifference to the inertia of poor health.
Chapter 144
For the next three or four days, nothing happened that made Eleanore regret what she had done when she applied to her mother; for Warwick did not come, nor did he write. They were engaged towards the end of this time to accompany Lady Mideltown to a party from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the malaise of her youngest daughter; and for this party, Marianne, completely discouraged, carelessly prepared for her appearance and apparently equally indifferent whether she left or stayed, without a hopeful look or an expression of joy. After tea, she sat by the fire in the salon until Lady Mideltown arrived, without once rising from her seat or changing her posture, immersed in her own thoughts and unable to cope with the presence of her sister; and when they were finally told that Lady Mideltown was waiting for them at the door,
They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Mideltown sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Eleanore luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.
They hadn't been in this way for long when Eleanore noticed Warwick standing just a few meters away from them, seriously talking to a very fashionable-looking young woman. She soon caught his gaze, and he bowed immediately, but without trying to talk to her or approach Marianne, even though he could not see her; and then continued his conversation with the same lady. Eleanore involuntarily turned to Marianne to see if it could go unnoticed by her. At that moment she perceived him for the first time, and her whole face glowed with sudden joy, she would have approached him immediately if her sister had not seized her.
"You dear heaven!" she exclaimed, "He's there – he's there – oh! why doesn't he look at me? why can't I talk to him?"
"Please, please be composed," shouted Eleanore, "and don't tell everyone present what you feel. Maybe he hasn't watched you yet."
However, this was more than she herself could believe; and to be composed in such a moment was not only beyond Marianne's reach, but also beyond her desire. She sat in an agony of impatience that affected every train.
Finally he turned around again and looked at them both; she drove up, pronounced his name in a loving tone and shook his hand. He approached, turning to Eleanore rather than Marianne, as if to avoid her gaze, and decided not to heed her posture, hastily inquired about Mrs. Hargrove and asked how long they had been in town. Eleanore was deprived of all presence of mind by such an address and could not say a word. But her sister's feelings were immediately expressed. Her face was bright red, and she exclaimed with a voice of greatest emotion: "Good God! Warwick, what does that mean? Didn't you receive my letters? Don't you want to shake my hand?"
He couldn't avoid it at the time, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he only held her hand for a moment. Throughout this time, he was apparently fighting for composure. Eleanore watched his face and saw his expression become calmer. After a short break, he spoke calmly.
"I was honored to audition on Berkeley Street last Tuesday and was very sorry that I wasn't lucky enough to meet you and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card hasn't been lost, I hope."
"But didn't you get my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest fear. "Here's a mistake, I'm sure – a terrible mistake. What can that mean? Tell me, Warwick;
He did not answer; his face color changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, noticing the young lady he had spoken to earlier, he felt the need for an immediate effort, he recovered and said, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the message from you that you were so kind to send me," hastily turned away with a slight bow and joined his friend.
Marianne, who now looked terribly white and could no longer stand, sank into her chair, and Eleanore, who expected to see her faint at any moment, tried to shield her from the gaze of others while reviving her with lavender water.
"Go to him, Eleanore," she shouted as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I need to see him again – I need to talk to him right away. – I can't rest – I won't have a moment of rest until this is explained – some terrible mistake or something. – O go to him immediately."
"How is that supposed to work? No, my dearest Marianne, you have to wait. This is not the place for explanations. Just wait until tomorrow."
Only with difficulty could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to curb her excitement, at least to wait with the semblance of serenity until she could talk to him with more privacy and more impact, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give in to the misery of her feelings in a low voice by exclamations of misery. After a short time, Eleanore saw Warwick leave the room through the door to the stairs and told Marianne he was gone, urging her to talk to him again that evening as another argument for her to stay calm. She immediately asked her sister to ask Lady Mideltown to take her home because she was too unhappy to stay another minute.
Lady Mideltown was in the middle of a rubber ball when she learned that Marianne was uncomfortable, but was too polite to contradict her desire to leave for a moment, and handed her cards to a friend. They departed as soon as the carriage could be found. On her return to Berkeley Street, hardly a word was spoken. Marianne was in a silent agony, too depressed even for tears; but since Mrs. Jennings had fortunately not come home, they were able to go straight to their own room, where Hirschhorn brought them back to themselves a little. She soon moved out and lay in bed, and since she seemed to have a desire to be alone, her sister left her, and while waiting for Mrs. Jennings to return, she had enough leisure to reflect on the past.
She could not doubt that there had been any kind of engagement between Warwick and Marianne, and that Warwick was tired of her seemed equally clear; for however Marianne may fulfill her own wishes, SHE could not attribute such behavior to a mistake or misunderstanding of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change in mood could be to blame. Her indignation would have been even stronger than she was if she hadn't witnessed the embarrassment that seemed to speak of a sense of his own misconduct and prevented her from believing him so unscrupulously that he had played with her sister's affections from the beginning, without any design that would stand up to scrutiny. Absence might have weakened his reputation, and comfort would have led him to overcome it,
As for Marianne, she could not without deep concern reflect on the torments that such an unfortunate encounter must have already caused her, and the even worse ones they could expect in their likely consequence. Their own situation won in comparison; for although she could APPRECIATE Edward as much as ever, however they may be divided in the future, her spirit could always be supported. But all the circumstances that could embitter such an evil seemed to exacerbate Marianne's misery in a final separation from Warwick – in an immediate and irreconcilable break with him.
Chapter 145
More than once, Elizabeth unexpectedly encountered Mr. Drury during her foray through the park. She felt all the perversity of the misfortune that was supposed to take him to where no one else was taken, and to prevent it from ever happening again, she made sure to tell him first that it was a favorite place of hers. How it could happen a second time was therefore very strange! And yet it did, and even a third. It seemed to be deliberate nausea or voluntary repentance, for on those occasions it was not just a few formal questions and an awkward pause and then gone, but he actually felt it necessary to turn around and walk with her. He never said much, and she didn't bother to talk or listen much; but in the course of their third meeting, she noticed that he was asking some strange, unrelated questions – about her joy of being in Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion about the happiness of Mr. and Mrs. Collins; and when he spoke of Rosings and her, who did not fully understand the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came back to Kent, she would stay there. His words seemed to hint at it. Could he have Colonel Gill in his mind? She assumed that if he meant anything, he had to mean an allusion to what could happen in that area. It worried her a little, and she was quite happy to find herself at the gate in the stakes opposite the rectory. he seemed to expect that whenever she came back to Kent, she would stay there. His words seemed to hint at it. Could he have Colonel Gill in his mind? She assumed that if he meant anything, he had to mean an allusion to what could happen in that area. It worried her a little, and she was quite happy to find herself at the gate in the stakes opposite the rectory. he seemed to expect that whenever she came back to Kent, she would stay there. His words seemed to hint at it. Could he have Colonel Gill in his mind? She assumed that if he meant anything, he had to mean an allusion to what could happen in that area. It worried her a little, and she was quite happy to find herself at the gate in the stakes opposite the rectory.
One day she was busy reading Jane's last letter and dwelling on some passages that proved that Jane had not written with spirit when, instead of being surprised again by Mr. Drury, she saw this Colonel Gill meet her. She immediately put the letter away and forced herself to smile and said, 'I didn't
know before that you had ever gone this way.'
"I did the tour of the park," he replied, "as I usually do every year, and intend to conclude it with a visit to the rectory. Are you going much further?'
'No, I should have turned around immediately.'
And accordingly, she turned around, and they went together to the rectory.
'Are you really leaving Kent on Saturday?' she said.
"Yes – if Drury doesn't postpone it again. But I am at his disposal. He regulates the business as he pleases.'
"And if he can't be satisfied with the arrangement, at least he enjoys the great power of choice. I don't know anyone who seems to enjoy the power to do what he wants more than Drury-san.'
"He loves his will," Colonel Gill replied. But we all do. Only he has better means than many others because he is rich and many others are poor. I speak sensitively. A younger son, you know, must be used to self-denial and dependence.'
"In my opinion, the younger son of a count can know very little about both. Now seriously, what have you ever known about self-denial and dependence? When did lack of money prevent you from going where you wanted to go or get something you wanted to do?'
"These are questions at home – and maybe I can't say that I've experienced many difficulties of this kind. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from a lack of money. Younger sons cannot marry wherever they want.'
"Unless they like women with wealth, which I think they do very often."
"Our spending habits make us too dependent, and there are too many in my state of life who can afford to get married without paying attention to money."
'Is that,' Elizabeth thought, 'destined for me?' and she blushed at the idea; but, recovering, said in a lively tone, 'And please, what is the usual price for the younger son of a count? If the older brother isn't very sickly, you probably wouldn't ask for more than fifty thousand pounds."
He replied to her in the same style, and the subject fell. In order to break a silence that could lead him to say that she was affected by the incident, she soon said:
"I suppose your cousin took you mainly because he has someone at his disposal. I wonder if he doesn't get married to secure a lasting amenity of this kind. But maybe his sister is doing just as well for the time being, and since she is under his sole care, he can do whatever he wants with her."
"No," said Colonel Gill, "that's an advantage he has to share with me. I am associated with him in the guardianship of Miss Drury."
"Is it really you? And please, what kind of guardians do you do? Does your protégé make you a lot of trouble? Young ladies her age are sometimes a bit difficult to handle, and if she has the true Drury spirit, she may want to impose her own will."
As she spoke, she noticed that he looked at her seriously; and the way he immediately asked her why Miss Drury was likely to worry her convinced her that she had somehow come pretty close to the truth. She replied directly,
"You don't need to be afraid. I have never heard anything evil from her; and I dare say that she is one of the most docile creatures in the world. She is a very big favorite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland. I think I've heard you say you know them.'
"I know them a little. Her brother is a pleasant gentleman like a man – he's a good friend of Drury.'
'Oh! yes," Elizabeth said dryly; ' Lord. Drury is unusually friendly to Mr. Woodland and takes great care of him."
"Take care of him! Yes, I really believe that Drury takes care of him in the places where he wants the most care. From something he told me on our trip here, I have reason to believe that Woodland owes him a lot. But I should ask him for forgiveness, because I have no right to believe that Woodland was the person in question. It was all conjecture.'
"What do you think?"
"It's a circumstance that Drury doesn't want to make widely known, because if he were to get through to the lady's family, it would be an unpleasant thing."
"You can count on me not to mention it."
"And remember that I don't have much reason to believe it's Woodland. What he told me was simply this: that he congratulated himself for recently saving a friend from the inconvenience of an extremely careless marriage, but without giving names or other details, and I only suspected that it was Woodland to believe him as a young man, to get into such an argument, and of that they were together all last summer.'
"Did Drury-san give you reasons for this interference?"
"I understood that there were some very strong objections to the lady."
"And what arts did he use to separate them?"
"He didn't talk to me about his own arts," Gill said with a smile. 'He just told me what I told you now.'
Elizabeth did not answer and moved on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Gill asked her why she was so thoughtful.
"I think of what you told me," she said. "Your cousin's behavior doesn't fit my feelings. Why should he be the judge?'
"Are you more inclined to call his interference intrusive?"
"I don't see what right Mr. Drury had to decide on the appropriateness of his friend's inclination, or why he should determine solely by his own judgment and determine how his friend should be happy. But," she continued, recalling, "since we know no details, it is not fair to condemn him. It cannot be assumed that there was much affection in this case.'
"That's not an unnatural guess," Gill said, "but it unfortunately diminishes the honor of my cousin's triumph."
This was jokingly spoken; but it seemed to her so?? to be just a picture of Mr. Drury, that she did not trust herself to answer, and therefore abruptly changed the conversation about indifferent things until they reached the rectory. There, locked in her own room, as soon as her visitor left her, she could think of everything she had heard without interruption. It was not to be assumed that other persons could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There couldn't be TWO men in the world over whom Drury-san could exert such a limitless influence. She had never doubted that he had been concerned about the measures taken to separate Woodland and Jane; but she had always attributed to Miss Woodland the main design and arrangement of them. But if his own vanity did not deceive him, He was the cause, his pride and whims were the cause of everything Jane had suffered and was still suffering. For a while, he had ruined any hope of happiness for the most loving, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he could have inflicted.
"There were some very strong objections to the lady," were the words of Colonel Gill; and these strong objections were likely that she had an uncle who was a country lawyer and another who was doing business in London.
"For Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there can be no objections; as beautiful and good as it is! Their understanding is excellent, their minds improved and their manners captivating. Nor could my father be accused of anything, who, despite some peculiarities, has abilities that Mr. Drury himself does not need to despise, and a seriousness that he will probably never achieve." When she thought of her mother, her self-confidence diminished a little; but she would not allow any objections to Mr. Drury to have material weight, whose pride, she was convinced, would be given a deeper wound by the lack of importance in his friend's connections than by her lack of meaning; and she was finally decided that he had been ruled partly by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the desire to keep Mr. Woodland for his sister.
The excitement and tears that the topic caused caused headaches; and by evening it got so much worse that in addition to her unwillingness to see Mr. Drury, it prompted her to see her cousins?? not to accompany them to Rosings, where they were engaged, to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really bad, urged her not to leave and prevented her husband from pushing her as much as possible; but Mr. Collins could not hide his concern that Lady Catherine was quite dissatisfied with her staying at home.
Chapter 146
Arriving at home, Esther immediately went upstairs to deposit this unexpected purchase, this dubious good of a necklace, in some favorite box in the East Room that contained all her smaller treasures; but when she opened the door, her surprise was to find her cousin Edmund writing at the table! Such a sight, which had never happened before, was almost as wonderful as it was welcome.
"Esther," he said directly, leaving his place and his pen and meeting her with something in his hand, "I beg your pardon that I am here. I came to look for you, and after waiting for a while in the hope of your coming, I used your inkwell to explain my mission. You find the beginning of a note to yourself; but I can now talk about my business, which consists only of asking you to accept this little little thing – a necklace for William's cross. You should have had it a week ago, but since my brother was out of town for several days as early as expected, there was a delay; and I just got it in Northampton. I hope you'll like the necklace itself, Esther. I have endeavored to question the simplicity of your tastes; but in any case I know that you will approve of my intentions and look at it as it really is,
And with that he hurried away before Esther, overwhelmed by a thousand feelings of pain and joy, could try to speak; but inspired by a sovereign desire, she then shouted, "Oh! Cousin, pause for a moment, please stop!"
He turned around.
"I can't try to thank you," she continued very excitedly; "Thanks are out of the question. I feel much more than I can express. Her kindness to think of me like this is more than...«
"If that's all you have to say, Esther," she smiled and turned away again.
"No, no, it's not. I would like to consult you."
Almost unconsciously, she had now opened the package that he had just pressed into her hand, and when she saw in front of her, in all the beauty of the packaging of a jeweler, a simple gold chain, completely simple and neat, she could not help but burst out again: "Oh, this is really beautiful! This is exactly the right thing, exactly what I wanted! This is the only piece of jewelry I ever wanted to own. It will fit exactly to my cross. They must and should be brought together. It also comes at such an acceptable moment. Oh cousin, you don't know how acceptable it is."
"My dear Esther, you feel these things way too much. I am very pleased that you like the chain and that it should be here on time tomorrow; but your thanks go far beyond the occasion. Believe me, I have no joy in the world that is higher than that of contributing to yours. No, I can say for sure, I don't have such a perfect, so pure pleasure. It's without a disadvantage."
With such expressions of affection, Esther could have lived an hour without saying another word; but Edmund, after waiting for a moment, forced her to bring her spirit down from his heavenly flight by saying, "But what are you going to ask me about?"
It was the necklace that she now wanted to give back and hoped to get his approval for it. She told the story of her last visit, and now her raptures may well be over; for Edmund was so impressed by the circumstances, so delighted with what Miss Dorset had done, so pleased with such a concurring behavior between them that Esther could not help but admit that a single joy outweighs his own spirit, even though this would have been his disadvantage. It took some time before she could draw his attention to her plan or a response to her request for his opinion: he was in a reverie of loving reflection and only occasionally uttered a few half sentences of praise; but when he woke up and understood, he resolutely resisted their wish.
"Return the chain! No, my dear Esther, not at all. It would shame them severely. There can hardly be a more unpleasant feeling than to give back something that we have given in the legitimate hope that it will add to the comfort of a friend. Why should she lose a pleasure that she has so deserved?"
"If it had been given to me from the beginning," Esther said, "I wouldn't have thought of returning it; but since she is the presence of her brother, isn't it fair to assume that she would rather not part with it if it is not desired?"
"She must not assume that it is not wanted, at least not acceptable: and that it was originally her brother's gift makes no difference; for since she was not prevented from sacrificing it, and you therefore did not accept it, it should not prevent you from holding it. Undoubtedly, it's nicer than mine and better suited for a ballroom."
"No, it's not more beautiful, not more beautiful in its own way, and not half as good for my purposes. The necklace will fit incomparably better with William's cross than the necklace."
"For one night, Esther, for only one night, if it is a victim; I am sure you will make this sacrifice after careful consideration rather than tormenting someone who has cared so much about your well-being. Miss Dorset's attentions to you were – no more than you were rightly allowed – I am the last person who thinks this is possible, but they were unchangeable; and giving them back with something that must have something of ingratitude, although I know it could never have the meaning is not in your nature, I'm sure. Wear the necklace as you have arranged it tomorrow evening, and have the chain that was not ordered with reference to the ball stored for ordinary occasions. That is my advice. I don't want to have the shadow of a coolness between the two, whose intimacy I have observed with the greatest pleasure, and in whose characters there is so much general similarity in true generosity and natural tenderness that the few minor differences that result mainly from the situation are not a reasonable obstacle to a perfect friendship. I don't want the shadow of a coolness to appear," he repeated in a slightly sinking voice, "between the two favorite objects I have on earth."
He was gone while he was speaking; and Esther stayed to calm down as much as possible. She was one of his two sweethearts – she has to support that. But the other: the first! She had never heard him speak so openly before, and although it didn't tell her anymore than she had noticed for a long time, it was a sting because it told of his own beliefs and views. They were decided. He would marry Miss Dorset. It was a sting, despite all the long-standing expectations; and she had to repeat again and again that she was one of his two favorites before the words caused her sensation. If she thought Miss Dorset deserved it, it would be – oh, how different it would be – how much more bearable! But he was deceived in her: he gave her merits that she did not have; their mistakes were what they had always been, but he no longer saw them. Until she shed many tears over this deception, Esther could not suppress her excitement; and the ensuing dejection could only be alleviated by the influence of fervent prayers for his happiness.
It was her intention, as she felt it was her duty, to try to overcome everything exaggerated, everything that bordered on selfishness, in her affection for Edmund. It would be a loss to call or believe a disappointment would be a presumption for which she would have no words strong enough to satisfy her own humility. To mistake him for Miss Dorset could be justified, would be madness for her. Under no circumstances could he be nothing to them; nothing is more expensive than a friend. Why did such an idea get so far that it was rejected and banned? It should not have touched the limits of their imagination. She would strive to be reasonable and earn the right to judge Miss Dorset's character, and the privilege of true care for him through a healthy intellect and an honest heart.
She had all the heroism of principle and was determined to do her duty; but since she also has many youthful and natural feelings, she should not be very surprised if, after making all these good resolutions for self-government, she grabbed the scrap of paper on which Edmund had begun to write to her, as a treasure that exceeded all her hopes, and with the most tender emotion, read these words: "My very dear Esther, you have to do me the favor of accepting her," she closed with the necklace, as the most valuable part of the gift. It was the only thing that came close to a letter she had ever received from him; she might never get another one; it was impossible that she would ever receive another one who was so completely satisfying in opportunity and style. Two more precious lines had never been written by the most respected author – never has the research of the most loving biographer been more fully blessed. The enthusiasm of a woman's love even goes beyond that of the biographer. For them, the handwriting itself, regardless of what it may say, is a bliss. Never were such signs cut by another person as Edmund's most ordinary handwriting! This copy, so hastily written, had no error; and there was a bliss in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Esther," that she could have looked at forever. Never were such signs cut by another person as Edmund's most ordinary handwriting! This copy, so hastily written, had no error; and there was a bliss in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Esther," that she could have looked at forever. Never were such signs cut by another person as Edmund's most ordinary handwriting! This copy, so hastily written, had no error; and there was a bliss in the flow of the first four words, in the arrangement of "My very dear Esther," that she could have looked at forever.
After ordering her thoughts and comforting her feelings through this happy mixture of reason and weakness, she was able to go down in due course and resume her usual occupations with her Aunt Schmidt and show her the usual customs without any discernible lack of spirit.
Thursday, predestined for hope and joy, came; and opened Esther with more kindness than such idiosyncratic, unmanageable days often voluntarily, because shortly after breakfast William was delivered a very friendly letter from Mr. Dorset, in which he explained that he felt compelled to go to London tomorrow for a few days he could not help but try to get a companion; and therefore hoped that if William could decide to leave Mansfield half a day earlier than proposed, he would accept a seat in his carriage. Mr. Dorset wanted to be in town at his uncle's usual late meal time, and William was invited to dine with him at Admiral's. The proposal was very pleasant for William himself, who enjoyed the idea of traveling post with four horses and such a good-humoured, pleasant friend; and, comparing it to going upstairs with cables, he immediately said everything in favor of his happiness and dignity that his imagination could indicate; and Esther was extraordinarily pleased for another reason; for the original plan was for William to travel up from Northampton by post the following night, which would not have allowed him an hour of rest before he had to board a carriage from Portsmouth; and although this offer from Mr. Dorset would rob her of many hours of his company, she was too happy to have spared William the fatigue of such a trip to think of anything else. Sir Thomas approved it for another reason. The introduction of his nephew to Admiral Dorset could be useful. The admiral, he believed, was interested. Overall, it was a very joyful note. Esther's spirits lived half the morning on,
As for the ball so close, she had too many excitements and fears to have only half as much joy in the expectation she should have had or should have had of the many young ladies who look forward to the same event situations more relaxed, but possibly less novelty, less interest, less special satisfaction than one would attribute to her. Miss Price, who was only known by name to half of the invited guests, was now to make her first appearance and be considered the queen of the evening. Who could be happier than Miss Price? But Miss Price had not been brought up to come out; and if she had known in which ?? Light this ball was generally considered respectful, it would have greatly diminished her well-being by adding to the fear she already had of doing something wrong and being looked at. Dancing without much observation or extraordinary fatigue, having strength and partners for about half the evening, dancing a little with Edmund and not much with Mr. Dorset to see how William amuses herself and can stay away from her Aunt Norris, was the height of her ambition and seemed to grasp her greatest possibility of happiness. Since these were their best hopes, they could not always prevail; and over the course of a long morning spent mostly with her two aunts, she was often under the influence of far less confident views. William was determined to make this last day a day full of pleasure and was outside shooting snipe; She had too many reasons to believe that Edmund was in the rectory; and left alone to bear the worries of Mrs. Norris,
As she slowly went upstairs, she thought of yesterday; it had been about the same hour when she had returned from the rectory and found Edmund in the east room. "Suppose I found him there again today!" she said to herself in a tender indulgence of fantasy.
"Esther," said a voice next to her at that moment. She was startled and looked up when she saw Edmund himself standing at the head of another staircase on the other side of the entrance hall she had just reached. He approached her. "You look tired and exhausted, Esther. You walked too far."
"No, I wasn't outside at all."
"Then you've had fatigue in the doors that are worse. You would have been better off."
Esther, who didn't like to complain, found it easiest not to give an answer; and although he looked at her with his usual kindness, she believed he soon stopped thinking about her face. He did not appear in a good mood: probably something was missing that had nothing to do with her. They went upstairs together, their rooms were on the same floor above.
"I'm from Dr. Grant," Edmund finally said. You can guess my errand there, Esther." And he looked so conscious that Esther could only think of an errand that made her too sick to speak. "I wanted to hire Miss Dorset for the first two dances," read the following statement, which brought Esther back to life and allowed her to express something like a question about the outcome, as she felt she should speak.
"Yes," he replied, "she is engaged to me; but" (with a smile that was not easy for her) "she says that it will be the last time she ever dances with me. It is not serious. I think, I hope, I'm sure she's not serious; but I'd rather not hear it. She has never danced with a clergyman, she says, and she never will. For my own sake, I could have wished there hadn't been a ball on – I don't mean this week, on that day; tomorrow I'll leave the house."
Esther struggled to speak and said, "I am very sorry that you are suffering from something. This should be a day of joy. My uncle meant it."
"Oh yes! and it will be a day of joy. It will all end well. I am only annoyed for a short time. In fact, it's not that I think the ball is inappropriate; What does it mean? But, Esther," she interrupted, taking her hand and speaking softly and seriously, "you know what it all means. You see what it's like; and could tell me, maybe better than I could tell you, how and why I get angry. Let me talk to you a little. You are a friendly, friendly listener. I have been tormented by their behaviour this morning and I cannot improve it. I know that their nature is as sweet and impeccable as yours, but the influence of their former companions makes them appear – sometimes giving a touch of injustice to their entertainment, their declared opinions. She doesn't think evil, but she pronounces it, says it playfully; and even though I know it's playfulness,
"The Effect of Education," Esther said gently.
Edmund could only agree. "Yes, this uncle and this aunt! They have violated the finest mind; for sometimes, Esther, I confess to you, it seems to be more than one way: it seems as if the spirit itself is corrupt."
Esther imagined that this was an appeal to her judgment, and so, after a short reflection, she said, "If you only want me as a listener, cousin, I will be as useful to you as I can; but I am not qualified for a consultant. Don't ask me for advice. I'm not competent."
"You're right, Esther, to protest against such an office, but you don't need to be afraid. It is an issue on which I should never ask for advice; it's the kind of topic it's better never to be asked about; and few, I suppose, ask for it if they don't want to be influenced against their conscience. I just want to talk to you."
"One more thing. Excuse the freedom; but watch out how you talk to me. Don't tell me anything now that you might feel sorry for later. Maybe the time will come...«
The color shot into her cheeks as she spoke.
"Dearest Esther!" shouted Edmund and pressed her hand to his lips with almost as much warmth as if it had been Miss Dorset's. "You are all considerate, think! But that's unnecessary here. The time will never come. A time you allude to will never come. I'm beginning to think it's highly unlikely: the odds are getting smaller and smaller; and even if it is, there will be nothing for you or for me to remember that we need to fear, for I can never be ashamed of my own scruples; and when they are removed, it must be through changes that will only elevate their character even more through the memory of the flaws she once had. You are the only being on earth to whom I should say what I have said; but you have always known my opinion of her; You can testify to me, Esther, that I was never blinded. How many times have we talked about their little mistakes! You need not fear me; I have given up almost any serious idea of her; but I really must be a fool if, whatever happened to me, I could think of your kindness and compassion without the most sincere gratitude."
He had said enough to shake the experience of eighteen. He had said enough to give Esther happier feelings than she had known lately, and with a more radiant look, she replied, "Yes, cousin, I'm convinced you wouldn't be capable of anything else, although some might not. I can't be afraid to hear anything you want to say. Don't check yourself. Tell me whatever you want."
They were now on the second floor, and the appearance of a maid prevented any further conversation. For Esther's present consolation, it was perhaps ended at the happiest moment: if he had been able to speak for another five minutes, it cannot be said that he would not have talked away all of Miss Dorset's mistakes and his own dejection. But as it was, they parted with looks of grateful affection on his side and with some very precious sensations on theirs. She hadn't felt anything like that for hours. Since the first joy of Mr. Dorset's letter to William had evaporated, it was in an absolutely reverse state; there had been no consolation, no hope in her. Now everything was smiling. William's happiness returned to her mind and seemed of greater value than first. The ball, too – such a pleasure evening in front of her! It was now a real animation; and she began to dress for it with much of the cheerful flutter that belongs to a ball. Everything went well: she didn't like her own appearance; and when she came back to the necklaces, her luck seemed perfect, because in an exam the one given to her by Miss Dorset would in no way go through the ring of the cross. She had decided, to obey Edmund, to wear it; but it was too big for the purpose. His must therefore be worn; and with delightful feelings had connected the chain and the cross – these monuments of the two loved ones of their hearts, these dearest signs that had shaped everything real and imaginary so for each other – and put them around her neck and saw and felt like full of William and Edmund, she could effortlessly decide to wear Miss Dorset's necklace as well. She acknowledged it as right. Miss Dorset had a claim; and when it was no longer a matter of interfering with the stronger demands of overreaching the true kindness of another, she could even do justice to herself with pleasure. The necklace looked really good; and Esther finally left her room, comfortably satisfied with herself and everything around her.
Her aunt Schmidt had remembered her on this occasion with an unusual alertness. It had really occurred to her unsolicited that Esther, who was preparing for a ball, could be happy about a better help than that of the housemaid, and when she had dressed herself, she actually sent her own girl to help her; too late, of course, to be of any use. Mrs. Chapman had just reached the attic when Miss Price came out of her room fully dressed and only courtesies were required; but Esther felt her aunt's attention almost as much as Lady Schmidt or Mrs. Chapman could.
Chapter 147
Emma continued to have no doubt that she was in love. Their ideas varied only about how much. At first, she thought it was a good deal; and after that, but little. It gave her great pleasure to hear Frank Curcelle speak; and for his sake, a greater pleasure than ever to see Mr. and Mrs. Winstone; she thought of him very often and waited quite impatiently for a letter to find out how he was doing, how he was doing, how his aunt was doing and how likely it was that he would come back to Randalls this spring. But on the other hand, she could not admit to herself to be unhappy, to be less inclined to work than usual after the first morning; she was still busy and cheerful; and as pleasant as he was, she could imagine that he had mistakes; and further, although she thought so much of him, and while drawing or working, making a thousand amusing plans for the progress and end of her bond, coming up with interesting dialogues and inventing elegant letters; the conclusion of every imaginary statement on his side was that she rejected him. Their affection should always turn into friendship. Everything tender and graceful should mark their farewell; but nevertheless they should separate. When she realized this, it occurred to her that she could not be very much in love; for despite her former and firm determination never to leave her father, never to marry, a strong bond must certainly provoke a greater struggle than she could have foreseen in her own feelings. the conclusion of every imaginary statement on his side was that she rejected him. Their affection should always turn into friendship. Everything tender and graceful should mark their farewell; but nevertheless they should separate. When she realized this, it occurred to her that she could not be very much in love; for despite her former and firm determination never to leave her father, never to marry, a strong bond must certainly provoke a greater struggle than she could have foreseen in her own feelings. the conclusion of every imaginary statement on his side was that she rejected him. Their affection should always turn into friendship. Everything tender and graceful should mark their farewell; but nevertheless they should separate. When she realized this, it occurred to her that she could not be very much in love; for despite her former and firm determination never to leave her father, never to marry, a strong bond must certainly provoke a greater struggle than she could have foreseen in her own feelings.
"I don't find myself using the word victim," she said. I suspect that it is not really necessary for my happiness. So much better. I certainly won't persuade myself to feel more than I do. I'm in love enough. I should be sorry to be more."
On the whole, she was equally satisfied with her view of his feelings.
"He is undoubtedly very much in love – everything points to this – really very much in love! – and when he comes back, I have to be careful not to promote it if his affection continues. – It would be highly inexcusable to do it differently, as I myself am quite determined. Not that I could imagine that he could think that I have encouraged him so far. No, if he had believed me at all to share his feelings, he would not have been so miserable. If he could have felt encouraged, his looks and his language when he said goodbye would have been different. - But I still have to be on my guard. This lies in the assumption that his attachment continues what it is now; but I don't know if I expect it; I don't think he's such a man – I don't quite rely on his consistency or consistency. – His feelings are warm, but I can imagine them quite changeable. – Every look at the object, in short, makes me grateful that my happiness is not deeper involved. – After a short time I will feel very well again – and then it will be over well; for they say that every person is in love once in his life, and I would have gotten away easily."
When his letter to Mrs. Winstone arrived, Emma had taken note of him; and she read it with a level of pleasure and admiration that first made her shake her head at her own feelings, thinking she had underestimated her strength. It was a long, well-written letter that reproduced the details of his journey and his feelings, expressed all the affection, gratitude and respect that were natural and honorable, and described everything exterior and local that could be considered attractive to the spirit and precision. No suspicious phrases of apology or concern; it was the language of real feelings towards Mrs. Winstone; and the transition from Highbury to Enscombe, the contrast between the places in some of the first blessings of social life, was touched just enough to show how strongly it was felt, and how much more could have been said, but for the limitations of decency. - The charm of her own name was not missing. Miss Lodge appeared more than once, and never without a pleasant connection, either a compliment to her taste or a reminder of what she had said; and the very last time, when it struck her eye, which was not adorned by such a wide wreath of gallantry, she could still see the effect of her influence and acknowledge perhaps the greatest compliment of all that was conveyed to her. These words were pressed into the lowest free corner: "As you know, I didn't have a free minute for Miss Lodge's pretty little friend on Tuesday. Please excuse me and goodbye to her." Emma could not doubt that this was all for her. Harriet was only remembered because she was her friend. His information and prospects regarding Enscombe were neither worse nor better than had been anticipated; Mrs. Curcelle recovered, and he did not even dare to set a date in his own imagination when he would come back to Randalls.
But as pleasing and stimulating as the letter in the material part, she found his feelings, when it was folded up and sent back to Mrs. Winstone, that he had not added any lasting warmth that she could still do without as a writer, and that he had to learn to do without her. Their intentions were unchanged. Their negative decision was only made more interesting by the addition of a scheme for his later comfort and happiness. His memory of Harriet and the words they wore, the "beautiful little friend," gave her the idea that Harriet would follow her in his affection. Was it impossible? – No. – Harriet was undoubtedly far inferior to him in understanding; but he was very impressed by the loveliness of her face and the warm simplicity of her kind;
"I can't go into that," she said. – "I must not think about it. I know the danger of giving in to such speculation. But stranger things have happened; and if we stop caring for each other as we do now, it will be the means to strengthen ourselves in this kind of true, altruistic friendship that I can already look forward to with pleasure."
It was good to have a consolation in store for Harriet, although it might be wise to rarely let yourself be touched by the imagination; for evil was near in that area. Just as the arrival of Frank Curcelle had followed Mr. Alton's involvement in highbury's entertainment, as recent interest had completely crushed the first, so now, after Frank Curcelle's disappearance, Mr. Alton's worries took on the most irresistible form. - His wedding day was called. He would soon be among them again; Mr. Alton and his bride. There was hardly any time to talk about Enscombe's first letter before "Mr. Alton and his Bride" was on everyone's lips, and Frank Curcelle was forgotten. Emma got sick at the noise. She had had three weeks of happy liberation from Mr. Alton; and Harriet's thoughts, she had willing to hope, had recently gained strength. At least with regard to Mr. Winstone's ball, there had been a lot of insensitivity to other things; but it was now too obvious that she had not reached such a state of serenity that could withstand the actual rapprochement – new chariot, bell ringing and everything.
Poor Harriet was in a state of turmoil that required all the arguments and reassurances and attentions of every kind Emma could give. Emma felt that she couldn't do too much for her, that Harriet had a right to all her ingenuity and patience; but it was hard work to be convincing forever, to have no effect, to agree forever, without being able to make their opinions the same. Harriet listened submissively, saying, "It's very true — it was exactly as Miss Lodge described it — it wasn't worth the trouble to think about it — and she wouldn't think about it any longer," but no change of theme helped, and so on For the next half hour, she was just as anxious and restless as before because of the Altons. Finally, Emma attacked her for another reason:
"That you are so preoccupied with Mr. Alton's marriage and so unhappy, Harriet, is the harshest reproach you can make of me. You could not give me a greater reproach for the mistake I have fallen into. It was all my work, I know. I have not forgotten it, I assure you. – I have deceived myself, I have deceived you very miserably – and it will forever be a painful reflection to me. Don't imagine, I could forget about it."
Harriet felt this was too much to produce more than a few words of zealous exclamation. Emma continued,
"I didn't say, make an effort, Harriet, because of me; think less, speak less of Mr. Alton for my sake; because I prefer it for your own sake, because of something more important than my comfort, a habit of self-control within you, a reflection on what your duty is, an attention to decency, and strive to avoid the suspicion of others, save your health and credit, and restore your calm. These are the motives I have imposed on you. They are very important – and I'm sorry you can't feel them enough to affect them. That I am saved from pain is a very secondary consideration. I want you to save yourself from even greater pain. Maybe sometimes I felt that Harriet wouldn't forget what was due – or rather, what would be kind of me."
This appeal to their affection did more than anything else. The thought of wanting gratitude and consideration for Miss Lodge, whom she really loved very much, made her unhappy for a while and, when the ferocity of grief had subsided, still remained strong enough to get her to the right and to support her very much in it.
"You, the best friend I've ever had in my life – I want to wish you gratitude! – No one is the same for you! – I don't care about anyone as much as I do about you! – Oh! Miss Lodge, how ungrateful I have been!"
Such facial expressions, supported by everything that appearance and behavior could do, made Emma feel that she had never loved Harriet so much and had never appreciated her affection so highly before.
"There is no stimulus equal to the tenderness of the heart," she later said to herself. "Nothing compares to that. Warmth and tenderness of the heart, with a loving, open nature, will beat all the clarity of the head in the world, for attraction, I am sure that it will. It is the tenderness of the heart that makes my dear father so universally popular – which gives Bella all her popularity. – I don't have them – but I appreciate and respect them. – Harriet is my boss in all the charm and happiness there is. Dear Harriet! – I would not trade you for the clearest, most far-sighted, best judgmental female breathing. Oh! the cold of a Jane Saxon! – Harriet is worth a hundred – And for a woman – the wife of a reasonable man – she is invaluable. I don't name names; but happy the man who exchanges Emma for Harriet!"
Chapter 148
The Allens had now entered Bath in the sixth week of their stay; and whether it should be the last one was for a while a question that Catherine listened to with a beating heart. To introduce them so early to the end of the Alsina was an evil that could not outweigh anything. All their luck seemed to be at stake while the matter was in limbo and everything was secured when it was decided to take the apartment for another fourteen days. What these extra fourteen days were to bring her beyond the pleasure of seeing Henry Alsina sometimes was only a small part of Catherine's speculation. Once or twice, in fact, she had come so far as to indulge in a secret "maybe" since James' engagement had taught her what could be done, but in general, the happiness of being with him for the moment limited her views: the present now spanned another three weeks, and since her happiness was certain for that time, the rest of her life was so far away that she aroused little interest. During the morning when this matter was arranged, she visited Miss Alsina and poured out her joyful feelings. It was doomed to become a day of trial. She had barely expressed her joy at Mr. Allen's extended stay when Miss Alsina told her that her father had just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and with a genuinely concerned voice, she repeated Miss Alsina's concluding words: "Until the end of another week!" and since her happiness for this time was assured, the rest of her life was so far away that she aroused little interest. During the morning when this matter was arranged, she visited Miss Alsina and poured out her joyful feelings. It was doomed to become a day of trial. She had barely expressed her joy at Mr. Allen's extended stay when Miss Alsina told her that her father had just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and with a genuinely concerned voice, she repeated Miss Alsina's concluding words: "Until the end of another week!" and since her happiness for this time was assured, the rest of her life was so far away that she aroused little interest. During the morning when this matter was arranged, she visited Miss Alsina and poured out her joyful feelings. It was doomed to become a day of trial. She had barely expressed her joy at Mr. Allen's extended stay when Miss Alsina told her that her father had just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and in a genuinely concerned voice she repeated Miss Alsina's closing words: "Until the end of another week!" During the morning when this matter was arranged, she visited Miss Alsina and poured out her joyful feelings. It was doomed to become a day of trial. She had barely expressed her joy at Mr. Allen's extended stay when Miss Alsina told her that her father had just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and in a genuinely concerned voice she repeated Miss Alsina's closing words: "Until the end of another week!" During the morning when this matter was arranged, she visited Miss Alsina and poured out her joyful feelings. It was doomed to become a day of trial. She had barely expressed her joy at Mr. Allen's extended stay when Miss Alsina told her that her father had just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and in a genuinely concerned voice she repeated Miss Alsina's closing words: "Until the end of another week!" He has just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and in a genuinely concerned voice she repeated Miss Alsina's closing words: "Until the end of another week!" He has just decided to leave Bath at the end of another week. Here was a blow! The past tension of the morning had been light and calm in the face of the present disappointment. Catherine's face lowered, and in a genuinely concerned voice she repeated Miss Alsina's closing words: "Until the end of another week!"
"Yes, my father rarely lets himself be persuaded to give water a fair trial, I think. He was disappointed with the arrival of some friends he expected to meet here, and since he is doing pretty well now, he is in a hurry to get home."
"I'm very sorry," Catherine said dejectedly; "If I had known this before..."
"Maybe," said Miss Alsina sheepishly, "you would be so good – I would be very happy if–
Her father's entry put an end to the politeness that Catherine began to hope could evoke a desire for her equivalent. After addressing her with his usual courtesy, he turned to his daughter and said, "Well, Eleanor, may I congratulate you on your successful application to your beautiful friend?"
"I just started making the request, sir, when you came in."
"Well, definitely keep going. I know how much your heart is involved. My daughter, Miss Fenmore," he continued, without giving his daughter time to talk, "has expressed a very bold wish. We are leaving Bath, as she may have told you, on Saturday evening. A letter from my administrator tells me that my presence at home is desired; and disappointed in my hope of seeing the Marquis of Longtown and General Courteney here, some of my very old friends, nothing stops me in Bath any longer. And if we could carry our selfish point with you, we should leave it without a single regret. In short, can you be made to leave this scene of public triumph and sign your friend Eleanor with your company in Gloucestershire? I am almost ashamed to make the request, although his presumption would surely seem greater to any creature in Bath than to you. Modesty like yours – but for nothing in the world I would hurt them with open praise. If you let yourself be persuaded to honour us with a visit, you will make us happy beyond measure. It is true, we can offer you nothing but the cheerfulness of this lively place; we cannot lure you with pleasure or pomp, because our way of life, as you can see, is simple and not obstructive; nevertheless, there should be no effort on our part not to make Northanger Abbey completely unpleasant." because our way of life, as you can see, is simple and not obstructive; nevertheless, there should be no effort on our part not to make Northanger Abbey completely unpleasant." because our way of life, as you can see, is simple and not obstructive; however, there should be no effort on our part to make Northanger Abbey not entirely unpleasant."
Northanger Abbey! These were exciting words that drove Catherine's feelings to the highest ecstasy. Her grateful and contented heart could hardly hold back his expressions within the language of tolerable calm. To receive such a flattering invitation! To have so warmly requested their company! Everything honorable and reassuring, every present enjoyment and every future hope was contained in it; and their acceptance, with only the saving clause of approval of dad and mom, was eagerly given. "I will write straight home," she said, "and if they don't mind, as I dare say, they won't..."
General Alsina was no less optimistic, having already served her excellent friends on Pulteney Street and received their approval of his wishes." Since they are ready to part with you," he said, "we can expect philosophy from all over the world."
Miss Alsina was serious, if gentle, in her secondary courtesies, and the matter was almost settled in a few minutes as this necessary reference to Fullerton would allow.
The circumstances of the morning had led Catherine's feelings through tension, security and disappointment; but they were now safely housed in perfect bliss; and in a delighted mood, with Henry in her heart and Northanger Abbey on her lips, she hurried home to write her letter. Mr and Mrs Fenmore, who relied on the discretion of the friends to whom they had already entrusted their daughter, felt no doubt about the decency of an acquaintance that had been made under their eyes and therefore sent by post their willing consent to their visit to Gloucestershire. This indulgence, though no more than Catherine had hoped, completed her belief that she was favored beyond any other human creature, in terms of friends and fortune, circumstances, and chance. Everything seemed to work together to their advantage. Through the kindness of her first friends, the Allens, she had been introduced to scenes in which she had encountered pleasures of all kinds. Their feelings, their preferences, had all known the happiness of a return. Wherever she felt attachment, she had been able to do it. Bella's affection was to be secured in a sister. The Alsinas, her, to whom she wanted to be remembered benevolently above all, even exceeded her wishes in flattering measures through which her intimacy was to be continued. She was to be her chosen visitor, she was to be under the same roof for weeks with the person whose company she valued the most - and that roof was to be the roof of an abbey! Her passion for old buildings was the closest to her passion for Henry Alsina – and castles and abbeys usually made up the charm of those reveries that his image did not fulfill. Seeing and exploring either the city walls and keep of one or the monasteries of the other had been a hot wish for many weeks, although it seemed almost impossible to be a visitor for more than an hour. And yet it was to happen. With all the odds against her from house, hall, square, park, court and hut, Northanger an abbey appeared, and she was to be its resident. The long, damp corridors, the narrow cells and the destroyed chapel were supposed to be within their daily reach, and it could not completely dampen the hope of some traditional legends, some terrible monuments to an injured and unfortunate nun. Seeing and exploring either the city walls and keep of one or the monasteries of the other had been a hot wish for many weeks, although it seemed almost impossible to be a visitor for more than an hour. And yet it was to happen. With all the odds against her from house, hall, square, park, court and hut, Northanger an abbey appeared, and she was to be its resident. The long, damp corridors, the narrow cells and the destroyed chapel were supposed to be within their daily reach, and it could not completely dampen the hope of some traditional legends, some terrible monuments to an injured and unfortunate nun. Seeing and exploring either the city walls and keep of one or the monasteries of the other had been a hot wish for many weeks, although it seemed almost impossible to be a visitor for more than an hour. And yet it was to happen. With all the odds against her from house, hall, square, park, court and hut, Northanger an abbey appeared, and she was to be its resident. The long, damp corridors, the narrow cells and the destroyed chapel were supposed to be within their daily reach, and it could not completely dampen the hope of some traditional legends, some terrible monuments to an injured and unfortunate nun. With all the odds against her from house, hall, square, park, court and hut, Northanger an abbey appeared, and she was to be its resident. The long, damp corridors, the narrow cells and the destroyed chapel were supposed to be within their daily reach, and it could not completely dampen the hope of some traditional legends, some terrible monuments to an injured and unfortunate nun. With all the odds against her from house, hall, square, park, court and hut, Northanger an abbey appeared, and she was to be its resident. The long, damp corridors, the narrow cells and the destroyed chapel were supposed to be within their daily reach, and it could not completely dampen the hope of some traditional legends, some terrible monuments to an injured and unfortunate nun.
It was wonderful that her friends seem so unenthusiastic about owning such a house that the awareness of it should be carried so humbly. Only the power of early habit could be responsible. An award into which they had been born did not give them pride. Their superiority in the apartment was to them no more than their superiority in the person.
She eagerly inquired a lot from Miss Alsina; but her thoughts were so stirring that when these questions were answered, she was hardly more certain than before that Northanger Abbey had been a richly endowed monastery at the time of the Reformation, that it had fallen into the hands of an ancestor of the abbey Alsina's dissolution, a large part of the old building that still forms part of the present dwelling, although the rest had fallen into disrepair, or that it stands deep in a valley, protected from the north and east by rising oak forests.
Chapter 149
The rest of Anne's time in Uppercross, which lasted only two days, she spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the satisfaction of knowing herself to be extremely useful there, both as an immediate companion and as an assistant to all those arrangements for the future that would have been difficult in Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland's depressed mood.
They had an early bill from Lyme the next morning. Lois was similar. There were no worse symptoms than before. Charles came a few hours later to give a later and more accurate account. He was quite cheerful. One cannot hope for an early cure, but everything went as the nature of the case admitted. When he spoke of the Chevals, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of kindness, especially Mrs. Cheval's efforts as a nurse. "She really left Mary with nothing to do. He and Mary had been persuaded last night to go to their inn early. Mary was hysterical again this morning. When he got away, she wanted to go out with Captain Bean, which, he hoped, would do her good, he almost wished she had been persuaded to come home the day before, but the truth was,
Charles was supposed to return to Lyme that same afternoon, and his father initially wanted to accompany him only halfway, but the ladies could not agree. It would only multiply the anger of others and increase its own distress; and a much better scheme followed and was implemented. A carriage was fetched from Crewkherne, and Charles brought back a much more useful person, the old nanny of the family, one who had raised all the children and seen the very last, the lingering and long-caressed Master Harry, who was sent to school after his brothers, now lived in her abandoned nursery to mend stockings and bandage all the wounds and bruises, which she was able to get close to her, and who was therefore only too happy to be allowed to leave and care for the dear Miss Lois. Vague wishes to get Sarah there had already occurred to Mrs. Cumberland and Grace before;
The next day, they owed Charles Hayter all the meticulous knowledge of Lois that it was so important to get every twenty-four hours. He made it his mission to go to Lyme, and his report was still encouraging. The intervals of meaning and consciousness were considered stronger. Every report agreed that Captain Cambridge appeared in Lyme.
Anne was to leave them tomorrow, an event they all feared. "What should they do without them? They were miserable comforters for each other." And in this way, so much was said that Anne thought there was nothing better she could do than convey to them the general inclination she was privy to and persuade them all to go to Lyme immediately. She had little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would leave; go tomorrow, set up at the inn or move into a quarters as it suited, and stay there until dear Lois could be relocated. You need to take some trouble off the good people she's been with; they could at least free Mrs. Cheval from caring for her own children; and in short, they were so happy with the decision that Anne was thrilled with what she had done,
she was the last, apart from the little boys in the cottage, she was the very last, the only one left of everything that had filled and enlivened both houses, of everything that had given Uppercross its cheerful character. A few days had actually brought about a change!
If Lois recovered, everything would be fine again. More than previous happiness would be restored. There could be no doubt, in her opinion there was none that would follow her recovery. A few months later, and the now so abandoned room, occupied, but by her quiet, thoughtful self, could again be filled with everything that was happy and cheerful, everything that glowed in successful love and was bright, everything that was most dissimilar to Anne Hightower!
An hour of complete leisure for such contemplation on a dark November day, a small dense rain that almost wiped out the very few objects ever visible from the windows was enough to make the sound of Lady Russell's carriage extraordinarily welcome; and yet, although she had the desire to leave, she could not leave the mansion or say goodbye to the cottage with its black, dripping and desolate veranda, or even perceive through the fogged glasses the last modest tenement houses of the village a sad heart. In Uppercross, scenes had happened that made it valuable. It was the record of many pain sensations, once strong, but now mitigated; and of a few moments of bitter feeling, some breaths of friendship and reconciliation that could never be sought again and that could never cease to be expensive.
Anne had never entered Kellynch since she left Lady Russell's house in September. It had not been necessary, and the few occasions when she was able to go into the hall, she had managed to dodge and escape. Her first return was to take her place in the modern and elegant apartments of the lodge and please the eyes of her mistress.
Lady Russell's joy at meeting her was mixed with a certain concern. She knew who had attended Uppercross. But fortunately, Anne was either improved in terms of fullness and appearance, or Lady Russell imagined it that way; and Anne, when she received her compliments on this occasion, had the amusement to associate her with the silent admiration of her cousin and to hope that she would be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty.
When they came to a conversation, she soon felt a mental change. The issues that had filled her heart when she left Kellynch, and which she had felt offended and forced to suffocate her among the Cumberlands, had now become only of secondary interest. She had even lost sight of her father and sister and Bath lately. Their worries had fallen below those of Uppercross; and when Lady Russell returned to her former hopes and fears and expressed her satisfaction in the house on Camden Place that had been occupied, and her regret that Mrs. Clay should still be with them, Anne would have been ashamed to let it know how much more she thought of Lyme and Lois Cumberland and all her acquaintances there; How much more interesting for her was the home and friendship of the Chevals and Captain Bean than her own father. s house in Camden Place or the intimacy of her own sister with Mrs. Clay. She was actually forced to make an effort to meet Lady Russell with the semblance of equal concern, about issues that were inherently most important to her.
Initially, their discourse on another topic was a bit awkward. You have to talk about the accident in Lyme. Lady Russell had arrived less than five minutes earlier the day before, when a complete account of the whole thing had come to her; but still it has to be talked about, it has to do research, it has to regret the unwiseness, it has to lament the result, and the name of Captain Cambridge has to be mentioned by both. Anne was aware that she was not doing as well as Lady Russell. She couldn't pronounce the name and look Lady Russell straight in the eye until she adopted the means to tell her briefly what she thought of the attachment between him and Lois. When she was told this, she was no longer tormented by his name.
Lady Russell only needed to listen calmly and wish them luck, but inwardly her heart reveled in angry joy, in delighted contempt that the man who at twenty-three seemed to understand the value of an Anne Hightower to some extent, eight years later, let yourself be enchanted by a Lois Cumberland.
The first three or four days passed very quietly, without any circumstances that characterized them, except the receipt of one or two notes from Lyme that found their way to Anne, she could not say how, and brought a fairly improving account of Lois. By the end of this time, Lady Russell's courtesy could no longer rest, and the weaker self-threat of the past became a decisive tone: "I must visit Mrs. Field; I have to visit them really soon. Anne, do you have the courage to go with me and pay a visit to this house? It will be a test for both of us."
Anne did not shy away from it; on the contrary, she really felt, as she said when she observed –
"I think you will probably suffer the most from the two; Their feelings are less reconciled with the change than mine.
She could have said more on this subject; for she in fact had such a high opinion of the Fields and considered her father so happy with his tenants, felt that the parish was so safe of a good example and the poor of the best attention and relief, which, however, regretted and she was ashamed of the necessity of the move and could only feel in conscience, that those who deserved not to stay were gone, and that Kellynch Hall had passed into better hands than its owners. These beliefs must undoubtedly have their own pain, and heavy was his kind; but they prevented the pain that Lady Russell would suffer if she re-entered the house and returned through the well-known apartments.
In such moments, Anne did not have the strength to say to herself: "These spaces should belong only to us. Oh, how decayed at their destination! How unworthily occupied! No, except when she thought of her mother and remembered where she used to sit and preside, she couldn't breathe a sigh of relief at that description.
Mrs. Field always met her with a kindness that gave her the pleasure of considering herself a darling, and on this occasion to receive her in this house, special attention has been paid to her.
The sad accident in Lyme soon became the predominant theme, and when comparing her latest reports about the invalid, it seemed that every lady dated her news to the same hour yesterday; that Captain Cambridge had been in Kellynch yesterday (for the first time since the accident) and anne had brought the last note whose exact steps she could not follow; had stayed for a few hours and then returned to Lyme, and without the present intention of leaving it again. He had inquired about her, found her special; had expressed his hope that Miss Hightower would not get worse through her efforts, and had spoken of these efforts as great. This was pretty and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could have done.
As for the sad disaster itself, it could only be promoted in a style of a few calm, reasonable women whose judgments had to be based on established events; and it was completely decided that it had been the result of much thoughtlessness and a lot of unwiseness; that its effects were the most alarming, and that it was terrible to think about how long Miss Cumberland's recovery could still be doubtful, and how vulnerable she would remain to suffer from the concussion afterwards! The admiral ended it without further ado with the exclamation:
"Yes, really a very bad thing. A new way a young guy makes love by breaking his mistress's head, isn't it, Miss Hightower? This is really a headache and give plasters! Admiral
Field's manners did not quite correspond to Lady Russell, but they pleased Anne. His kindness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible.
"Well, that must be very bad for you," he said, suddenly awakening from a little reverie, "that you come and find us here. I hadn't remembered it before, I explain, but it must be very bad. But now don't stand on ceremonies. Get up and go through all the rooms in the house if you want.
"Another time, sir, thank you, not now."
"Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the bushes at any time, and there you will notice that we hang our umbrellas on this door. A good place, isn't it? you won't think it's a good place, because yours was always kept in the butler's room. Yes, that's always the case, I think. One man may be as good as the other, but we all like our best. And you also have to judge for yourself whether it would be better for you to walk around the house or not."
Anne, who realized that she could refuse it, did so very gratefully.
"We also made very few changes," the admiral continued, after thinking for a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry door in Uppercross. That was a very big improvement. The miracle was how a family on Earth could endure the inconvenience of opening it for so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done and that Mr. Shepherd considers it to be the greatest improvement the house has ever had. In fact, I have to agree with myself to say that the few changes we have made were all very much for the better woman but should have the honor. I did very little except send away some of the large mirrors from my dressing room, which belonged to your father. A very good man, and very well the gentleman, I'm sure: but I should think, Miss Hightower,"
Anne, amused against her will, was quite desperate for an answer, and the admiral, fearing that he had not been polite enough, took up the subject again to say –
"The next time you write to your good father, Miss Hightower, please compliment him and Mrs. Fields and say that we have settled here to our liking and have nothing wrong at all. The breakfast – room chimney smokes a little, I admit that, but only if the wind comes exactly from the north and blows strongly, which must not happen three times in winter I can judge, there is no one that we like better than this one. Please say it with my compliments. He will be happy to hear it.
Lady Russell and Mrs. Field were very pleased with each other; but the acquaintance that began this visit was not to get far for the time being; because when it came back, the Fields announced that they would go away for a few weeks to visit their connections in the north of the county, and probably won't be back home before Lady Russell would move to Bath.
So any danger ended for Anne to meet Captain Cambridge at Kellynch Hall or to see him in the company of her friend. Everything was safe enough, and she smiled at the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject.
Chapter 150
Before the maid lit her fire the next day, or the sun gained any power on a cold, gloomy January morning, Marianne, only half-dressed, knelt on one of the window sills for the sake of all the little ones light that she could command from it, and write as quickly as a constant stream of tears allowed her. In this situation, Eleanore, torn from sleep by her excitement and sobbing, first noticed her; and after watching her with silent concern for a few moments, he said in a tone of the most considerate gentleness:
"Marianne, may I ask?"
"No, Eleanore," she replied, "don't ask anything, you'll know everything soon."
The kind of desperate calm with which this was said did not last longer than she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive sadness. It took her a few minutes to continue with her letter, and the frequent outbursts of grief that still forced her to hold back the pen in between were proof enough that she felt she was more than likely writing for the letter last time to Warwick.
Eleanore gave her every silent and unobtrusive attention that was in her power; and she would have tried to appease and reassure her even more if Marianne had not begged her with all the zeal of the most nervous irritability not to talk to her about everything in the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both not to be together for long; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from staying in the room for a moment after dressing, but at the same time required loneliness and constant change of location, forcing her to wander around the house until breakfast, avoiding any sight.
At breakfast she did not eat anything and did not try to eat anything; and Eleanore's attention was then all occupied, not in pushing her, not in regretting her, nor in paying attention to her, but in an effort to attract Ms. Jennings' attention entirely to herself.
Since this was a favorite meal of Mrs. Jennings, it took a considerable amount of time, and they sat down around the common work table just after that, when Marianne was delivered a letter that she eagerly picked up from the servant, and He became dead pale and immediately ran out of the room. Eleanore, who saw so clearly as if she had seen the direction that it had to come from Warwick, immediately felt such a nausea in her heart that she was barely able to hold her head, and sat in such a general tremor as made her fear that it was impossible to escape Mrs. Jenning's attention. However, this good lady only saw that Marianne had received a letter from Warwick, which seemed to her to be a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, laughingly hoping that she would find him. Of Eleanore's distress, she was too busy measuring worsted yarn lengths for her carpet to see anything at all; and continued her conversation calmly, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said:
"At my word, I have never seen in my life a young woman who was so desperately in love! MY girls meant nothing to her, and yet they used to be stupid enough; but as far as Miss Marianne is concerned, she is a rather changed creature. Hopefully, from the bottom of his heart, he won't make her wait much longer, because it's quite painful to see her look so sick and lost.
Although Eleanore was never less willing to speak than at that moment, she forced herself to respond to such an attack and therefore tried to smile, replying, "And have you really, Ma'am, persuaded yourself to convince myself? Sister is engaged to Mr. Warwick? I thought it was just a joke, but such a serious question seems to imply more, and I must therefore ask you to stop fooling yourself than to hear that they are going to get married."
"Shame, shame, Miss Hargrove! How can you talk like that? Don't we all know that it must be a match that they were in love with each other head and ear from the first moment they met? Didn't I see her together every day in Devonshire, and all day long, and didn't I know that your sister intentionally came to town with me to buy wedding dresses? Come, come, that's not possible. Because you are so smart you think no one else has any senses; but it's not, I can tell you, because it's been known all over the city for so long. I tell everyone and So does Charlotte."
"In fact, Ma'am," Eleanore said very seriously, "you are wrong.
Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Eleanore had no desire to say more, and eager to know in any case what Warwick had written, she hurried to her room, where, when she opened the door, she saw Marianne lying on the bed, almost suffocated with sorrow, a letter in her hand and two or three others, which lie next to her. Eleanore approached, but without saying a word; and sat down on the bed, took her hand, kissed her tenderly several times and then burst into tears that were at first hardly less violent than the Mariannes. The latter, although she could not speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behavior, and after some time spent so in common need, she placed all the letters in Eleanore's hands; and then she covered her face with her handkerchief and almost screamed in agony. Eleanore, who knew this grief,
"Bond Street, January." MY DEAR MADAM,
I will blame myself for not being more cautious in my expressions of this appreciation. That I should ever have meant more, you will find impossible if you understand that my affection has been busy elsewhere for a long time, and I believe it will not be many weeks before this commitment is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your orders to return the letters with which I was honoured by you and the lock of hair that you have given me so accommodatingly.
"I am, dear Madam, "Your most obedient "humble servant, JOHN WILLOUGHBY."
With what indignation such a letter from Miss Hargrove must be read, one can imagine. Although she was aware before she began that it had to bring a confession of his impermanence and confirm her separation forever, she was not aware that such a language could be tolerated to announce it; nor would she have considered Warwick capable of moving so far from the appearance of any honorable and tender feeling – so far from the ordinary decency of a gentleman that he sent such an outrageously cruel letter: a letter which, instead of bringing with him his desire to release every confession of regret, did not confess a breach of faith, denied any special affection – a letter whose every line was an insult and which described its author as deeply in hardened Schurkerei announced.
With indignant astonishment, she lingered on it for some time; then read it again and again; but every reading only increased her disgust for the man, and her feelings against him were so bitter that she did not dare to speak, so as not to hurt Marianne even more deeply, seeing her separation not as a loss for her of every possible good, but as an escape from the worst and most incurable of all evils, a lifelong connection with an unprincipled man, as the most real liberation, as the most important blessing.
In her serious reflections on the content of the letter, on the corruption of the spirit that could dictate it, and probably on the very different spirit of a completely different person who had nothing to do with the affair other than what her heart gave him with everything that happened, Eleanore forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three unread letters on her lap, and so completely forgot how long she had been in the room that when she heard a carriage drive up the door, she went to the window to see who could come so unreasonably early, she was quite amazed to see Mrs. Jenning's car, of which she knew, that he had not been ordered to one. Determined not to leave Marianne, even though she could hopelessly contribute to her well-being at the moment, she hurried away to apologize for not having to visit Mrs. Jennings. because of illness of her sister. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humored concern for her cause, readily admitted the apology, and Eleanore, after bringing her to safety, returned to Marianne, who tried to get herself out of bed, and the time she had just reached to prevent her from falling to the ground, fainted and dizzy from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine, which Eleanore got her directly, calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying: with a thoroughly good-humored sympathy for his cause, the apology was most readily admitted, and Eleanore, after bringing her to safety, returned to Marianne, who tried to get out of bed, and which they reached just in time to prevent them from falling to the ground, fainting and dizziness from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine, which Eleanore got her directly, calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying: with a thoroughly good-humored sympathy for his cause, the apology was most readily admitted, and Eleanore, after bringing her to safety, returned to Marianne, who tried to get out of bed, and which they reached just in time to prevent them from falling to the ground, fainting and dizziness from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine, which Eleanore got her directly, calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying: after she had brought her to safety, she returned to Marianne, who she found trying to get out of bed, and who she reached just in time to prevent her from falling to the ground powerless and dizzy from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine, which Eleanore got her directly, calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying: after she had brought her to safety, she returned to Marianne, who she found trying to get out of bed, and who she reached just in time to prevent her from falling to the ground powerless and dizzy from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine, which Eleanore provided to her directly, calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying: weak and dizzy from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine, which Eleanore provided to her directly, calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying: weak and dizzy from a long lack of adequate rest and food; for it had been many days since she had an appetite, and many nights since she had truly slept; and now that her mind was no longer supported by the fever of tension, the result of all this was felt in a sore head, a weak stomach and a general nervous weakness. A glass of wine that Eleanore got her directly calmed her down, and finally she was able to express her kindness by saying
,
"Poor Eleanore! how unhappy I make you!"
"I just wish," her sister replied, "I could do anything that could comfort you."
This, like everything else, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim in the agony of her heart: "Oh! Eleanore, I'm really unhappy," before her voice sank into sobs.
Eleanore could no longer silently witness this stream of irresistible grief.
"Make an effort, dear Marianne," she exclaimed, "if you didn't want to kill yourself and everyone who loves you. Think of your mother, think of her misery as YOU suffer: for her sake, you have to make an effort."
"I can't, I can't," Marianne shouted; "Leave me, leave me when I torment thee; leave me, hate me, forget me! but don't torture me like that. Oh! how easy it is for those who do not have their own grief to speak of effort! Eleanore, YOU can't imagine what I'm suffering."
"Do you call me happy, Marianne? Oh! if you knew!
"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms around her sister's neck; "I know you feel for me; I know what kind of heart you have; but you are – you must be happy; Edward loves you – what, oh what, can destroy such happiness?"
"Many, many circumstances," Eleanore said solemnly.
"No, no, no," Marianne shouted wildly, "he loves you and only you.
"I can't have any pleasure while seeing you in this state."
"And otherwise you will never see me. My misery is a misery that nothing can eliminate."
"You can't talk like that, Marianne. Don't you have any consolation? No friends? Does your loss leave no opportunity for comfort? at a later date – if your engagement had continued for months and months, as it could have been before he decided to put an end to it – any extra day of unhappy trust on your side would have made the blow even worse."
"Commitment!" cried Marianne, "there was no engagement."
"No engagement!"
"No, he is not as unworthy as you believe him.
"But he told you that he loved you."
"Yes – no – never absolutely. It was hinted at every day, but never explained. Sometimes I thought it had been like that – but it was never like that."
"You wrote to him anyway?" —
"Yes – could this be wrong after all that had passed? – But I can't speak."
Eleanore said nothing more, and when she turned back to the three letters, which now aroused a much stronger curiosity than before, she ran directly over the contents of all of them. The first thing her sister had sent him when she arrived in the city was in this sense.
Berkeley Street, January.
"How surprised you will be, Warwick, when you receive this, and I think you will be more than surprised when you know I am in town. The opportunity to come here, albeit with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we had that we did not resist. I wish you could get this in time to come here tonight, but I'm not going to rely on it. In any case, I will be waiting for you tomorrow. For now, goodbye.
"MD"
Your second note, written the morning after the mideltown dance, read in these words:
"I cannot express my disappointment that I missed you the day before yesterday, nor my amazement at not having received a response to a message I sent you a week ago. I expected to hear from you, and even more to see you, every hour of the day. Please call again as soon as possible and explain the reason why I expected this in vain. You'd better come earlier another time, because we usually go out at one. We were at Lady Mideltown last night where a dance was taking place. I was told that you were asked to be at the party. But could it be so? You really have to be very changed since we broke up, if that could be the case, and you are not there But I do not take this for possible and hope very soon to get your personal insurance of the opposite.
"MD"
The content of your last note to him was this:
but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have believed you so far, that your consideration for all of us was disingenuous, that your behavior towards me should only deceive me, let it tell you as soon as possible. My feelings are currently in a state of terrible indecision; I want to absolve you, but the certainty on both sides will facilitate what I am suffering now. If your feelings are no longer so ?? are as they once were, you will return me my notes and my lock of hair that is in your possession. but certainty on both sides will be relief for what I am suffering now. If your feelings are no longer so ?? are as they once were, you will return me my notes and my lock of hair that is in your possession. but certainty on both sides will be relief for what I am suffering now. If your feelings are no longer so ?? are as they once were, you will return me my notes and my lock of hair that is in your possession.
"MD"
For Warwick's sake, Eleanore would not have wanted to believe that such letters, which were so full of affection and confidence, could be answered in this way. But her condemnation of him did not blind them to the inappropriateness of being written at all; and she mourned silently the carelessness that had dared such unsolicited evidence of tenderness, justified by nothing previous and condemned most severely by the event, when Marianne, when she noticed that she had finished the letters, told her that they contained nothing but what someone had written in the same situation.
"I felt," she added, "so solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us together."
"I can believe it," said Eleanore; "but unfortunately he didn't feel the same thing."
"He felt the same thing, Eleanore – for weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now (and nothing but the blackest art used against me may have done), I was once as kind to him as my own soul desired. This lock of hair, which he can now give up so easily, was requested by me with the deepest plea. If you had seen his gaze, his manner, you would have heard his voice at that moment! Have you forgotten the last night of our get-together in Barton? The morning we also broke up! When he told me that it could be many weeks before we meet again – his plight – can I ever forget his plight?"
For a moment or two, she couldn't say anything; but when that feeling evaporated, she added in a firmer tone:
"Eleanore, I have been used cruelly, but not by Warwick."
"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom could it have been instigated?"
"With the whole world, rather than with his own heart. I might rather believe that every creature of my acquaintance has banded together to ruin me, in his opinion, than to believe that his nature is capable of such cruelty. This woman he writes about – whoever she may be – or anyone, in short, except yourself, Mom and Edward, may have been so barbaric as to hold me. Beyond the three of you, there is a creature in the world that I would not rather suspect of evil than Warwick, whose heart do I know so well?"
Eleanore did not want to contradict and only replied, "Whoever so abominable your enemy may have been, let him cheat for his evil triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how noble the awareness of your own innocence and good intentions sustains your spirit is a reasonable and commendable pride that resists such wickedness."
"No, no," cried Marianne, "a misery like mine has no pride. I don't care, who knows I'm miserable. The triumph of seeing me this way may be open to the whole world. Eleanore, Eleanore, those who suffer little may be proud and independent as they please – can resist insults or reciprocate insults – but I can't. I have to feel – I have to be miserable – and they are welcome to enjoy the awareness of what can."
"But for my and my mother's sake..."
"I would do more than for myself. But seem happy when I'm so unhappy – oh! who can ask for that?"
Again, they were both silent. Eleanore was busy walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, not knowing that she received warmth from one or perceived objects through the other; and Marianne, sitting at the foot of the bed, her head leaning against one of the posts, picked up Warwick's letter again and, after shuddering at each sentence, exclaimed,
"It's too much! Oh, Warwick, Warwick, this could be yours! Cruel, cruel – nothing can absolve you. Eleanore, nothing can do it. Whatever he may have heard against me, he should not have given up his faith? Not to have told me about it, to have given me the power to purify myself?" "The lock of hair, (repeat it from the letter) that you so willingly lent me." – This is unforgivable. Warwick, where was yours? Heart when you wrote these words? Oh, barbarically cheeky!
"No, Marianne, absolutely not."
"And yet this woman – who knows what her art might have been? – how long it may have been deliberate, and how deeply invented by her! – Who is she? – Who can she be? – Who have I ever heard him talk about so young and attractive among his female acquaintances? - Oh! no one, no one - he only talked to me about me.
Another break followed; Marianne was very excited, and so it ended.
"Eleanor, I have to go home. I have to go and comfort mom. Can't we leave tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow, Marianne!"
"Yes, why should I stay here? I only came because of Warwick – and who cares about me now?
"It would be impossible to leave tomorrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than politeness; and politeness of the most ordinary kind must prevent such hasty removal as this."
"Well, maybe another day or two; but I can't stay here long, I can't stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Mideltowns and Palmifers – how can I bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Mideltown! Oh, what would He say!"
Eleanore advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did; but no attitude could give her relief; and in restless mental and physical pain, she moved from one posture to another until she became more and more hysterical, her sister could only keep her on the bed with difficulty at all, and for a while feared being forced to call for help. However, some lavender drops, which she was eventually persuaded to take, were beneficial; and from that time until Mrs. Jennings returned, she remained calm and motionless on the bed.
Chapter 151
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if to get as upset as possible against Mr. Drury, chose for her occupation the examination of all the letters Jane had written to her since she had been in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there a revival of past events or a communication of present suffering. But in everything and almost every line, the cheerfulness that had characterized her style and which, starting from the cheerfulness of a mind satisfied with oneself and friendly to everyone, had hardly ever been clouded, was missing. Elizabeth noticed every sentence that conveyed the idea of discomfort with an attention that he had barely received when he first read it. Mr. Drury's shameful boast about the misery he could wreak gave her a sharper sense of her sister's suffering. It was a comfort to think that his visit to Rosings would end the day after next – and, what was even greater, that in less than fourteen days she could be back with Jane herself and contribute to her recovery from the spirits, with all that affection could do.
She couldn't think about Drury leaving Kent without thinking that his cousin should go with him; but Colonel Gill had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and as pleasant as he was, she did not want to be unhappy with him.
While she was doing this point, she was suddenly awakened by the sound of the doorbell, and her mood was a little confused at the idea that it was Colonel Gill himself, who had already called once in the late evening and could now come to inquire about her in particular. But this idea was soon banished, and her mood was influenced quite differently when she saw Mr. Drury enter the room to her utter astonishment. In a hurry, he immediately began an examination of her condition, imputing his visit to the desire to hear that she was better. She replied to him with cold politeness. He sat down for a few moments, then got up and walked around the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but didn't say a word. After some silence, he approached her excitedly and began like this:
"I fought in vain. This won't do. My feelings are not suppressed. You must allow me to tell you how much I admire and love you.'
Elizabeth's amazement was indescribable. She stared, turned red, doubted and remained silent. He considered this to be sufficient encouragement; and the admission of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be described; and he was no more eloquent when it came to tenderness than to pride. His sense of inferiority – that it was a humiliation – of the family obstacles that always stood in the way of inclinations was lingered with a warmth that seemed to be due to the consequences he hurt, but it was very unlikely that he would recommend his suit.
Despite her deep-rooted aversion, she could not be insensitive to the affection of such a man, and although her intentions did not fluctuate for a moment, at first she regretted the pain he was to suffer; until, irritated by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion from anger. However, she tried to pull herself together to answer him with patience, even though he should have done so. He concluded by imagining to her the strength of this affection, which, despite all his efforts, he had considered impossible to overcome; and with the expression of his hope that it would now be rewarded by accepting his hand. When he said that, she could easily see that he had no doubts about a favorable answer. He SPEAKS of concern and apprehension, but his facial expression expresses real security. Such a circumstance could only be even more upsetting, and
"In such cases, I believe it is the established way of expressing a sense of commitment to the declared feelings, however unequal they may be. It is natural that one should feel committed, and if I could FEEL gratitude, I would thank you now. But I can't – I've never coveted your good opinion, and you've certainly been very reluctant to give it. I am sorry to have inflicted pain on someone. However, it was done most unconsciously, and I hope it will be short-lived. The feelings that, as you tell me, have long prevented the recognition of your affection can have little trouble overcoming them after this explanation.'
Mr. Drury, leaning against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His face color turned pale with anger, and the confusion of his mind was visible in every turn. He struggled for the appearance of serenity and did not open his lips until he believed he had obtained them. The break was terrible to Elizabeth's feelings. Finally, with a voice of enforced calm, he said,
"And that's the whole answer I have the honor to expect! I might want to know why I am so rejected with so little effort to be polite. But it is of little importance.'
"I might as well ask," she replied, "why did you, in such an obvious desire to insult and insult me, decide to tell me that you like me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Wasn't that an excuse for rudeness when I WAS rude? But I have other provocations. You know, I have. Had my feelings not been against you – would they have been indifferent, or would they even have been favorable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who was the means to ruin the happiness of one of the most, perhaps forever? beloved sister?'
When she uttered these words, Mr. Drury changed color; but the excitement was brief, and he listened, without trying to interrupt it, as she continued:
"I have every reason to think badly of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and unfriendly part you acted THERE. You dare not, you cannot deny that you were the most important, if not the only, means of separating them from each other – to expose one to the rebuke of the world for capriciousness and instability, and to subject the other to ridicule for disappointed hopes, and to involve them both in misery of the most acute kind."'
She paused and saw without slight indignation that he was listening with a face that proved that no remorse touched him. He even looked at her with a smile of artificial incredulity.
"Can you deny that you did?" she repeated.
With apparent calmness, he then replied, "I don't want to deny that I have done everything in my power to separate my boyfriend from your sister, or that I am happy about my success. I have been kinder to Him than to myself.'
Elizabeth spurned the appearance of noticing this polite reflection, but it did not escape its significance, nor was it suitable for reconciling it.
"But it's not just this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike is based. Long before it happened, my verdict on you was clear. Her character was unfolded in the lecture I received from Mr. Waterhouse many months ago. What can you say on this subject? In which ?? imaginary act of friendship can you defend yourself here? or under what misrepresentation can you impose something on others here?'
"They are eagerly interested in the concerns of this gentleman," Drury said in a less calm tone and with an increased shade of red.
'Who knows what his misfortune was can help to feel an interest in him?'
'His misfortune!' Drury repeated contemptuously; 'yes, his misfortune was indeed great.'
"And of your infliction," Elizabeth exclaimed full of energy. "They have reduced it to its current state of poverty – comparable poverty. You deprived him of the benefits that you need to know were meant for him. They have deprived the best years of his life of that independence that he deserves no less than his merit. You've done it all! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule.'
"And that," drury exclaimed as he walked through the room with quick steps, "is your opinion of me! That's the assessment you keep me in! Thank you for explaining it in such detail. My mistakes, according to this calculation, are indeed hard! But perhaps," he added, standing still in his hallway and turning to her, "these offenses could have been overlooked had your pride not been hurt by my honest admission of the scruples that had long prevented me from making serious intentions. These bitter accusations could have been suppressed if I had concealed my struggles with greater prudence and flattered you in the belief that I was driven by an unrestricted, pure inclination; through reason, through reflection, through everything. But any kind of disguise is against me. I'm also not ashamed of the feelings I've told. They were natural and just.
Elizabeth felt herself getting angrier every moment; yet she tried to speak with serenity when she said
,
"You are mistaken, Mr. Drury, if you think that the nature of your statement would have touched me in other ways than because it would have spared me the concern I could have felt when I had rejected you if you had behaved more like a gentleman. She
saw him start, but he didn't say anything, and she continued
,
"You couldn't have made the offer of your hand in any way that would have tempted me to accept it."
Again, his amazement was obvious; and he looked at them with an expression of mixed disbelief and shame. She continued:
"From the very beginning – from the first moment, I would almost like to say – my acquaintance with you was your manners, which impressed me with the fullest faith in your arrogance, your imagination and your selfish contempt for the feelings of others, so to form the basis of the disapproval on which subsequent events have built such an immovable aversion; and I hadn't known you for a month before I felt like you were the last man in the world I could ever be persuaded to marry him.'
"You've said enough, madam. I fully understand your feelings and now I only need to be ashamed of my own. Forgive me for taking so much time and take my best wishes for your health and happiness.'
And with these words, he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and leave the house.
The tumult of their thoughts was now painfully great. She didn't know how to support herself, and out of real weakness, she sat down and cried for half an hour. Her amazement as she reflected on what had happened became even greater with each retrospective. That she should receive a marriage offer from Mr. Drury! That he should be in love with her for so many months! So in love to want to marry her despite all the objections that had led him to prevent his boyfriend from marrying her sister, and which had to appear at least as strong with him himself, was almost unbelievable! It was gratifying to have unconsciously aroused such a strong affection. But his pride, his abominable pride – his shameless admission of what he had done about Jane – his unforgivable self-assurance in recognition, although he could not justify it, and the callous way in which he had mentioned Mr. Waterhouse, his cruelty, which he had tried not to deny, soon overcame the pity that the contemplation of his affection had aroused for a moment. She continued in very excited reflection until the sound of Lady Catherine's car made her feel incapable of encountering Charlotte's observation and she rushed to her room.
Chapter 152
Her uncle and two aunts were in the salon when Esther walked down. For the former, it was an interesting object, and he saw with pleasure the general elegance of its appearance and its remarkably good appearance. The cleanliness and decency of her clothes was all he allowed to praise in her presence, but when she left the room soon after, he spoke with very strong praise of her beauty.
"Yes," said Lady Schmidt, "she looks very good. I sent Chapman to her."
"Look closely! Oh yes!" cried Mrs. Norris, "she has good reason to look good with all her virtues: the way she grew up in this family, with all the virtues of the manners of her cousins before her. Just remember, sir Thomas, what extraordinary benefits you and I have given her. The very dress you became aware of is your own generous gift to her when dear Mrs. Rushmore got married. What would she have become if we hadn't taken her by the hand?"
Sir Thomas said nothing more; but when they sat down at the table, the eyes of the two young men assured him that the subject might be touched again gently if the ladies withdrew, with more success. Esther saw that she was recognized; and the awareness of looking good made them look even better. For various reasons, she was happy and soon became even happier; for as she followed her aunts out of the room, Edmund, who held the door open as she walked past him, said, "You must dance with me, Esther; thou shalt give me two dances; two that you like, except the first." She had nothing more to wish for. She had hardly ever been in a state in her life that was so close to high spirits. The former cheerfulness of her cousins on the day of a ball no longer surprised her; she found it very lovely,
it followed half an hour, which would have been at least sluggish under other circumstances, but Esther's cheerfulness still prevailed. It was only her conversation with Edmund to think of, and what was the restlessness of Mrs. Norris? What was lady Schmidt's yawning?
The lords joined them; and soon after, the sweet anticipation of a carriage began, when a general spirit of lightness and pleasure seemed to be spread and they all stood around and talked and laughed, and every moment had its pleasure and hope. Esther felt that Edmund's cheerfulness must have been contradictory, but it was delightful to see the efforts that were made so successfully.
When the floats were really heard, when the guests really began to gather, their own cheerfulness was very subdued: the sight of so many strangers threw them back into themselves; and in addition to the seriousness and formality of the first great circle, which neither the manners of Sir Thomas nor Lady Schmidt were able to eliminate, she was occasionally asked to endure something worse. She was introduced here and there by her uncle and forced to be approached, to bend and to speak again. This was a heavy duty, and she was never called to look at without looking at William, who walked leisurely in the background of the scene, longing to be with him.
The entry of the Grants and Dorsets was a favorable era. The stiffness of the meeting soon gave way to their folksy manners and more diffuse intimacies: small groups were formed, and everyone felt comfortable. Esther felt the advantage; and after withdrawing from the travails of politeness, she would have been most happy again if she had kept her eyes from wandering back and forth between Edmund and Mary Dorset. She looked very sweet – and what could be the end of it? Her own ruminations were ended when she perceived Mr. Dorset in front of her, and her thoughts were directed to another channel when he engaged her almost instantly for the first two dances. Their luck on this occasion was very similar, finely checked. Being sure of a partner was initially a most important asset – because the moment of the beginning was now seriously approaching; and she understood her own claims so little that she thought that if Mr. Dorset hadn't asked her, she must have been the last one to be searched for, and only through a series of requests, hustle and bustle, and interference should have gotten a partner, which would have been terrible; but at the same time there was a sophistication in his way of asking her, which she did not like, and she saw his eye with a smile – she believed there was a smile – casting a brief glance at her chain, which made her blush feel miserable. And although there was no second look that bothered her, although his object seemed only quietly pleasant, she could not overcome her embarrassment, which was exacerbated by the idea that he perceived it, and had no composure until he turned away from someone else.
When the society entered the ballroom, she found herself for the first time near Miss Dorset, whose eyes and smiles were immediately and more clearly directed than her brother's, and who began to talk about the subject when Esther was worried about bringing the story to an end, hurried to explain the second chain: the real chain. Miss Dorset listened; and all her intended compliments and allusions to Esther were forgotten: she felt only one thing; and her eyes, bright as before, showed that they could be even brighter, and she exclaimed with zealous pleasure, "Has he? Has Edmund? It was like himself. No other man would have thought of it. I honor him beyond measure." And she looked around as if longing to tell him. He was not around, he attended a company of ladies outside the room; and Mrs.
Esther's heart sank, but she had no leisure to think even long about Miss Dorset's feelings. They were in the ballroom playing the violins, and their minds were in a flutter that forbade focusing on something serious. She has to observe the general precautions and see how everything has been done.
After a few minutes, Sir Thomas came to her and asked if she was engaged; and the "Yes, sir; to Mr. Dorset," was exactly what he wanted to hear. Mr Dorset was not far away; Sir Thomas brought him to her and said something Esther learned, that she should go ahead and open the ball; an idea she had never come up with before. Whenever she had thought about the details of the evening, it had been self-evident that Edmund would start with Miss Dorset; and the impression was so strong that, although her uncle said the opposite, she could not suppress an exclamation of surprise, a hint of her unsuitability, a request even for apology. Pushing their opinion against that of Sir Thomas was proof of the limb of the case; but she was so horrified by the first proposal that she could actually look him in the face and say that she hoped it could be regulated differently; In vain, however, Mr. Thomas smiled, tried to encourage her, and then looked too serious, and said too decisively, "It must be like this, my dear," for her, to risk another word; and the next moment she found herself led by Mr. Dorset to the top of the room and stood there to be accompanied by the rest of the dancers, couple after couple, as they formed.
She couldn't believe it. To stand above so many elegant young women! The difference was too big. It treated them like their cousins! And her thoughts flew with the most unfeigned and truly tender regret to these absent cousins that they were not at home to take their own place in the room and have their share of a pleasure that would have been so delightful to them. So many times she had heard a ball at home wish herself as the greatest happiness! And that they were gone when it was given – and that she opened the ball – and also with Mr. Dorset! She hoped that she would not be envied for this award now; but when she looked back at the state of affairs in the autumn, at what they had all been together when they had once danced in this house, the current arrangement was almost more than she herself could understand.
The ball began. For Esther, it was more honor than luck, at least for the first dance: her partner was in an excellent mood and tried to convey it to her; but she was far too frightened to have any joy until she could believe that she was no longer looked at. Young, pretty and gentle, but she did not have a clumsiness that was not as good as grace, and there were few people present who were not inclined to praise her. She was attractive, she was modest, she was the niece of Sir Thomas, and soon it was said that she had been admired by Mr Dorset. It was enough to give her general favor. Sir Thomas herself watched with much complacency as she walked down the dance; he was proud of his niece; and without attributing all her personal beauty, as Mrs. Norris seemed to do, to her transfer to Mansfield,
Miss Dorset saw much of Sir Thomas' thoughts as he stood there, and, despite all his injustices to her, had the general prevailing desire to recommend herself to him, and took the opportunity to step aside to say something pleasant about Esther. Her praise was warm, and he accepted it as she could wish, agreed as much as discretion, courtesy and slow language allowed, and certainly seemed to have a greater advantage in this regard than his lady shortly afterwards, when Mary saw her very close on a sofa, she turned around, before she started dancing to compliment her on Miss Price's appearance.
"Yes, she looks very good," was Lady Schmidt's relaxed reply. "Chapman helped her get dressed. I sent Chapman to her." Not that she was really pleased that Esther was admired; but she was so much more impressed by her own kindness to send Chapman to her that she couldn't get it out of her head.
Miss Dorset knew Mrs. Norris too well to think of delighting her with praise from Esther; for them, it was how the opportunity presented itself – "Ah! Ma'am, how much we wish for dear Mrs. Rushmore and Julia tonight!" and Mrs. Norris paid her with as many smiles and polite words as she had time, in the midst of so many occupations she found putting together card tables, giving Sir Thomas tips and trying to move all the ladies of decency to a better part of the room.
Miss Dorset made the most mistakes toward Esther herself in her intentions to please her. She wanted to give her little heart a happy flutter and fill it with sensations of delightful self-assertion; and, misinterpreting Esther's blushing, she still thought when she went to her after the first two dances and said with a meaningful look, "Maybe you can tell me why my brother is going to town tomorrow? He says he has something to do there, but he doesn't want to tell me what. The first time he refused to trust me! But we all get to that. All will be displaced sooner or later. Now I have to ask you for information. Please, what does Henry want?"
Esther asserted her ignorance as firmly as her embarrassment allowed.
"Well," Miss Dorset replied with a laugh, "I suppose it was just the pleasure of introducing your brother and talking about you on the side."
Esther was confused, but it was the confusion of discontent; while Miss Dorset was surprised that she didn't smile, and thought she was overanxious, or thought she was strange, or thought she was more insensitive to joy at Henry's attentions. Esther had a lot of fun during the evening; but Henry's attentions had very little to do with it. She would much rather not have been asked by him again so soon, and she wished she had not had to suspect that his previous inquiries to Mrs. Norris about dinner time only served to secure her at this point in the evening. But it was unavoidable: he made her feel that she was the object of everything; although she could not say that it was made unpleasant, that there was disarray or boasting in its way; and sometimes when he spoke of William, he was really not pleasant and even showed a warmth of heart that honored him. But still, his attention did not make up part of their satisfaction. She was happy whenever she looked at William and saw how completely he was enjoying himself, in all five minutes she could walk around with him and hear his account of his partners; she was happy to be admired; and she was happy that she could still look forward to the two dances with Edmund for most of the evening, as her hand was so eagerly sought that her indefinite engagement to him was in constant perspective. She was happy even when they happened; but not from a stream of spirits on his side or from such expressions of tender gallantry as they had blessed the morning. His mind was sucked out, and her happiness came from being the friend with whom he could find peace. "I'm exhausted with politeness," he said. "I talked all night and didn't say anything. But with you, Esther, there can be peace. They don't want to be addressed. Let's treat ourselves to the luxury of silence." Esther would hardly express her approval. A fatigue that probably stemmed to a large extent from the same feelings he had admitted in the morning was particularly to be respected, and they went down their two dances along with such a sober calmness that could satisfy any viewer of this Sir Thomas had raised no woman for his younger son. They don't want to be addressed. Let's treat ourselves to the luxury of silence." Esther would hardly express her approval. A fatigue that probably stemmed to a large extent from the same feelings he had admitted in the morning was particularly to be respected, and they went down their two dances along with such a sober calmness that could satisfy any viewer of this Sir Thomas had raised no woman for his younger son. They don't want to be addressed. Let's treat ourselves to the luxury of silence." Esther would hardly express her approval. A fatigue that probably stemmed to a large extent from the same feelings he had admitted in the morning was particularly to be respected, and they went down their two dances along with such a sober calmness that could satisfy any viewer of this Sir Thomas had raised no woman for his younger son.
The evening had given Edmund little pleasure. Miss Dorset had been in a cheerful mood when they first danced together, but it wasn't their cheerfulness that could do him good: it sank rather than increased his well-being; and after that, because he still felt compelled to visit her again, she had absolutely tormented him by her way of speaking of the profession to which he was now about to belong. They had spoken and remained silent; he had argued that she had mocked herself; and they had eventually separated with mutual anger. Esther, who couldn't quite stop watching her, had seen enough to be reasonably satisfied. It was barbaric to be happy when Edmund suffered. But a certain happiness had to and would arise from the mere conviction that he had suffered.
When her two dances with him were over, her lust and strength for more was pretty much at an end; and Sir Thomas, who had seen her breathless and with her hand at her side walking down the shortening sentence instead of dancing, gave his orders for her to sit down completely. From then on, Mr. Dorset also got involved.
"Poor Esther!" cried William, who came to visit for a moment and worked on his partner's fan as if for life, "how quickly she is impregnated! The sport has only just begun. I hope we will continue like this for these two hours. How can you get tired so quickly?"
"So early! my good friend," said Sir Thomas, pulling out his watch with all due care; " It's three o'clock, and your sister isn't used to hours like that."
"Well, Esther, you should not get up tomorrow before I leave. Sleep as long as you can and don't take care of me."
"Oh! William."
"What! Did she think about getting up before you left?"
"Oh! yes, my Lord," Esther cried, and rose eagerly from her seat to be closer to her uncle; "I have to get up and have breakfast with him. It will be the last time, you know; the last morning."
"You better not have. He is said to have had breakfast and be gone at half past ten. Mr. Dorset, I think you're calling him at half past nine?"
However, Esther was too urgent and had too many tears in her eyes to deny it; and it ended with a gracious "Good, good!" which was permission.
"Yes, half past nine," Dorset said to William as he left her, "and I will be on time because there won't be a friendly sister there to stand up for me." And in a quieter tone to Esther: "I will only have one abandoned house from which I can hurry. Tomorrow my idea of time and his own will seem very different to your brother."
After a short reflection, Sir Thomas asked Dorset to join the early breakfast party at this house instead of eating alone: he should be there himself; and the willingness with which his invitation was accepted convinced him that the suspicion from which, as he must confess, this very ball had sprung to a large extent was well founded. Mr. Dorset was in love with Esther. He had a pleasant expectation of what would be. His niece, on the other hand, did not thank him for what he had just done. She had hoped to have William all to herself the last morning. It would have been an unspeakable treat. But although her desires were thwarted, there was no spirit of murmuring in her. On the contrary, she was so completely unfamiliar that her pleasure was consulted or that something happened at all as she could have wished,
Shortly afterwards Sir Thomas again interfered a little in her inclination by advising her to go to bed immediately. "Council" was his word, but it was the council of absolute power, and she just had to rise up and, with the very heartfelt goodbye of Mr Dorset, walk away calmly; stop at the front door, like the lady of Branxholm Hall, "a moment and nothing more" to look at the happy scene and take a last look at the five or six determined couples who were still hard at work; and then, slowly creeping up the main stairs, haunted by the incessant country dance, feverish with hopes and fears, soup and negus, sorefoot and tired, restless and excited, and yet feeling, despite all that a ball was indeed delightful.
By sending her away, Sir Thomas was perhaps not just thinking about her health. It might occur to him that Mr. Dorset had sat with her long enough, or he wanted to recommend her as a wife by demonstrating her powers of persuasion.
Chapter 153
Mrs. Alton was first seen in the church: but although the devotional could be interrupted, curiosity could not be satisfied by a bride in a pew, and it had to be left to the formal visits, which were then to be paid to decide whether she was very pretty, or just pretty, or not pretty at all.
Emma had feelings, less curiosity than pride or decency, to make the decision not to be the last to pay her respect; and she made a point of Harriet walking with her so that the worst could be done as quickly as possible.
She could not re-enter the house, could not be in the same room where she had withdrawn three months ago with such vain trick to lace up her boots without remembering. A thousand annoying thoughts would come back. compliments, charades and terrible mistakes; and it was not to be assumed that poor Harriet should not also remember; but she behaved very well and was just quite pale and silent. The visit was of course short; and there was so much embarrassment and occupation to shorten it that Emma did not allow herself to form an opinion about the lady, and in no case to give one, apart from the meaningless words, "to be elegantly dressed, and very gratifying."
She didn't really like them. She wouldn't be in a hurry to find flaws, but she suspected that there was no elegance – lightness, but no elegance. – She was almost certain that there was too much lightness for a young woman, a stranger, a bride. Her person was pretty good; her face not pretty; but neither facial features nor expression, voice, nor behavior were elegant. Emma at least thought it would come to that.
As for Mr. Alton, his manners did not appear – but no, they would not allow a hasty or witty word from herself about his manners. It was an unpleasant ceremony at all times to receive wedding visits, and a man had to muster all the grace to assert himself well in it. The woman was better off; she may have the help of fine clothes and the privilege of shyness, but the man could only rely on his own common sense; and when she thought of how unhappy poor Mr. Alton was, to be in the same room at the same time as the woman he had just married, the woman he wanted to marry, and the woman he should have married, she had to allow him to have the right to look as unwise as possible, to be as contrived, and as little really simple as possible.
"Well, Miss Lodge," Harriet said as they left the house, waiting in vain for their friend to start; Well, Miss Lodge, (with a gentle sigh) what do you think of her? – Isn't she very charming?"
There was a little hesitation in Emma's answer.
"Oh! yes – very – a very pleasant young woman."
"I think they're beautiful, pretty beautiful."
"Very nicely dressed indeed; a remarkably elegant dress."
"I'm not at all surprised that he fell in love."
"Oh! no – there is nothing at all that could surprise you. – A pretty fortune; and she got in his way."
"I dare to say," Harriet replied, sighing again, "I dare to say that she was very attached to him."
"Maybe she could; but it is not the fate of every man to marry the woman who loves him the most. Miss Hawkins may have wanted a home and thought it was the best deal she was likely to get."
"Yes," Harriet said seriously, "and she could, no one could ever have it better. Well, I wish them happy with all my heart. And now, Miss Lodge, I won't mind seeing her again. He is as superior as ever; – but being married, you know, is something completely different. No, Miss Lodge, you don't need to be afraid; I can now sit there without much misery and admire him. Knowing that he didn't throw himself away is such a comfort! – She seems to be a charming young woman, exactly what he deserves. Happy creature! He called her "Augusta". How disgusting!"
When the visit was reciprocated, Emma decided. She could then see more and judge better. Since Harriet happened not to be in Hartfield and her father was present to hire Mr. Alton, she had a quarter of an hour of the lady's entertainment for herself and was able to devote herself to her calmly; and the quarter of an hour completely convinced her that Mrs. Alton was a vain woman who was extremely satisfied with herself and thought a lot about her own importance; that she intended to shine and be very superior, but with manners that had been educated in a bad school, cheeky and familiar; that all their ideas came from a group of people and a lifestyle; that, if not stupid, she was ignorant, and that her company would certainly be of no use to Mr. Alton.
Harriet would have been better suited. If she herself had not been wise or sophisticated, she would have associated him with those who were; but Miss Hawkins, one might assume because of her frivolous vanity, had been the best of her own family. The rich brother-in-law at Bristol was the pride of the alliance, and his house and carriages were his pride.
The very first theme after sitting was Maple Grove, "My Brother's Son. Suckling's Seat" – a comparison of Hartfield to Maple Grove. The grounds of Hartfield were small but neat and pretty; and the house was modern and well built. Mrs. Alton seemed most positively impressed by the size of the room, the entrance, and everything she could see or imagine. "Very similar to Maple Grove indeed! – She was quite impressed by the similarity! – This room had exactly the shape and size of the morning room in Maple Grove; her sister's favorite room." – Mr. Alton was approached. – "Wasn't it amazing how? – She could really almost imagine herself in Maple Grove."
"And the stairs – you know, when I came in, I noticed how much the stairs resembled it; placed exactly in the same part of the house. I really couldn't help but scream! I assure you, Miss Lodge, I am very pleased to be reminded of a place like Maple Grove, which is so dear to my heart. I have spent so many happy months there! (with a small sigh of feeling). A charming place, no doubt. Every body that sees it is impressed by its beauty; but for me it was quite a home. Whenever you are transplanted like me, Miss Lodge, you will understand how delightful it is to find something like what you have left behind. I always say this is one of the evils of marriage."
Emma gave as insignificant an answer as she could; but for Mrs. Alton, who just wanted to talk herself, it was quite sufficient.
"As extreme as Maple Grove! And it's not just the house – the property I assure you is, as far as I could tell, strikingly similar. The laurels in Maple Grove are in the same abundance as here and stand in the same way – just above the lawn; and I saw a beautiful big tree with a bench around it, which reminded me so well! My brother and sister will be enchanted by this place. People who have extensive grounds themselves are always happy about everything in the same style."
Emma doubted the truth of this feeling. She had a great idea that people who had extensive plots of land themselves cared very little about other people's extensive properties; but it wasn't worth attacking such a doubly colored mistake, and therefore said only in response:
"If you've seen more of this country, I'm afraid you'll think you overestimated Hartfield. Surry is full of beauties."
"Oh! yes, I am well aware of that. It's the garden of England, you know. Surry is the garden of England."
"Yes; but we must not base our claims on this distinction. Many counties are, I believe, called the Garden of England, as well as Surry."
"No, I don't think so," Mrs. Alton replied with a most satisfied smile. "I've never heard of a county other than Surry being called that."
Emma was silenced.
"My brother and sister promised us a visit in the spring or furthest in the summer," Mrs. Alton continued; "And that will be our time for exploration. While they are with us, we will explore a lot, I dare say. You will, of course, have your Barouche-Landau, which holds four perfectly; and therefore, without saying anything about our car, we should be able to explore the various beauties very well. At this time of year, I don't think they would come in their carriage. In fact, when time passes, I will strongly recommend them to bring the Barouche-Landau; it will be so much preferable. When people come to such a beautiful country, you know, Miss Lodge, of course you want them to see as much as possible; and Mr. Suckling loves to explore. We explored King s-Winstone twice last summer, in this way highly delightful shortly after they first had the Barouche Landau. You have a lot of parties of this kind here every summer, Miss Lodge, I suppose?"
"No; not immediately here. We are quite far from the very eye-catching beauties that attract the kind of parties you're talking about; and I think we're a very quiet group of people; more inclined to stay at home than to deal with entertainment plans."
"Ah! There is nothing better than staying at home to feel really comfortable. No one can be more devoted to his home than I am. I was quite a saying for that in Maple Grove. Selina has often said when she went to Bristol, "I really can't get this girl to move out of the house. I absolutely have to go in alone, although I hate being stuck in the Barouche-Landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, would never move beyond the parking slats with her own benevolence." She has said this many times; and yet I am not an advocate of complete seclusion. On the contrary, I think that if people completely isolate themselves from society, that is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to interfere in the world in an appropriate way without living in it either too much or too little. But I understand your situation very well, Miss Lodge – (looks at Mr. Lodge) Your father's state of health must be a big disadvantage. Why doesn't he try Bath? – Indeed, it should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you that I have no doubt that it is good for Mr. Lodge."
"My father used to try more than once; but without receiving an advantage; and Mr. Perry, whose name is probably not unknown to you, doesn't think it would be any more useful now."
"Ah! that is a great pity; because I assure you, Miss Lodge, where the waters coincide, the relief they provide is quite wonderful. In my Bath life I have seen such cases! And it's such a cheerful place that it could certainly be of use to Mr. Lodge's mind, which I understand is sometimes very depressed. And as far as his recommendations to you are concerned, I don't think I need to go into much effort to go into them. The benefits of Bath for the youth are fairly well known. It would be an enchanting introduction for you who have led such a secluded life; and I could immediately secure you some of the best companies in the place. A line from me would bring you a small band of acquaintances; and my special friend, Mrs. Partridge, the lady I have always stayed with when I am in Bath, would be very happy to pay your attention,
It was as much as Emma could endure without being rude. The idea that she owes Mrs. Alton what was called an introduction – that she went public under the patronage of a friend of Mrs. Alton – probably a vulgar, dashing widow who lived up with the help of a pensioner made a shift to live! - The dignity of Miss Lodge, of Hartfield, was actually sunk!
However, she refrained from any rebukes she could have given, and only coolly thanked Mrs. Alton; "but going to Bath was out of the question; and she wasn't entirely convinced that the place would suit her better than her father." And then, in order to prevent further indignation and indignation, he directly changed the subject.
"I'm not asking if you're musical, Mrs. Alton. On these occasions, she is preceded by the character of a lady in general; and Highbury has known for a long time that you are an outstanding artist."
"Oh! in fact not; I have to protest against any such idea. An outstanding performer! – far from it, I assure you. Are you thinking about which ?? Quarter Your information comes from. I like music very much – passionately – and my friends say I'm not completely tasteless; but as far as everything else is concerned, my performance in my honor is extremely mediocre. You, Miss Lodge, I know that well, play delightfully. I assure you, it was the greatest satisfaction, comfort and joy for me to hear what kind of musical society I have fallen into. Without music I absolutely can't. It is vital for me; and since I was always used to a very musical society, both in Maple Grove and in Bath, it would have been an extremely serious sacrifice. I honestly said this to Mr. E. when he spoke of my future home, expressing his fears, so that the withdrawal from it should be unpleasant; and also the inferiority of the house - to which I was used to - of course he was not completely unconcerned. When he talked about it like that, I honestly said that I could give up the world – parties, balls, plays – because I wasn't afraid of retirement. Blessed with so many resources within me, the world was not necessary for me. I could very well do without it. For those who had no resources, it was another matter; but my resources made me quite independent. And I really couldn't think of smaller rooms than I was used to. I hoped that I was fully up to any victim of this description. Surely I was used to every luxury in Maple Grove; but I assured him that two carriages were not necessary for my happiness, nor were spacious apartments. "But," I said, "to be completely honest, I don't think I can live without something of a musical society. I don't condition for anything else; but without music, life would be empty for me.'"
"We cannot assume," Emma said with a smile, "that Alton-san would hesitate to assure you that there is a very musical society in Highbury; and I hope you will not find that he has stepped out the truth more than one can forgive given the motive.
"No, indeed, I have no doubts about that at all. I am happy to be in such a circle. I hope we will have a lot of cute little concerts together. I think Miss Lodge, you and I need to start a music club and hold regular weekly meetings at your place or with us. Won't it be a good plan? If we make an effort, I don't think we will lack allies for long. Something like this would be particularly desirable for me to keep me in practice; for married women, you know – there is generally a sad story against them. They are only too inclined to give up the music."
"But you who like it so much – there can be no danger?"
"I hope not; but really, when I look around among my acquaintances, I tremble. Selina completely gave up the music – never touches the instrument – even though she played sweetly. And the same goes for Mrs. Jeffereys – that was Clara Partridge – and for the two Milmans, now Mrs. Bird and Mrs. James Cooper; and more than I can enumerate. At my word, it is enough to terrify you. I used to be quite angry with Selina; but really I'm now beginning to understand that a married woman has a lot of things that grab her attention. I think I was locked up with my housekeeper for half an hour this morning."
"But all these things," Emma said, ??" will soon be on such a regular train – "
Well," Mrs. Alton said with a laugh, "we'll see."
Emma?? who realized that she was so determined to neglect her music had nothing more to say; and after a short pause, Mrs. Alton chose a different theme.
"We visited Randalls," she said, "and found them both at home; and they seem to be very pleasant people. I really like them. Mr. Winstone seems to be an excellent creature – he is already a very special favorite for me, I assure you. And she works so truly well – she has something so motherly and kind about her that you immediately notice it. She was your governess, I think?"
Emma was almost too amazed to answer; but Ms. Alton barely waited for confirmation before proceeding.
"After understanding so much, I was quite amazed to find her so very ladylike! But she really is a very noble woman."
"Woman. Winstone's manners," Emma said, "?" were always particularly good. Her decency, simplicity and elegance would make her the safest model for any young woman."
"And who do you think came in while we were there?"
Emma was quite at a loss. The sound pointed to an old acquaintance – and how could she guess that?
"Hills!" continued Mrs. Alton; "Hill himself! – Wasn't that a stroke of luck? and of course, as such a special friend of Mr. E., I was very curious. "My friend Hill" had been mentioned so many times that I was really impatient to see him; and I have to agree with my caro sposo that he does not need to be ashamed of his friend. Hill is quite a gentleman. I like him a lot. Quite decisively, I think, a very gentleman-like man."
Luckily, now was the time to leave. They were gone; and Emma could breathe.
"Unbearable woman!" was her immediate exclamation. "Worse than I had assumed. Absolutely unbearable! Hill! – I couldn't have believed it. Hill! – she has never seen him in her life and calls him Hill! – and discovers that he is a gentleman! A small upstart, a vulgar being, with her Mr. E. and her caro sposo and her resources and all her appearance of cheeky presumption and subracial plaster. Actually to discover that Mr. Hill is a gentleman! I doubt that he will return the compliment and discover her as a lady. I couldn't have believed it! And to suggest that she and I should join forces to form a music club! You might think we were bosom friends! And Mrs. Winstone! – Amazed that the person who raised me should be a noble woman! Worse and worse. I never met with her right away. Far above my hopes. Harriet is embarrassed by any comparison. Oh! What would Frank Curcelle say to her if he were here? How angry and distracted he would be! Ah! there I am – I think directly of him. Always the first person to be thought of! How I catch myself! Frank Curcelle regularly comes to mind!" —
All this was so to her ?? recklessly through her head that when her father had arranged himself after the hustle and bustle of the Departure of the Alton and was ready to speak, she was quite bearably able to attend her.
"Well, my dear," he began intentionally, "considering we've never seen her before, she seems to be a very pretty young lady; and I dare say that she was very happy with you. She speaks a little too fast. There is a small speed of the voice, which is more likely to hurt in the ear. But I think I'm nice; I don't like foreign voices; and no one speaks like you and poor Miss Taylor. However, she seems to be a very accommodating, well-behaved young lady and will undoubtedly make him a very good wife. Although I think he would have better not married. I apologized as much as I could for not being able to serve him and Mrs. Alton on this happy occasion; I said I hope I will do it over the course of the summer. But I should have gone before. Not serving a bride is very careless. Ah! it shows what a sad invalid I am! But I don't like the corner into Vicarage Lane."
"I dare say that your apology has been accepted, sir. Mr. Alton knows you."
"Yes: but A young lady – a bride – I should have paid her my respects as much as possible. It was very deficient."
"But my dear dad, you are not a friend of marriage; and why should you be so anxious to pay your respects to a bride? It should not be a recommendation to you. It encourages people to get married when you make so much of them."
"No, my dear, I have never encouraged anyone to get married, but I would always want to give a lady the attention it deserves – and a bride in particular should never be neglected. It deserves more. A bride, you know, my dear, is always the first in company, let the others be whatever they want."
"Well, Dad, if that's not encouragement to get married, I don't know what it is. And I never expected you to endorse such vanity baits for poor young ladies."
"My dear, you don't understand me. This is a matter of general courtesy and good upbringing and has nothing to do with encouraging people to get married."
Emma had made it. Her father became nervous and could not understand her. Her thoughts returned to Mrs. Alton's offense, and for a long, very long time they occupied her.
Chapter 154
Mrs. Jennings came to her room immediately upon her return, and without waiting for the response to her request for admission, she opened the door and entered with an expression of genuine concern.
"How are you, my dear?" she said with great sympathy to Marianne, who turned her face away without answering.
he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I will no longer disturb her, because she had better cry out immediately and be done. Luckily, the Parrys and Sandersons are coming tonight, you know, and that will amuse them."
Then she walked away and walked out of the room on tiptoe, as if she feared that the noise of her young friend could increase the suffering.
To her sister's surprise, Marianne decided to dine with them. Eleanor even advised her against it. But "no, it would perish; she could endure it very well, and the hustle and bustle around her would be less." Eleanore, pleased that for a moment she was ruled by such a motive, although she hardly thought it possible that she could skip dinner, said nothing more; and while Marianne remained on the bed, she straightened her dress as best she could and was ready to help her into the dining room as soon as they were called there.
When she got there, although she looked extremely pathetic, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been aware of Mrs. Jennings' halfway well-intentioned but ill-considered attentions, this calm could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts kept her in ignorance of everything that passed before her.
Eleanore, who lived up to the kindness of Mrs. Jennings, although her outpourings were often embarrassing and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her these affirmations and returned to her those courtesies that her sister could not make or reciprocate for herself. Her good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy and felt that she was entitled to everything that could make her less unhappy. She therefore treated her with all the lenient affection of a mother for a favorite child on the last day of his vacation. Marianne should have the best place by the fire, be seduced by every delicacy of the house to eat and amuse herself about the news of the day. Had Eleanore not seen a check in her sister's sad face, to everyone's delight, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jenning's efforts to heal a disappointment in love, through a variety of sweets and olives and a good fire. But as soon as Marianne was forced to become aware of all this through constant repetition, she could not stay any longer. With a hasty cry of misery and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she got up right up and hurried out of the room.
"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings as soon as she left, "how saddening me to see her! And I explain if she didn't leave without drinking her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to be of any use to her ... I'm sure if I knew something she would like to have, I'd have it picked up all over the city. Well, it's the strangest thing for me that a man uses such a pretty girl so sickly! But if it's like a lot of money on one side and almost none on the other, God bless you! they don't care about things like that anymore!—"
"Then the lady - Miss Grey, I think you called her - is very rich?"
But that is no longer possible today; Nothing in the sense of pleasure can ever be abandoned by the young men of this age."
"Do you know what kind of girl Miss Grey is? Should she be kind?"
"I have never heard anything evil from her; in fact, I have hardly ever heard it mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor said this morning that Miss Walker had indicated to her one day that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not regret marrying Miss Grey, because she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." —
"And who are the Ellisons?"
"Your guardians, my dear. But now she is of legal age and can choose for herself; and she made a nice choice! , to moan on their own. Is there nothing to comfort them? Poor child, it seems quite cruel to leave her alone. Well, little by little we will have a few friends, and that will amuse them a little. What should we play? She hates Whist, I know, but isn't there a round game that's important to her?"
"Dear Woman, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, dare say, will not leave her room tonight.
"Yes, I think that will be the best thing for them. Let them call their own dinner and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has looked so bad and been so depressed about this matter for the last week or two, I suppose has been hanging over her head for so long. And so the letter that came today ended it! Poor soul! I'm sure if I had any idea about it, I wouldn't have joked about it for all my money. But then you know, how am I supposed to guess something like that? I made sure it was nothing but an ordinary love letter, and you know that young people like to be laughed at about it. Lord God, how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had been in my right mind, I might have stopped by Conduit Street on the way home and told them about it. But I'll see them tomorrow."
"I'm sure it would be unnecessary if you warned Mrs. Palmifer and Sir John not to ever name Mr. Warwick or to make even the slightest allusion to what happened before my sister. Her own good-naturedness must point out to her the real cruelty of knowing anything about it when she is present; and the less I am ever told about it, the more my feelings are spared, as you, my dear Madam, will easily believe.
"Oh! Lord! yes, I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear talk about it; and as for your sister, I'm sure I wouldn't say a word to her about it. You didn't see it all the time for dinner. Sir John my daughters, because they are all very thoughtful and considerate. Especially when I give them a hint, which I will certainly do. For my part, I think that the less talked about such things, the better, the more likely it is to be blown away and forgotten.
"In this matter, it can only hurt, perhaps more than in many cases of a similar nature, because circumstances have been added that make it unsuitable for the benefit of all parties involved to become a public conversation. I have to live up to Mr. Warwick DIES – he didn't have a positive relationship with my sister."
"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. In fact, no positive engagement!
Eleanore could not elaborate further on the subject for her sister's sake, and she hoped that warwick would not be required to do so; for although Marianne could lose a lot, he could gain very little by asserting the real truth. After a brief silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings broke out again with all her natural cheerfulness.
Then there is a dovecote, some delightful stew ponds and a very pretty canal; and briefly everything you could wish for; and besides, it's close to the church and only a quarter mile from Turnpike Street, so it never gets boring because if you just go and sit in an old yew arbor behind the house, you can see all the carts passing by. Oh! It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!" and a very pretty channel; and briefly everything you could wish for; and besides, it's close to the church and only a quarter mile from Turnpike Street, so it never gets boring because if you just go and sit in an old yew arbor behind the house, you can see all the carts passing by. Oh! It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!" and a very pretty channel; and briefly everything you could wish for; and besides, it's close to the church and only a quarter mile from Turnpike Street, so it never gets boring because if you just go and sit in an old yew arbor behind the house, you can see all the carts passing by. Oh! It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!" it's close to the church and only a quarter mile from Turnpike Street, so it never gets boring because if you just go and sit in an old yew arbor behind the house, you can see all the carriages passing on. Oh! It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!" it's close to the church and only a quarter mile from Turnpike Street, so it never gets boring because if you just go and sit in an old yew arbor behind the house, you can see all the carriages passing on. Oh! It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!" It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!" It's a nice place! A butcher right in the village and the rectory in the immediate vicinity. In my opinion, a thousand times nicer than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat and have no closer neighbor than your mother. Well, I will cheer up the Colonel as soon as possible. One mutton shoulder, you know, floats another down. If we CAN, but banish Warwick from her head!"
"Yes, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," Eleanore said, "we will do very well with or without Colonel Bridgerton." And then she got up and went to Marianne, who she had expected to find in her own room, where she was bent in silent misery over the small remnants of a fire that had been her only light until Eleanore's entry.
"You'd better leave me," was the whole message her sister received from her.
"I will leave you," Eleanore said, "when you go to bed." But she initially refused to do so out of the instantaneous perversity of impatient suffering. However, her sister's serious, if gentle, conviction soon softened her, and Eleanore saw her sore head on the pillow, and how she hoped, in a way, to give herself some rest before leaving it.
In the salon, where she then went, Mrs. Jennings soon joined her, with a wine glass, full of something, in her hand.
"My dear," she said as she entered, "it just occurred to me that I have some of the best old Constantia wines in the house that have ever been tasted, so I brought a glass of them for your sister. My poor husband! he liked it very much! Whenever he had a trace of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than anything else in the world. Take it to your sister."
"Dear woman," Eleanore replied, smiling at the variety of complaints for which it was recommended , "how good you are! But I just left Marianne in bed and, I hope, almost fell asleep, and as I think nothing will she be like ?? benefit a lot like the peace, if you allow me, I will drink the wine myself.
Although Mrs. Jennings regretted that she had not arrived five minutes earlier, she was pleased with the compromise; and Eleanore, as she swallowed the bulk of it, pondered that although her effect on colicky gout was of little importance to her at the moment, her healing powers on a disappointed heart could be reasonably tried on herself as well as on her sister.
Colonel Bridgerton came in while the company was having tea, and by his way of looking around the room for Marianne, Eleanore immediately believed that he was neither expecting nor wishing for her there, and in short, that he already knew what the reason was her absence. Mrs. Jennings did not have the same thought; for soon after he entered, she walked through the room to the tea table where Eleanore presided, whispering, "The colonel looks as serious as you always see it. He doesn't know about it;
Shortly thereafter, he pulled a chair up to hers and inquired about her sister with a look that fully assured her of his good information.
"Marianne is not doing well," she said. "She was unwell all day, and we persuaded her to go to bed."
"Perhaps," he replied hesitantly, "what I heard this morning is perhaps more truth in it than I initially thought possible."
"What did you hear?"
"This is a gentleman I had reason to believe – in short, that a man I KNEW was engaged – but how can I tell you?
"You mean," Eleanore replied with enforced calm, "Mr. Warwick's marriage to Miss Grey. Yes, we know everything. This seems to have been a day of general enlightenment, because that very morning it was revealed to us for the first time. Mr. Warwick is unfathomable! Where did you hear that?"
– but it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I found out on request, because I stayed in the store until they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have since been told, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian."
"That's it. But have you also heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand pounds?
"It may be so; but Warwick is capable - at least I think" - he paused for a moment; then added in a voice that seemed to distrust herself: "And your sister – how did she have –
"Her sufferings were very severe. I just have to hope that they will be relatively short. It was, it is an extremely cruel suffering. Until yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his appreciation; and maybe even now – but I'm almost convinced that he was never really fond of her. He was very deceitful! and in some points he seems to have a hardness of heart."
"Ah!" said Colonel Bridgerton, "there really is!
"You know her predisposition and may believe how eagerly she would justify it if she could."
He did not answer; and soon after, the theme was necessarily dropped by the removal of the teaware and the arrangement of the card parties. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them speak with pleasure and who had expected to see the effect of Miss Hargrove's message in such instantaneous cheerfulness on the side of Colonel Bridgerton as a man in the prime of youth deserves hope and happiness, saw him with amazement the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.
Chapter 155
Elizabeth awoke the next morning with the same thoughts and meditations that had finally closed her eyes. She has not yet been able to recover from the surprise of what happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and completely unable to work, she decided to allow herself air and exercise soon after breakfast. She went straight on to her favorite walk when the reminder that Mr. Drury sometimes came there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the alley that led further from Turnpike Street. The park fences still formed the boundary on one side, and soon it passed one of the gates into the ground.
After walking along this part of the alley two or three times, she was tempted by the pleasant morning to stop at the gate and look into the park. The five weeks she had now spent in Kent had made a huge difference in the country, and each day contributed to the green of the early trees. She was about to continue her walk when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman in the manner of groves surrounding the park; he moved in that direction; and for fear that it might be Drury-san, she withdrew immediately. But the person who advanced was now close enough to see them and eagerly stepped forward and pronounced his name. She had turned away; but when she heard her being called, albeit with a voice that proved it was Mr. Drury, she walked back towards the gate. By this time he had also achieved it, and holding up a letter that she instinctively took, said with a look of haughty serenity: "I walked in the woods for some time, hoping to meet you. Would you do me the honor of reading this letter?" And then, with a slight bow, turned back into the plantation and was soon out of sight.
Without expectation of pleasure, but with the greatest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter and, to her ever-increasing astonishment, saw an envelope containing two sheets of stationery written all through, in her very close hand. The envelope itself was also full. She followed her path along the alley and then started. It was dated from Rosings to eight o'clock in the morning and read as follows:
"Don't be alarmed, Madam, when you receive this letter, because of the fear that it might contain a repetition of those feelings or a renewal of those offers that were so disgusting to you last night. I write without the intention of torturing you or humiliating myself by dwelling on wishes that fortunately both cannot be forgotten too quickly; and the trouble that the education and study of this letter must have caused should have been spared if my character had not demanded to write and read it. You must therefore forgive the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will be reluctant, but I demand it from your righteousness.
"You accused me last night of two offences of a very different nature and by no means of the same extent. The first mentioned that, regardless of the feelings of both of them, I had separated Mr. Woodland from your sister, and the other that I had ruined immediate prosperity in disregard of various claims, in disregard of honor and humanity, and blew up Mr. Waterhouse's prospects. To have thrown away the companion of my youth, the recognized favorite of my father, a young man who had little other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up with their efforts to have deliberately and wantonly thrown away, would be a depravity, with which the separation of two young people, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could not stand comparison. But of the gravity of this guilt, which was so generously allocated last night, taking into account all the circumstances, I hope to be secured in the future when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in explaining the same that I owe myself, I am forced to name feelings that could be offensive, I can only say that I am sorry. The need must be followed, and another apology would be absurd.
"I hadn't been in Hertfordshire long when I saw, like others, that Woodland preferred your older sister to any other young woman in the country. But it wasn't until the night of the dance in Netherfield that I was afraid that he felt a serious affection. I had seen him in love many times. At that ball, when I had the honour of dancing with you, Sir William Lucas' chance information informed me for the first time that Woodland's attention to your sister had led to a general expectation of her wedding. He spoke of a particular event whose timing alone was undecidable. From that moment on, I watched attentively the behavior of my friend; and I could see that his fondness for Miss Mitchell went beyond what I had ever seen with him. I also watched your sister. Her appearance and manners were open, cheerful and engaging as always, but without any signs of special consideration, and I remained convinced after the evening exam that while she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite her through any participation in feelings. If YOU weren't wrong here, I must have been wrong. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter likely. If so, if I was tempted by such a mistake to inflict pain on her, her resentment was not unreasonable. But I won't have any qualms about claiming that the serenity of your sister's face and air was such that the most astute observer might have believed that her heart, however gracious her temperament may be, probably wouldn't be easily touched. That I wanted to believe her indifferently is certain – but I dare say that my research and decisions are usually not influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished; I believed it out of unbiased conviction, so I really wanted it from the ground up. My objections to marriage were not only those that I pushed aside with extreme passion last night in my own case; the lack of connection could not be as great an evil for my friend as it was for me. But there were other reasons for the reluctance; Causes that, although still present and present to the same extent in both cases, I had tried to forget about them because they were not immediately in front of me. These causes must be indicated, albeit briefly. The situation of your mother's family, while offensive, was nothing compared to this total indecency that has been betrayed so frequently, so uniformly, by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Excuse me. It pains me to insult you. But in the midst of your concern for the shortcomings of your closest relatives and your displeasure with this portrayal of them, it is meant to comfort you when you consider that it is no less general praise to have behaved in such a way that you avoid any part of the same rebuke is bestowed on you and your older sister, then it is honorable for the mind and disposition of both. I just want to go on to say that what happened that evening confirmed my opinion from all sides and reinforced any reason that could have previously led me to save my friend from what I considered to be a most unfortunate connection. He left Netherfield for London,
"The role I played is now to be explained. The discomfort of his sisters was as aroused as my own; our emotional coincidence was soon discovered, and just as aware that we should not waste time separating her brother, we decided shortly afterwards to join him directly in London. We went accordingly – and there I willingly took over the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such an election. I have described them and seriously enforced them. But however this accusation may have shaken or delayed his resolve, I do not suppose that he would have ultimately prevented the marriage if he had not been supported by the assurance of your sister's indifference, which I did not hesitate. He had previously believed that she would return his affection with sincere, if not equal, respect. But Woodland has a great natural modesty, with a greater dependence on my judgment than on his own. So convincing him that he had cheated on himself was not a very difficult point. Convincing him not to return to Hertfordshire after this condemnation was pronounced was hardly the work of a moment. I can't blame myself for having done so much. There is only one part of my behavior in the whole matter that I do not think about with satisfaction; it is that I have condescended to take the measures of art to such an extent that I conceal from him the presence of your sister in the city. I knew it myself, as Miss Woodland was known; but her brother doesn't know yet. That they could have met without evil consequences is perhaps likely; but his gaze did not seem extinguished enough to me to see them without danger. Perhaps this veiling, this disguise, was beneath my dignity; however, it is done, and it has been done for the best. On this subject, I have nothing more to say, no other excuse to offer. If I have hurt your sister's feelings, it has happened unknowingly, and although the motives that dominated me may seem very naturally inadequate to you, I have not yet learned to condemn her.
"The other, more serious accusation of having hurt Mr. Waterhouse, I can only refute by explaining to you his whole connection to my family. What he accused me OF IN PARTICULAR, I do not know; but for the truth of what I am going to tell, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted truthfulness.
'Lord. Waterhouse is the son of a very respectable man who for many years managed all the estates in Pemberley and whose good manners in fulfilling his trust naturally led my father to serve him; and George Waterhouse, who was his godson, was therefore generously bestowed upon his kindness. My father supported him at school and later in Cambridge – the most important help, as his own father, who was always poor in his wife's extravagance, would not have been able to give him a gentleman's education. My father not only loved the company of this young man, whose manner was always engaging; he also had the highest opinion of him and hoped that the Church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for me, it's been many, many years since I started thinking about him in a very different way. The evil tendencies – the lack of principles, which he carefully guarded to preserve from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man who was almost the same age as himself and had the opportunity to see him in unguarded moments that Mr. Drury could not have. Again, it will hurt you – how much you can only say it. But whatever the feelings that Mr. Waterhouse has generated, a suspicion of their nature should not prevent me from revealing his true character – it adds yet another motive. Again, it will hurt you – how much you can only say it. But whatever the feelings that Mr. Waterhouse has generated, a suspicion of their nature should not prevent me from revealing his true character – it adds yet another motive. Again, it will hurt you – how much you can only say it. But whatever the feelings that Mr. Waterhouse has generated, a suspicion of their nature should not prevent me from revealing his true character – it adds yet another motive.
"My excellent father died about five years ago; and his affection for Mr. Waterhouse was so enduring to the end that in his will he explicitly recommended that I promote his progress as well as his profession allowed – and if he accepted orders, he wished for a valuable family Life could belong to him as soon as it became free. There was also a legacy of a thousand pounds. His own father did not survive mine for long, and within half a year of these events, Mr. Waterhouse informed me in writing that after he had finally decided against accepting orders, he hoped I would not consider it inappropriate to expect him to pay money immediately instead of the promotion that could not benefit him. He had the intention, he added, to study law, and I must be aware that the interest rate of a thousand pounds would be a very inadequate support for this. I wished rather than believed he was sincere; but was in any case perfectly ready to join his proposal. I knew that Mr. Waterhouse should not be a clergyman; so the matter was soon settled, he renounced any right to support in the church, if he should ever be able to receive it, and took three thousand pounds for it. All connections between us now seemed dissolved. I thought too bad of him to invite him to Pemberley or allow his company in town. I think he lived mainly in the city, but his law studies were just a pretext, and now that he was freed from all constraints, his life was a life of idleness and debauchery. For about three years I heard little from him; but when the maintenance creditor intended for him died, he again applied to me for the performance by letter. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty believing it, were extraordinarily bad. He had found law school to be highly unprofitable and was now determined to be ordained if I introduced him to the living person in question – which he could hardly doubt, as he was sure that I had no other person to care for, and I could not forget the intentions of my revered father. They will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this request or for resisting any repetition. His resentment was proportionate to the plight of his circumstances – and he was undoubtedly as violent in his insults against me against others as in his accusations against myself. After this time, every appearance of acquaintances was dropped. I don't know how he lived. But last summer he was forced on me again in the most embarrassing way.
"I must now mention a circumstance that I myself would like to forget, and which should lead me to no less obligation than the present to reveal myself to every human being. Having said so much, I have no doubt about your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years younger than me, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Gill, and me. About a year ago, she was taken out of school and founded an institution for her in London; and last summer she went to Ramsgate with the lady who presided; and that's where Mr. Waterhouse went, no doubt on purpose; for it turned out that there had been an earlier acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and through her toleration and help, he has so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose loving heart kept a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe in love and agree to escape. She was only fifteen at the time, which must be her excuse; and after realizing her unwiseness, I like to add that I owed the knowledge about it to her myself. I unexpectedly joined them a day or two before the intended escape, and then Georgiana, who couldn't bear the thought of mourning and insulting a brother she looked almost like a father, confessed the whole thing to me. You can imagine what I felt and how I acted. Respect for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Waterhouse, who immediately left the house, and Mrs. Younge was of course relieved of her care. Mr. Waterhouse's main goal was undoubtedly my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I can't help but assume that the hope of taking revenge on me was a strong incentive. His revenge would indeed have been complete.
"This, Madam, is a faithful account of all the events in which we have been involved together; and if you do not reject it as absolutely wrong, I hope you will absolve me of the cruelty to Mr. Waterhouse from now on. I do not know in what way, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is perhaps not surprising. As ignorant as you were before about everything that involved both, the discovery could not be in your power, and the suspicion was certainly not in your inclination.
"You may be wondering why you weren't told all this last night; but I was not yet Master enough of myself to know what could or should be revealed. For the truth of everything that is told here, I can refer in particular to the testimony of Colonel Gill, who was inevitably known by our close relationship and constant intimacy and even more than one of my father's executors of each and every one of these transactions. If your disgust with ME should render MY claims worthless, you cannot be prevented from confiding in My Cousin for the same reason; and in order to have the opportunity to consult him, I will endeavour to find an opportunity to give you this letter in the course of the morning. I just add: God bless you.
Chapter 156
No later discovery forced Emma to retract her bad opinion of Mrs. Alton. Their observation had been quite correct. Just as Mrs. Alton appeared to her in this second interview, she appeared to her whenever they met again — presumptuous, presumptuous, familiar, ignorant, and poorly behaved. She had a little beauty and a little talent, but so little judgment that she believed she could come with superior knowledge of the world to revive and improve a rural neighborhood; and imagined Miss Hawkins having taken such a place in society as the episode of Mrs. Alton could only surpass.
There was no reason to believe that Mr. Alton thought differently from his wife. He seemed not only happy with her, but also proud. He had the face of congratulating himself for bringing such a woman to Highbury as not even Miss Lodge could match him; and most of their new acquaintance, inclined to praise, or not to judge the habit of following the goodwill of Miss Bates, or to take it for granted that the bride must be as smart and as pleasant as she professes, were very satisfied; so that Mrs. Alton's praise went from one mouth to the other as it should be, unhindered by Miss Lodge, who willingly continued her first post, speaking with good grace that she was "very pleasantly and very elegantly dressed."
In one respect, Mrs. Alton became even worse than she first appeared. Her feelings towards Emma changed. – Probably offended by the little encouragement that her proposals for intimacy found, she in turn withdrew and gradually became much colder and more distant; and although the effect was pleasant, the malice it provoked necessarily increased Emma's dislike. Her manners – and those of Mr. Alton – were also unpleasant to Harriet. They were scornful and careless. Emma hoped that Harriet's remedy would work quickly; but the sensations that could provoke such behavior made them both very low. – There was no doubt that the attachment of poor Harriet had been an offer to be marital unreserved and to be her own part in the story under a least favorable coloration for her most reassuring for him was in all likelihood also given. It was, of course, the object of their common dislike. – If they had nothing else to say, it must always be easy to insult Miss Lodge; and the hostility they did not dare to show her in open disrespect found a broader expression in the contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Alton had a great fondness for Jane Saxon; and from the first. Not only when a state of war with one young lady should recommend the other, but from the beginning; and she was not content to express a natural and appropriate admiration – but without requests, requests or privileges, she must want to help her and make friends with her. – Before Emma had lost her trust, and about the third time of their meeting, she had heard Mrs. Alton's chivalrous wanderings on the subject. "
Jane Saxon is absolutely adorable, Miss Lodge. – I'm pretty much raving about Jane Saxon. – A sweet, interesting creature. So gentle and ladylike – and with such talents! – I assure you that I think she has very extraordinary talents. I have no qualms about saying that she plays extremely well. I know enough about music to speak decisively on this point. Oh! she is absolutely charming! You'll laugh at my warmth – but, at my word, I'm talking about nothing but Jane Saxon. – And their situation is so determined that it touches you! – Miss Lodge, we have to make an effort and strive to do something for them. We need to move them forward. Such talent must not go unnoticed. – I dare say you have heard the poet's lovely lines,
"Many flowers are born to blush unseen,
'And waste its scent in the desert air.'
We must not allow them to verify themselves in sweet Jane Saxon."
"I can't believe there is any danger," was Emma's calm response — "and if you're more familiar with Miss Saxon's situation and understand what her home was like with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I have no idea you'll assume their talents might be unknown."
"Oh! but dear Miss Lodge, she is now so thrown away in such seclusion, such darkness. - Whatever benefits she may have enjoyed with the Campbells, they are so tangible to the end! And I think she feels it. I'm sure she does. She is very shy and quiet. You can see that she lacks encouragement. But I like it all the better. I must confess, it is a recommendation to me. I'm a big proponent of shyness – and I'm sure you don't encounter it often. – But for those who are inferior at all, it is extremely engaging. Oh! I assure you, Jane Saxon is a very delightful character and interests me more than I can express."
"You seem to feel very much – but I don't realize how you or any of Miss Saxon's acquaintances here, one of those who have known her longer than yourself, can give her a different attention than" –
"My dear Miss Lodge, those who dare to act can make a big difference. You and I don't need to be afraid. If we lead by example, many will follow him as much as possible; although all of them do not have our situations. We have carriages to pick them up and bring them home, and we live in a style that could not disturb the addition of Jane Saxon at any time. – I would be extremely dissatisfied if Wright sent us such a dinner, which might make me regret to have asked more than Jane Saxon to attend. I have no idea about such a thing. It's unlikely that I should, considering what I'm used to. Perhaps my greatest danger in budget management is, exactly the other way around, to do too much and to be too careless with the costs. Maple Grove will probably be more my role model than it should be – because we don't seem to be on par with my brother, Mr. Suckling, high-income. – However, I am determined to notice Jane Saxon. – I will certainly have them in my home very often, will introduce them wherever I can, will host musical parties to highlight their talents, and must constantly be on the lookout for a suitable situation. My acquaintance is so extensive that I have little doubt that I will soon hear something suitable for her. – Of course, I will introduce them especially to my brother and sister when they come to us. I'm sure they'll like them very much; and if she gets to know them a little, her fears will disappear altogether, because there is really nothing in the manners of the two but highly conciliatory. – I will probably have them very often as long as they are with me,
"Poor Jane Saxon!" – Emma thought. – "You don't deserve that. You may have wronged Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment that goes beyond what you deserve! – The kindness and protection of Mrs. Alton! – "Jane Saxon and Jane Saxon." Sky! Let me not assume that she dares to walk around, Emma, ?? that attacks me! – But in my honor, the licentiousness of this woman's tongue, there seem to be no limits!"
Emma never had to listen to such a parade again – one that was so exclusively addressed to herself – which was so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss Lodge". The change on Mrs. Alton's side occurred soon after, and she was left alone – neither forced to be the very special friend of Mrs. Alton, nor, under Mrs. Alton's guidance, the very active patroness of Jane Saxon, and only to share with others in general by knowing what you feel, what you meditate, what you do.
She watched with some amusement. - Miss Bates' gratitude for Mrs. Alton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of innocent simplicity and warmth. She was one of her most worthy personalities – the kindest, most affable, adorable woman – as cultured and condescending as Mrs. Alton had in mind. Emma's only surprise was that Jane Saxon should accept these attentions and tolerate Mrs. Alton as she apparently did. She heard her walking with the Alton's, sitting with the Alton's, spending a day with the Alton's! That was amazing! – She would not have thought it possible that the taste or pride of Miss Saxon could endure such a company and friendship as the rectory had to offer.
"It's a mystery, quite a mystery!" she said. – "To be crucial, to stay here month after month, under privations of all kinds! And now it's better to choose the humiliation of Mrs. Alton's announcement and the poverty of their conversation than to return to the superior companions they have always loved with such genuine, generous affection."
Jane had confessed to come to Highbury for three months; the Campbells had left for Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had promised their daughter to stay at least until midsummer, and new invitations had arrived for her to join them. According to Miss Bates – it all came from her – Mrs. Dixon had written most urgently. If only Jane were to leave, means would have to be found, servants sent, friends invented – no travel difficulties would have to pass; but she had refused anyway!
"She must have a motive that is stronger than it seems to reject this invitation," Emma concluded. "She must be under some kind of penance, either from the Campbells or from herself. Somewhere there is great fear, great caution, great determination. – She should not be with the Dixons. The decree is issued by someone. But why does she have to agree to be with the Altons? – Here's a completely different mystery."
When she expressed her amazement at this part of the subject out loud, Mrs. Winstone dared to apologize to Jane in front of the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Alton.
"We can't assume that she feels particularly comfortable in the rectory, my dear Emma – but it's better than always being at home. Your aunt is a good creature, but must be very tiring as a constant companion. We need to consider what Miss Saxon is giving up before we condemn her taste for what she does."
"You're right, Mrs. Winstone," Mr. Hill said heartily, "Miss Saxon is just as capable as any of us to form a proper opinion about Mrs. Alton. If she had been able to choose who she had to deal with, she would not have chosen her. But (with a reproachful smile to Emma) she receives attentions from Mrs. Alton that no one else pays her."
Emma felt Mrs. Winstone give her a glimpse; and she herself was touched by his warmth. With a slight blush, she immediately replied:
"Such attentions as Mrs. Alton's, I could have imagined, would outrage Miss Saxon rather than please. Mrs. Alton's invitations should have been anything but inviting."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said Mrs. Winstone, "if Miss Saxon had been attracted beyond her own inclination by her aunt's eagerness to receive Mrs. Alton's courtesies for her. Poor Miss Bates most likely committed her niece and pushed her to a greater semblance of intimacy than her own common sense would have required, despite the very natural desire for a small change."
Both were quite eager to hear him speak again; and after a few minutes of silence, he said,
"Something else needs to be considered – Mrs. Alton is not talking to Miss Saxon while she is talking about her. We all know the difference between the pronouns he or she and you, who are spoken most clearly among us; We all feel in our personal dealings with each other the influence of something that goes beyond general politeness – something that was planted earlier. We can't give anyone the unpleasant hints that we might have been very busy the hour before. We feel things differently. Aside from how it works, you can be sure that Miss Saxon impresses Mrs. Alton with her superiority in both spirit and behavior; and that Mrs. Alton treats her face to face with all the respect she is entitled to. A woman like Jane Saxon probably never fell in love with Mrs. Alton.
"I know how much you appreciate Jane Saxon," Emma said. Little Henry was in her thoughts, and a mixture of apprehension and tenderness made her undecided what else to say.
"Yes," he replied, "everyone knows how much I appreciate them."
"And yet," said Emma, ?? started hastily and with a mischievous look, but soon stopped – but it was better to know the worst immediately – she hurried on – "and yet, maybe you hardly know yourself how high it is. The extent of your admiration may one day surprise you."
Mr. Hill worked the lower buttons of his thick leather gaiters, and either the effort to bring them together, or some other cause, brought the color to his face when he replied
,
Oh! Are you here? – But you are miserably behind. Mr. Cole gave me a hint six weeks ago."
He stopped. Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Winstone and didn't know what to think herself. He immediately continued –
"But that will never happen, I can assure you. Miss Saxon, dare I say, wouldn't have me if I asked her – and I'm very sure I'll never ask her."
Emma responded with interest to her friend's pressure; and rejoiced to exclaim,
"You are not vain, Mr. Hill. I'll say that for you."
He hardly seemed to hear them; he was thoughtful – and soon said in a way that didn't
please him, "So you decided that I should marry Jane Saxon?"
"No, I actually didn't. You have scolded me too much for marriage mediation to presume to take such freedom from you. What I just said meant nothing. Of course, such things are said without any serious meaning. Oh! no, at my word, I don't have the slightest desire for you to marry Jane Saxon or Jane at all. If you were married, you wouldn't come in and sit down with us so comfortably."
Mr. Hill was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was: "No, Emma, ?? I don't think the extent of my admiration for them will ever surprise me. – I have never thought of them in this way, I assure you." And soon after: "Jane Saxon is a very charming young woman – but not even Jane Saxon is perfect. She has a flaw. She doesn't have the open temperament that a man would want in a wife."
Emma could only be happy to hear that she had a mistake. "Well," she said, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"
"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was wrong; he asked me for forgiveness and said nothing more. Cole doesn't want to be smarter or more witty than his neighbors."
"How dissimilar in this regard the dear Mrs. Alton, who wants to be smarter and more witty than all the world! I wonder how she talks about the Cole's – what she calls them! How can she find a name for them, deep enough in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Hill – what can she do for Mr. Cole? And so it shouldn't surprise me that Jane Saxon accepts her courtesy and agrees to be with her. Mrs. Winstone, your argument weighs the most for me. I can devote myself much more to the temptation to escape Miss Bates than I can believe in the triumph of Miss Saxon's mind over Mrs. Alton. I have no confidence in Mrs. Alton's admission that she is inferior in thought, words, or deeds; or that it is subject to any restrictions beyond its own sparse rule of good breeding. I can't imagine that she won't constantly insult her visitor with praise, encouragement and offers of service; that she will not continually state her great intentions, from obtaining a permanent position to including her in the delightful discovery parties that are to take place in the Barouche-Landau."
"Jane Saxon has feelings," Mr. Hill said — "I don't blame her for lack of feelings. I suspect their sensitivity is strong – and their temperament is excellent in its power of forbearance, patience and self-control; but it wants openness. She's reserved, more reserved, I think, than she used to be – and I love an open temperament. No – until Cole alluded to my alleged stubbornness, it had never crossed my mind. I saw Jane Saxon and talked to her, always full of admiration and joy – but without thinking beyond."
"Well, Mrs. Winstone," Emma said triumphantly as he left her, "what do you say now that Mr. Hill marries Jane Saxon?"
" Actually, dear Emma, ?? I say that the thought of not being in love with her occupies him so much that I wouldn't be surprised if it finally ended up being him. Don't beat me."
Chapter 157
With such a happy mind, Catherine was hardly aware that two or three days had passed without seeing Bella together for more than a few minutes. One morning, when she walked through the drinking hall at Mrs. Allen's side without saying or hearing anything, she began to become aware of it and sigh after her conversation; and as soon as she had felt a five-minute longing for friendship, when the object of it appeared and invited her to a secret conference, she led to a place. "This is my favorite place," she said as they sat down on a bench between the doors that ordered a bearable look at everyone who entered both; "it's so remote."
Catherine, who observed that Bella's eyes were constantly fixed on one door or another, as if in anxious anticipation, and remembered how many times she had been falsely accused of being cheeky, considered the present to be a good opportunity to really be; and said cheerfully, "Don't be restless, Bella, James will be here soon."
"Pscha! My dear creature," she replied, "don't think I'm so simple-minded that I always want to tie him to my elbow. It would be abhorrent to always be together; We should be the joke of the place. And so you go to Northanger! I'm incredibly happy about it. As far as I know, it is one of the most beautiful old places in England. I will rely on a very specific description of it."
"You will certainly have the best in my power to give. But who are you looking for? Are your sisters coming?"
"I'm not looking for anyone. The eyes must be somewhere, and you know what a foolish trick I have to fix mine when my thoughts are a hundred miles away. I am amazingly absent; I think I am the most absent being in the world. Alsina says it's always like that with heads of a certain imprint."
"But I thought, Bella, you had something specific to tell me?"
"Oh! Yes, and I have too. But here's a testament to what I've said. My poor head, I had completely forgotten it. Well, the thing is this: I just got a letter from John; You can guess the content."
"No, I really can't."
"My sweet love, don't be so horribly touched. What can he write about but himself? You know he's in love with you over his head and ears."
"With me, dear Bella!"
"No, my sweetest Catherine, that's pretty absurd! Modesty and all this is very good in its own way, but really a little general honesty is sometimes just as appropriate. I have no idea I'm so overwhelmed! It fishes for compliments. His attentions were as a child must have noticed. And it was only half an hour before he left Bath that you gave him the most positive encouragement. He says it in this letter, says that he has made you as good as an offer and that you have received his advances in the friendliest way; and now he wants me to demand his suit and tell you all sorts of pretty things. So it is in vain to influence ignorance."
Catherine expressed with all the seriousness of the truth her amazement at such an accusation and asserted her innocence to every thought of Mr. Dorfman's love for her and the consequent impossibility that she had ever intended to encourage him. "As for any attention from his side, I declare with my honor that I did not notice a moment of it – except only that he asked me to dance on the first day of his arrival. And in order to make me an offer or something similar, there must be an inexplicable error. I couldn't misunderstand something like that, you know! And as I would always like to be believed, I solemnly affirm that no syllable of this kind has ever passed between us. The last half hour before he left! It must be an absolute mistake – because I haven't seen him once all morning."
"But you certainly did, because you spent the whole morning in Edgar's buildings — it was the day your dad's approval came — and I'm pretty sure you and John were alone in parkour for some time before you left the house."
"Are you? Well, if you say it was, I dare say – but for my life I can't remember it. I remember being with you now and seeing him and the others – but that we were always alone for five minutes – but it's not worth arguing about, because whatever may happen on his side, you have to be convinced that I can't remember that I didn't think anything of the sort of him, expected or desired. I'm overly worried that he might show any consideration for me – but in fact it was quite unintentional on my part; I never had the slightest idea about it. Pray to disappoint him as soon as possible and tell him, I ask for forgiveness – that is – I don't know what to say – but make him understand in the right way what I mean. I wouldn't talk disrespectfully about one of your brothers, Bella, I'm sure; but you know very well that if I could think of one man more than another, he's not the person." Bella was silent. "My dear friend, you must not be angry with me. I can't assume that your brother cares so much about me. And you know, we're still going to be sisters."
"Yes, yes" (with a blush), "there are more possibilities than that we are sisters. But where am I going? Well, my dear Catherine, the thing seems to be that you are determined against poor John – don't you?"
"I certainly can't reciprocate his affection and certainly never wanted to encourage them."
"Since this is the case, I am sure that I will not raise you any further. John wanted me to talk to you about this topic, and that's why I did it. But I confess, as soon as I read his letter, I thought it was a very foolish, careless business and probably not to promote the good of both; for what should you live on when you come together? They both have something, certainly, but it's no small thing that will feed a family these days; and according to what romantics may say, without money it does not work. I just wonder if John could think of it; he couldn't have gotten my last one."
"So you're absolving me of anything? – You are convinced that I never wanted to cheat on your brother, never suspected him of liking me until that moment?"
"Oh! As for that matter," Bella replied with a laugh, "I'm not claiming to determine what your thoughts and plans may have been in the past. All of this is best known to you. A little harmless flirtation or something will happen, and you will often be called upon to give more encouragement than you want to stand idly by. But you can be sure that I am the last person in the world to condemn you severely. All these things should be taken into account in youth and good mood. What you mean one day, you know, it can't mean the next. Circumstances change, opinions change."
"But my opinion of your brother has never changed; it was always the same. You describe what never happened."
"My dearest Catherine," the other continued, without even listening to her, "for all in the world, I wouldn't be the means to push you into an engagement before you know what you're up to. I don't think anything would justify wishing you sacrifice all your happiness just to please my brother, because he is my brother, and who might be just as happy without you, because people rarely know what they would be happy about, especially young men, they are so amazingly changeable and volatile. What I'm saying is, why should I prefer the happiness of a brother to that of a friend? You know that I value my ideas of friendship quite highly. But above all, my dear Catherine, do not hurry. Take my word for the fact that if you are in too much of a hurry, you will surely live to regret it. Alsina says there is nothing that people are deceived about as often as the state of their own affection, and I think he is very right. Ah! There he comes; doesn't matter, he won't see us, I'm sure."
Catherine looked up and saw Captain Alsina; and Bella, who seriously fixed his eye as she spoke, soon noticed him. He immediately approached and took the place to which her movements invited him. His first speech startled Catherine. Although spoken softly, she could distinguish: "What! Always to be observed, personally or by an authorized representative!"
"Pscha, nonsense!" was Bella's answer in the same half whisper. "Why do you put such things in my head? If I could believe it – my mind is, you know, pretty independent."
"I wish your heart was independent. That would be enough for me."
"My heart, indeed! What can you have to do with hearts? None of you men have a heart."
"If we don't have a heart, we have eyes; and they torment us enough."
"Do they? I'm sorry; I'm sorry they find something so unpleasant about me. I will search differently. I hope you like that" (turns his back on him); "I hope your eyes are not tormented now."
"Never again; because the edge of a flowering cheek can still be seen – too much and too little at the same time."
Katharina heard all this and could no longer listen completely out of composure. Amazed that Bella could bear it, and jealous of her brother, she stood up and told her to go to Mrs. Everyone joined them and suggested accompanying them on foot. But Bella showed no inclination to do so. She was so incredibly tired, and it was so hideous to walk around the drinking hall; and if she moved from her seat, she would miss her sisters; she awaited her sisters at any moment; so that her dearest Catherine has to apologize to her and sit down quiet again. But Catherine could also be stubborn; and Mrs. Everyone just came up to propose her return home, she joined her and walked out of the drinking hall, Bella still sitting with Captain Alsina. So with a lot of discomfort she left her. It seemed to her that Captain Alsina would fall in love with Bella, and Bella encouraged him unconsciously; unconsciously it had to be, because Bella's attachment to James was as secure and recognized as her engagement. It was impossible to doubt their truth or good intentions; and yet their behavior throughout the conversation had been strange. She wished Bella had talked more like her and not looked so much about money and not so pleased when she saw Captain Alsina. How strange that she did not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint to be on her guard and prevent all the pain that her overly lively behavior might otherwise cause him and her brother. It was impossible to doubt their truth or good intentions; and yet their behavior throughout the conversation had been strange. She wished Bella had talked more like her and not looked so much about money and not so pleased when she saw Captain Alsina. How strange that she did not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint to be on her guard and prevent all the pain that her overly lively behavior might otherwise cause him and her brother. It was impossible to doubt their truth or good intentions; and yet their behavior throughout the conversation had been strange. She wished Bella had talked more like her and not looked so much about money and not so pleased when she saw Captain Alsina. How strange that she did not perceive his admiration! Catherine longed to give her a hint to be on her guard and prevent all the pain that her overly lively behavior might otherwise cause him and her brother.
The compliment of John Dorfman's affection did not make up for his sister's thoughtlessness. She was almost as far from believing as she sincerely desired it; for she had not forgotten that he could be wrong, and his assertion of the offer and her encouragement convinced her that his mistakes could sometimes be very egregious. In vanity, therefore, she gained little; their main prize was miraculous. That he thought it was worth the effort to think he fell in love with her was a matter of vivid amazement. Bella spoke of his attentions; she had never felt anything; but Bella had said many things that she hoped had been said in a hurry and would never be said again; and she was looking forward to resting completely for the present comfort and coziness.
Chapter 158
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Drury handed her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had no expectations at all of its contents. But as they were, one can probably assume how eagerly she went through them, and what a dichotomy of feelings aroused them. Her feelings while reading were hard to define. With astonishment, she first understood that he believed every apology in his power; and steadfastly she was convinced that he could not give an explanation that would not hide a justified sense of shame. With a strong prejudice against anything he could say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with a zeal that barely left her capacity, and out of impatience to know what the next sentence would bring, she was unable to care for the meaning of one before her eyes. His belief in her sister's callousness immediately decided she was wrong; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made them too angry to even have the desire to do him justice. He did not regret what he had done, which satisfied her; his style was not remorseful, but haughty. It was all pride and impudence.
But when this topic was superseded by his account of Mr. Waterhouse – when she read with a little clearer attention a narrative of events that, if true, would have to destroy any cherished opinion about its value, and which had such an alarming affinity for his own story of herself – her feelings were even more acutely painful and difficult to define. Astonishment, fear and even horror depressed them. She wanted to completely discredit it and repeatedly exclaimed: "This must be wrong! This can't be! That must be the grossest lie!" – and when she went through the whole letter, she hastily put it away, even though she knew little of the last one or two pages, and protested that she would not pay attention to it, that she would never look into it again.
In this disturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she went on; but it didn't work; in half a minute, the letter was unfolded again, and she gathered as best she could, and began anew with the humiliating review of everything that related to Waterhouse, and ordered herself to examine the meaning of each sentence. The account of his association with the Pemberley family was exactly what he himself had told; and the kindness of the late Mr. Drury, although she had not known her extent before, coincided just as well with his own words. So far, each recital has confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Waterhouse had said about the living was still fresh in her memory, and when she remembered his words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and for a few moments she flattered herself that her wishes had not been wrong. But when she read with the utmost attention the details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, she had to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. she flattered herself that her wishes did not fail. But when she read with the utmost attention the details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, she had to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. she flattered herself that her wishes did not fail. But when she read with the utmost attention the details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, she had to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. But when she read with the utmost attention the details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, she had to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. But when she read with the utmost attention the details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, she had to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. The details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, forced them to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. The details that immediately followed that Waterhouse gave up all claims to the living, that he instead received such a considerable sum of three thousand pounds, forced them to hesitate again. She laid down the letter, weighed every circumstance with her alleged impartiality, considered the probability of each statement, but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. Weighed every circumstance with what she meant as impartiality – considering the probability of each statement – but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole. Weighed every circumstance with what she meant as impartiality – considering the probability of each statement – but with little success. On both sides, it was just an assertion. Again she continued to read; but each line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had considered impossible, that any invention could represent in such a way that it made Mr. Drury's behavior in it less than shameful, capable of a turn that had to make him completely impeccable throughout the whole.
The extravagance and general waste, which he did not want to blame on Mr. Waterhouse's indictment with scruples, frightened them extraordinarily; all the more so because it could not prove its injustice. She had never heard of him before he joined the militia of ——shire, in which he had agreed to persuade the young man who, when he happened to meet him in the town, had renewed a fleeting acquaintance there. Only what he himself told was known about his former way of life in Hertfordshire. Had information about his true character been in her power, she would never have felt the desire to inquire about him. His facial expression, his voice and his manner had immediately established him in possession of every virtue. She tried to remember some example of kindness, some outstanding trait of integrity or benevolence that could save him from Mr. Drury's attacks; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, to atone for those random mistakes among which it would strive to classify what Mr. Drury had described as idleness and vice of the continuation of many years. But no such memory befriended her. She could immediately see him in front of her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember nothing more substantial than the general approval of the neighborhood and the respect that his social forces had earned him at Mass. After staying at this point for a long time, she continued to read again. But unfortunately! the following story about his intentions with Miss Drury received some confirmation from what had happened the morning before between Colonel Gill and her; and finally, because of the truth of every detail, she was referred to Colonel Gill himself – from whom she had previously received the information of his close involvement in all the affairs of his cousin, and whose character she had no reason to question. Once she had almost decided to apply to him, but the idea was slowed down by the clumsiness of the application and finally completely banished by the conviction that Mr. Drury would never have dared to make such a proposal if he had not been well assured of his cousin's confirmation.
She remembered exactly everything that had happened on her first evening with Mr. Phillips in the conversation between Waterhouse and her. Many of his statements were still fresh in her memory. She was NOW affected by the inappropriateness of such messages to a stranger and was surprised that she had missed it before. She saw the indecency of presenting himself as he had done, and the inconsistency of his confessions with his behavior. She recalled that he had boasted that he was not afraid to see Mr. Drury – that Mr. Drury could leave the country, but that He should assert his ground; nevertheless, he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She also recalled that he had not told his story to anyone but herself until the Netherfield family had left the country; but that after their removal it had been talked about everywhere;
How different everything that concerned him looked! His attention to Miss King was now the result of views that were exclusive and hateful for sale; and the mediocrity of their wealth no longer proved the moderation of his desires, but his eagerness to reach for anything. His behavior towards her could not have had a tolerable reason now; he had either been deceived about her wealth or had satisfied his vanity by encouraging the preference she believed she had shown most carelessly. Every sustained struggle in his favor became weaker and weaker; and to further justify Mr. Drury, she could not help but admit that Mr. Woodland, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his innocence in the matter; She had never been as proud and repulsive as his manners, in the course of her acquaintanceship – an acquaintance that had brought her together a lot lately and given her a kind of intimacy with his ways – he saw everything that betrayed him as unprincipled or unjust – anything that pointed him to non-religious or immoral habits; that he was appreciated and cherished among his own connections – that even Waterhouse had given him merit as a brother, and that she often heard him speak so lovingly of his sister to prove that he was capable of ONE kind feeling; these would have been his actions, which Mr. Waterhouse would have represented, such a gross violation of all rights could hardly have been hidden from the world; and this friendship between a person capable of doing so and a man as kind as Mr. Woodland was incomprehensible. and gave her a kind of intimacy with his ways – saw everything that betrayed him as unprincipled or unjust – everything that spoke to him of unreligious or immoral habits; that he was appreciated and cherished among his own connections – that even Waterhouse had given him merit as a brother, and that she often heard him speak so lovingly of his sister to prove that he was capable of ONE kind feeling; these would have been his actions, which Mr. Waterhouse would have represented, such a gross violation of all rights could hardly have been hidden from the world; and this friendship between a person capable of doing so and a man as kind as Mr. Woodland was incomprehensible. and gave her a kind of intimacy with his ways – saw everything that betrayed him as unprincipled or unjust – everything that spoke to him of unreligious or immoral habits; that he was appreciated and cherished among his own connections – that even Waterhouse had given him merit as a brother, and that she often heard him speak so lovingly of his sister to prove that he was capable of ONE kind feeling; these would have been his actions, which Mr. Waterhouse would have represented, such a gross violation of all rights could hardly have been hidden from the world; and this friendship between a person capable of doing so and a man as kind as Mr. Woodland was incomprehensible. that he was appreciated and cherished among his own connections – that even Waterhouse had given him merit as a brother, and that she often heard him speak so lovingly of his sister to prove that he was capable of ONE kind feeling; these would have been his actions, which Mr. Waterhouse would have represented, such a gross violation of all rights could hardly have been hidden from the world; and this friendship between a person capable of doing so and a man as kind as Mr. Woodland was incomprehensible. that he was appreciated and cherished among his own connections – that even Waterhouse had given him merit as a brother, and that she often heard him speak so lovingly of his sister to prove that he was capable of ONE kind feeling; these would have been his actions, which Mr. Waterhouse would have represented, such a gross violation of all rights could hardly have been hidden from the world; and this friendship between a person capable of doing so and a man as kind as Mr. Woodland was incomprehensible.
She was completely ashamed. She couldn't think of Drury or Waterhouse without feeling blind, one-sided, biased, biased, absurd.
'How despicable I have acted!' She cried; "Me, who am proud of my judgment! Me, who appreciated my abilities! who have often despised my sister's generous openness and satisfied my vanity in useless or reprehensible distrust! How humiliating this discovery is! But how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I couldn't have been more pathetically blind! But vanity, not love, was my folly. Satisfied with the preference of one and offended by the neglect of the other, right at the beginning of our acquaintance I wooed bias and ignorance and expelled reason, where both were affected. Until that moment, I had never known myself.'
From herself to Jane – from Jane to Woodland, her thoughts were in a line that soon occurred to her again, that Mr. Drury's explanation had seemed very inadequate there, and she read it again. The effect of a second review was quite different. How could she deny his claims in one case the honor she should have given in the other? He declared himself completely unsuspicious of her sister's attachment; and she couldn't help but remember what Charlotte's opinion had always been. Nor could she deny the accuracy of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, although fervent, were little flaunted and that there was a constant complacency in her attitude and behavior that was not often associated with great sensitivity.
When she came to the part of the letter that mentioned her family in relation to such a humiliating but deserved accusation, her sense of shame was great. The justice of the prosecution hit her too hard to deny, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, that they had happened on the Netherfield ball and confirmed all his initial disapproval, could not have made a stronger impression on him than on theirs.
The compliment to herself and her sister was not callous. It reassured her, but could not comfort her at the contempt that the rest of her family had so aroused; and when she considered that Jane's disappointment had indeed been the work of her closest relatives, and pondered how materially the credit of both had to be hurt by such inappropriate behavior, she felt depressed, more than anything she had ever experienced before.
After walking along the path for two hours, giving in to all sorts of thoughts – rethinking events, determining probabilities and, as best she could, coming to terms with such a sudden and important change, fatigue and a memory of her long absence, she finally let her return home; and she entered the house with the desire to appear cheerful as usual, and the determination to suppress such thoughts that would make her unsuitable for conversation.
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had called during their absence; Mr. Drury, just for a few minutes to say goodbye – but this Colonel Gill had sat with them for at least an hour, hoping for their return and almost deciding to follow her until she could be found. Elizabeth could only worry about missing him; she was really happy about it. Colonel Gill was no longer an object; she could only think of her letter.
Chapter 159
The ball was over, and breakfast was soon over; The last kiss was given, and William was gone. Mr Dorset had been very punctual, as he had predicted, and the food had been short and enjoyable.
After seeing William until the last moment, Esther went back to the breakfast room with a very sad heart to mourn the melancholic change; and there her uncle kindly made her cry in peace, perhaps assuming that any young man's abandoned chair could exert her tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pig bones and mustard in William's plate could only share their feelings with the broken eggshells at Mr. Dorset.' She sat there ?? and called con amore as her uncle had intended, but it was con amore fraternal and nothing else. William was gone, and she was now as if she had wasted half of his visit on useless worries and selfish worries that had nothing to do with him.
Esther was so predisposed that in the barrenness and desolation of her own little house, she could not even think of her aunt Norris without reproaching herself for a small lack of attention to her the last time they had been together; even less could her feelings absolve her of the fact that for a whole fortnight she had done everything William did and said and thought what he was entitled to.
It was a difficult, melancholic day. Shortly after the second breakfast, Edmund said goodbye to them for a week and boarded his horse to Peterborough, and then everyone was gone. From last night, nothing remained but memories that she did not share with anyone. She talked to her aunt Schmidt - she had to talk to someone from the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of what had happened and was so little curious that it was hard work. Lady Schmidt wasn't sure of anyone's clothes or space at dinner, except her own. "She couldn't remember what she had heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes or what Lady Prescott had noticed about Esther: she wasn't sure if Colonel Harrison had spoken of Mr. Dorset or William when he said he was the best young man in the room – someone had whispered something to her; She had forgotten to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were their longest speeches and clearest messages: the rest was just a sluggish "Yes, yes; very good; Did you? has he? I didn't see that; I shouldn't tell one from the other." That was very bad. It was only better than Mrs. Norri's sharp answers; but since she had gone home with all the surplus jellies to care for a sick maid, there was peace and good humor in her little company, although she could not boast much else.
The evening was as hard as the day. "I can't imagine what's wrong with me," Lady Schmidt said as the teaware was removed. "I feel pretty stupid. It must have gotten up so late last night. Esther, you have to do something to keep me awake. I can't work. Get the cards. I feel so stupid."
The cards were brought, and Esther played Cribbage with her aunt until bedtime; and while Sir Thomas read aloud for himself, there were no sounds in the room for the next two hours beyond the calculations of the game – "And that makes thirty-one; four in the hand and eight in the crib. You must act, madam; Shall I act for you?" Esther kept thinking about the difference twenty-four hours had made in this room and in this whole part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles, busyness and movement, noise and glamour, in the salon and outside the salon and everywhere. Now it was dullness and anything but loneliness.
A good night's sleep improved their mood. She could think of William more happily the next day; and when the morning gave her the opportunity to speak with Mrs. Grant and Miss Dorset on Thursday night in a very beautiful style, with all the increase in imagination and all the laughter of playfulness that is so essential to the shadow of a deceased ball, she was then able to put her mind back into the everyday state without much effort and easily adapt to the calm of the current quiet week.
They were, in fact, a smaller group than they had ever known together there for a whole day, and he was gone, on whom the comfort and cheerfulness of every family reunion and meal depended mainly. But this has to be learned in order to endure it. He would soon be gone forever; and she was grateful that she could now sit in the same room with her uncle, hear his voice, receive and even answer his questions, without such miserable feelings as she had experienced before.
"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas' observation on both the first and second day, when they formed their very small circle after dinner; and considering Esther's floating eyes, on the first day nothing more was said but to drink on her health; but with the second it led to a little further. William was kindly praised and his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to believe," Sir Thomas added, "but that his visits to us could now be quite frequent. As for Edmund, we have to learn to do without him. This will be the last winter in which he belongs to us as he did."
"Yes," said Lady Schmidt, "but I wish he wouldn't leave. They're all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."
This wish was mainly addressed to Julia, who had just asked for permission to go to the city with Mary; and since Sir Thomas considered it best for every daughter that permission should be granted, Lady Schmidt, although she would not have prevented it in her own good-naturedness, lamented the change she brought about in the prospect of Julia's return, which would otherwise have taken place around this time. Sir Thomas' side was followed by a lot of reason that tended to reconcile his wife with the arrangement. Everything a considerate parent should feel was provided to her; and everything a loving mother needs to feel to promote the pleasure of her children has been attributed to her nature. Lady Schmidt agreed with a calm "yes"; and spontaneously observed at the end of a quarter of an hour of silent contemplation,
Sir Thomas immediately enhanced this compliment by adding, "Very true. We show Esther what a good girl we think she is by praising her in the face, she is now a very valuable companion. If we were kind to her, she is just as necessary for us now."
"Yes," said Dame Schmidt now; "and it's a comfort to think that we will always have them."
Sir Thomas paused, smiled half, glanced at his niece, and then replied earnestly, "I hope she will never leave us until she is invited to another home that reasonably promises her greater happiness than she knows here."
"And that's not very likely, Sir Thomas. Who should invite them? Mary might be very happy to see her in Sotherton from time to time, but she wouldn't think of asking her to live there; and I'm sure she's better off here; and besides, I can't do without them."
The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What was tranquility and comfort to Esther was tediousness and vexation to Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they were exactly opposed to each other. To Esther's mind, Edmund's absence was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for. Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence—he should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong. She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
Their anger did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she felt even more when Friday came back and brought no Edmund; when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when she learned through the minor communication with the other family that Sunday evoked that he had actually written home to postpone his return after promising to stay with his friend for a few more days.
If she had previously felt impatience and regret – if she had regretted what she had said and feared that it would have too much effect on him – she felt and feared all this ten times more now. In addition, she had to deal with an unpleasant feeling that was completely new to her – jealousy. His friend Mr. Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But in any case, his absence at a time when, according to all previous plans, she was to move to London, meant something she could not bear. If Henry had returned after three or four days, which he was talking about, she would have had to leave Mansfield now. It became absolutely necessary for her to go to Esther and try to learn a little more. She could no longer live in this lonely misery; and she made her way to the park,
The first half hour was lost, for Esther and Lady Schmidt were together, and if she didn't have Esther for herself, she couldn't hope for anything. But finally Lady Schmidt left the room, and then Miss Dorset started almost immediately, with a voice she could: "And how do you like that your cousin Edmund stays away for so long? As the only young person at home, I consider you to be the greatest sufferer. You must miss him. Does his longer stay surprise you?"
"I don't know," Esther said hesitantly. "Yes; I didn't expect it very much."
"Maybe he will always stay longer than he says. It's the general way all young men do it."
"He hasn't, the only time he's visited Mr. Owen before."
"He finds the house more pleasant now. He is a very – a very pleasant young man himself, and I can't help but be quite worried about not seeing him again before I go to London, which will undoubtedly be the case now. I look for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes, nothing will stop me in Mansfield. I would have liked to see him again, I confess. But you have to compliment him. Yes; I think they have to be compliments. Isn't there something desired in our language, Miss Price – something between compliments and – and love – that fits the kind of friendly acquaintance we had together? So many months of acquaintanceship! But compliments can suffice here. Was his letter long? Does he tell you a lot about what he does? Is it Christmas pleasure for which he stays?"
"I only heard part of the letter; it was for my uncle; but I think it was very short; yes, I'm sure it was just a few lines. I only heard that his friend had urged him to stay longer and that he had agreed to it. A few days longer or a few days longer; I'm not quite sure which ones."
"Oh! when he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have gone to Lady Schmidt or you. But when he wrote to his father, it was no wonder he was concise. Who could write Sir Thomas a chat? If he had written to you, there would have been more details. They would have heard of balls and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and everyone. How many Miss Owens are there?"
"Three adults."
"Are they musical?"
"I don't know at all. I've never heard of it."
"That's the first question, you know," Said Miss Dorset, trying to appear cheerful and carefree, "which every woman who plays herself safely puts above another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about any young ladies – about any three sisters who have just grown up; because you know, without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and pleasing, and one very pretty. In every family there is a beauty; it's a normal thing. Two play on the pianoforte and one on the harp; and all sing, or would sing, if they were taught, or sing all the better, because they are not taught; or something like that."
"I don't know anything about Miss Owens," Esther said calmly.
"You don't know anything and you care less, as people say. Never did the tone express indifference more clearly. In fact, how can you take care of those you've never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield very quiet; all the loud ones are gone, your brother and mine and I. I don't like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now that the time is approaching. She doesn't like it when I leave."
Esther felt obliged to speak. "You can't doubt that you're missed by many," she said. "You will be greatly missed."
Miss Dorset looked at her as if she wanted to hear or see more, and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! misses how every loud evil is missed when it is taken away; that is, there is a big difference to feel. But I don't fish; Don't compliment me. If I go missing, it will be displayed. I can be discovered by those who want to see me. I will not be in a dubious, distant or inaccessible region."
Now Esther couldn't bring herself to speak, and Miss Dorset was disappointed; for she had hoped to hear a pleasant confirmation of her power from someone she believed he needed to know, and her mood was clouded again.
"Miss Owens," she said soon after; "Suppose you were to settle one of the Miss Owens in Thornton Lacey; how should you like it Stranger things have happened. I dare say they're trying. And they are quite right, because it would be a very nice establishment for them. I am not at all surprised or blame them. It is everyone's duty to take care of themselves as much as possible. The son of Sir Thomas Schmidt is someone; and now he is in their own line. Her father is a clergyman, and her brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergy together. It is their rightful property; he is quite one of them. You don't speak, Esther; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly, wouldn't you rather expect it than something else?"
"No," Esther said decisively, "I don't expect it at all."
"Not at all!" shouted Miss Dorset with zeal. "That's what I ask myself. But I dare say that you know exactly – I always imagine this – maybe you don't think he's going to get married at all – or not at the moment."
"No, I don't," Esther said quietly, hoping she wasn't wrong in her faith or admission.
Her companion looked at her sharply; and recovered even more from the redness that such a gaze soon evoked, only said: "As he is, he is best off", and turned away the topic.
Chapter 160
Although Charles and Mary had stayed in Lyme much longer after the departure of Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland than Anne could have imagined that they might even be wanted, they were still the first of the family to return home; and as soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to the lodge. They had left Lois, who began to sit up; but her head, though clear, was extraordinarily weak, and her nerves susceptible to the highest extreme of tenderness; and although it would be said that she is doing very well overall, it is impossible to say when she could bear the move home; and her father and mother, who have to return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas holidays, had little hope of taking them with them.
They had all been together in shelters. Mrs. Cumberland had taken Mrs. Cheval's children as far away as possible, every conceivable supply from Uppercross had been provided to alleviate the inconvenience to the Chevals, while the Chevals wanted them to come to dinner every day; and in short, it seemed to have been just a struggle on both sides over who should be the most altruistic and hospitable.
Mary had had her evils; but by and large, as her long stay showed, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer. Charles Hayter had been to Lyme more often than she would have liked; and when they dined with the Chevals, only a maid had to wait, and first Mrs. Cheval had always given preference to Mrs. Cumberland; but then she had received such a pretty apology from her when she found out whose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day, there had been so many walks between her accommodation and the Chevals, and she had gotten books from the library and changed them so many times that the balance sheet had certainly been very much in favor of Lyme. She had also been taken to Charmouth, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church, and there were many more people to see in Lyme Church than in Uppercross;
Anne inquired about Captain Bean. Mary's face was directly clouded. Karl laughed.
"Oh! Captain Bean is doing very well, I think, but he's a very strange young man. I don't know what he's up to some shootings, and he seemed very pleased, and for my part I thought it was all done; there, lo and behold, on Tuesday evening he apologized very clumsily: "he never shot" and he had been "completely misunderstood", and he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it was, as I found out, that he did not intend to come. I suppose he was afraid to find it boring, but at my word, I should have thought we were lively enough in the cottage for a broken hearted man like Captain Bean."
Charles laughed again and said, "Well, Mary, you know very well what it was really like. It was all your work." (Turned to Anne.) "He said that if he went with us, he would find you nearby: he thought everyone would live in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady Russell lived three miles away, his heart left him, and he did not have the courage to come. That is the fact, in my honor. Mary knows it is."
But Mary didn't give in very graciously, whether she didn't think Captain Bean was entitled to be in love with a high tower because of his birth and situation, or because she didn't want to believe that Anne had a greater attraction to uppercross than she did, must be left to be seen. Anne's good will, however, should not be diminished by what she heard. She confessed boldly flattered and continued her investigation.
"Oh! he speaks of you," Cried Charles, "in such terms," Mary interrupted him. "I explain, Charles, I've never heard him mention Anne twice the whole time I've been there. I declare, Anne, he never speaks of you at all."
"No," Charles admitted, "I don't know if he ever does, in general, but it's a very clear thing that he admires you extraordinarily. His head is full of some books that he reads about you recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about it, he found out something in one of them that he thinks of – oh, I can't claim to remember it, but it was something very beautiful – I heard him tell Grace about it; and then "Miss Hightower" was spoken of in the highest tones! Well, Mary, I'll explain it this way, I've heard it myself, and you've been in the other room. "Elegance, sweetness, beauty." Oh, the charm of Miss Hightower was limitless."
"And I'm sure," Mary exclaimed heartily, "it was very little in his favor when he did. Miss Cheval died just last June. Such a heart is worth very little to have, isn't it, Lady Russell? I'm sure you'll agree with me."
"I have to see Captain Bean before I decide," Lady Russell said with a smile.
"And you're very likely going to do that very soon, I can tell you, Ma'am," Charles said. "Although he didn't have the nerves to get away with us and then set off again to make a formal visit here, one day he will make his way to Kellynch on his own, you can rely on that. I told him the distance and the road, and I told him that the church is so worth seeing; for since he has taste in such things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with all his mind and soul; and I am judging by his way, he will come to you soon. So I'll let you know, Lady Russell."
"Every acquaintance of Anne's will always be welcome to me," was Lady Russell's kind reply.
"Oh! as for Anne's acquaintances," Mary said, "I think he's more my acquaintance, because I've seen him every day for the last fortnight."
"So, as your mutual acquaintance, I will be very happy to see Captain Bean."
"You won't find anything very pleasant about him, I assure you, Ma'am. He is one of the most boring young men who have ever lived. He sometimes walked with me from one end of the sand to the other without saying a word. He is not a well-behaved young man at all. I'm sure you won't like him."
"We are different, Mary," Anne said. "I think Lady Russell would like him. I think she would be so happy with his opinion that very soon she would not see any deficiency in his behavior."
"Me too, Anne," Charles said. "I'm sure Lady Russell would like him. He is simply Lady Russell's kind. Give him a book, and he'll read all day."
"Yes, he will!" exclaimed Mary mockingly. "He will ponder his book and not know when someone is talking to him or when someone drops his scissors or anything else happens. Do you think Lady Russell would like that?"
Lady Russell had to laugh. "At my word," she said, "I should not have believed that my opinion of anyone could have allowed such a guess, firm and factual, as I call myself. I am really curious to see the person who can give rise to such opposing thoughts. I wish he could be made to come here. And when he does, Mary, you can count on hearing my opinion; but I am determined not to condemn him beforehand."
"You won't like him, I'll stand up for it."
Lady Russell began to talk about something else. Mary spoke vividly of her meeting with Mr. Hightower, or rather of his disappearance, so extraordinary.
"He's a man," Lady Russell said, "whom I don't want to see. His refusal to be on a friendly footing with the head of his family has left a very strong impression on me in his disbelief."
This decision curbed Mary's zeal and stopped her in the middle of Hightower's facial expression.
With regard to Captain Cambridge, although Anne did not dare to investigate, there was a voluntary communication that was sufficient. As was to be expected, his mood had recently recovered strongly. As Lois improved, he had improved, and he was now a very different being than he was in the first week. He hadn't seen Lois; and was so afraid of any negative consequences of an interview for her that he did not push for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan to go away for a week or ten days until her head was stronger. He had talked about going to Plymouth for a week and wanted to persuade Captain Bean to go with him; but, as Charles claimed to the end, Captain Bean seemed much more willing to ride over to Kellynch.
There is no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne have occasionally thought of Captain Bean since that time. Lady Russell could not hear the doorbell without feeling that it could be his herald; Nor could Anne return from a solitary pleasure walk on her father's property or a charity visit to the village without wondering if she would see him or hear from him. However, Captain Bean did not come. Either he was less inclined than Charles had thought, or he was too shy; and after granting him forbearance for a week, Lady Russell decided that he was unworthy of the interest he had begun to arouse.
The Cumberlands came back to receive their happy boys and girls from school and brought Mrs. Cheval's young children to improve the noise of Uppercross and reduce that of Lyme. Grace stayed with Lois; but the rest of the family was back in their usual quarters.
Lady Russell and Anne once complimented them when Anne couldn't help but feel that Uppercross was already alive again. Although neither Grace, nor Lois, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain Cambridge were there, the room offered as strong a contrast as one could wish for, to the last state in which she had seen it.
Immediately around Mrs. Cumberland were the little Chevals, whom she eagerly protected from the tyranny of the two children from the cottage who had explicitly come to amuse her. On one side was a table where some chattering girls cut silk and gold paper; and on the other side were curls and trays bending under the weight of slurry and cold pies, where rebellious boys held large feasts; the whole thing is completed by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed to be heard despite all the sounds of the others. Charles and Mary, of course, also came in during their visit, and Mr. Cumberland made a great effort to pay his respects to Lady Russell, sat close to her for ten minutes and spoke in a very raised voice, but without the noise of the children on their knees, mostly in vain. It was a fine family piece.
Anne, judging by her own temperament, would have considered such a domestic hurricane to be a poor restoration of the nerves that must have shaken Lois' illness so much. But Mrs. Cumberland, who intentionally brought Anne close to her to thank her again and again for all her attentions, concluded a brief summary of what she herself had suffered by noting with a happy look in the room that after everything she had been through, nothing could do her as good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home.
Lois now recovered quickly. Her mother could even imagine that she could join in the celebrations at home before her siblings went back to school. The Chevals had promised to come with her and stay in Uppercross whenever she returned. Captain Cambridge was gone for the time being to visit his brother in Shropshire.
"I hope I'll remember this in the future," Lady Russell said, once they were back in the carriage, "not to stop by Uppercross during the Christmas holidays."
Everyone has their taste in sounds as well as in other things; and sounds are quite harmful or highly disturbing in their nature rather than in their quantity. When Lady Russell arrived in Bath a little later on a rainy afternoon and drove through the long streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the roar of other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and carts, the roar of newspaper men, muffin men and milkmen and the incessant clinking of Pattens, she did not complain. No, these were sounds that were part of the winter pleasure; their mood rose under their influence; and like Mrs. Cumberland, although she didn't say it, she felt that nothing could be as good for her after she had been in the country for a long time, like a little quiet cheerfulness.
Anne did not share these feelings. She insisted on a very determined, if very quiet, aversion to Bath; Caught the first gloomy glimpse of the sprawling buildings smoking in the rain, without the desire to see them better; found their progression through the streets unpleasant, but too fast; for who would be happy to see them when they arrived? And looked back with deep regret on the hustle and bustle of Uppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch.
Elizabeth's last letter had communicated interesting news. Mr. Hightower was in Bath. He had called Camden Place; had called a second time, a third; had been emphatically attentive. If Elizabeth and her father were not mistaken, they had gone to great lengths to seek acquaintance and proclaim the value of the connection, as he had previously made an effort to show neglect. That was very wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very pleasant curiosity and confusion about Hightower-san, already revoking the feeling she had so recently expressed to Mary that he was "a man she didn't want to see." She had a great desire to see him. If he really tried to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for separating himself from the paternal tree.
Anne was not as animated by the circumstances, but she felt like she would rather see Mr. Hightower again than not, which was more than she could say for many other people in Bath.
It was dumped at Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her own accommodation on Rivers Street.
Chapter 161
After a night of sleeping more than she expected, Marianne awoke the next morning with the same sense of misery in which she had closed her eyes.
Eleanore encouraged her, as best she could, to talk about what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject over and over again; and with the same firm conviction and loving advice on Eleanore's side, the same impetuous feelings and different opinions on Marianne's side as before. Sometimes she could believe warwick was as unhappy and innocent as she was, and sometimes she lost all comfort in the impossibility of acquitting him. In one moment she was completely indifferent to the observation of the whole world, in another she would elude it forever, and in a third she could vigorously resist it. In one thing, however, she was unified when it came to avoiding the presence of Mrs. Jennings where possible, and in a determined silence when she was forced to endure it.
"No, no, no, that can't be," she shouted; "she can't feel. Their kindness is not sympathy; their good-naturedness is not tenderness.
Eleanore did not need this to be sure of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind and the too great importance she attaches to the delicacies of a strong sensitivity, and the grace of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, when there are more than half who are smart and good, Marianne, with excellent skills and an excellent character, was neither reasonable nor sincere. She expected other people to have the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged her motives by the immediate effect of her actions on herself. So a circumstance occurred when the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which lowered the heart of Mrs. Jennings even deeper in her appreciation; for through her own weakness
With a letter in her outstretched hand and a happy smiling face, convinced of giving comfort, she entered her room and said
,
"Well, my dear, I will bring you something that I am sure will do you good."
Marianne has heard enough. In a moment, her imagination presented her with a letter from Warwick, full of tenderness and remorse, explaining everything that had passed, satisfying, convincing; and immediately followed by Warwick himself, who eagerly rushed into the room to enforce the assurances of his letter at her feet through the eloquence of his eyes. The work of one moment was destroyed the next. Her mother's handwriting, which had never been unwelcome until then, lay before her; and in the sharpness of the disappointment that followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if she had never suffered until that moment.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings could not have expressed a language that was within reach in her moments of her happiest eloquence; and now she could only reproach her for the tears that flowed out of her eyes with passionate ferocity, an accusation that was so completely irrelevant that after many expressions of compassion she withdrew and still referred her to the letter of consolation. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Warwick filled every page. Her mother, still convinced of her engagement and still relying on his steadfastness, had only been aroused by Eleanore's request to ask Marianne for greater openness to both of them; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Warwick and such conviction of her future happiness in each other,
all her impatience to be back home, now returned; her mother was more dear to her than ever; more expensive due to the excess of her erroneous trust in Warwick, and she desperately wanted to leave. Eleanore, who could not decide for herself whether it would be better for Marianne to be in London or in Barton, offered no advice of her own except patience until her mother's wishes could become known; and finally, she received her sister's approval to wait for this knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left her earlier than usual; for she could not have it easy until the Mideltowns and Palmifers were able to grieve as much as they did; and positively declined Eleanore's offered presence and went out alone for the rest of the morning. Eleanore was very heavy-heartedly aware of the pain she was going to share, and realized from Marianne's letter how badly she had managed to lay a reason for it, and then sat down to tell her mother what had happened, imploring her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came to the salon at the farewell of Mrs. Jennings, sat at the table where Eleanore wrote, watched her pen advance, mourned her because of the hardships of such a task and mourned even more lovingly about its effect on her mother.
They had continued in this way for about a quarter of an hour when Marianne, whose nerves could not bear sudden noise at the time, was startled by a knock on the door.
"Who can that be?" cried Eleonore. "Also so early! I thought we were safe."
Marianne stepped up to the window –
"It's Colonel Bridgerton!" she said with anger. "We are never safe from Him."
"He won't come in because Mrs. Jennings is from home."
"I won't trust THAT," she withdrew to her own room. "A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience when he interferes with those of others."
The event proved her assumption to be correct, although it was based on injustice and error; because Colonel Bridgerton came in; and Eleanore, who was convinced that the concern for Marianne led him there, and who saw THIS concern in his disturbed and melancholic look and in his anxious, if brief, question about her, could not forgive her sister for appreciating him so easily.
"I met Mrs. Jennings on Bond Street," he said after the first greeting, "and she encouraged me to come along; and I was all the more easily encouraged because I thought it was likely that I would find you alone, which I was very eager to do, my purpose – my desire – my only wish if I desire it – I hope I believe it – is to be a means of giving comfort – no, I must not say comfort – not comfort present – but conviction, lasting conviction in the spirit of your sister. My appreciation for her, for yourself, for your mother - allow me to prove it by telling some circumstances that are nothing but a VERY sincere appreciation - nothing but a serious desire to be useful - I think I am justified - but where so many hours have been spent convincing myself that I am right, isn't there some reason to fear that I might be wrong?" He stopped.
"I understand you," Eleanore said. "They have something to tell me about Mr. Warwick that will further open up his character. Saying that will be the greatest act of friendship you can show Marianne. MY gratitude is immediately assured by any information that leads to this purpose, and YOUR must be won in time. Pray, pray, let me hear it."
"You will; and to make a long story short, when I left Barton last October – but that will give you no idea – I have to go further back. You will find me as a very clumsy narrator, Miss Hargrove; I hardly know where to start... I believe that a brief report on myself will be necessary, and it will be a short one.
He paused for a moment to remember, then went on with another sigh.
"You probably forgot a conversation altogether – (it's not to be assumed that it could make an impression on you) – a conversation between us one evening in Barton Park – it was a dance evening – in which I alluded to a lady I had once known resembled your sister Marianne to some extent.
"In fact," Eleanore replied, "I have NOT forgotten it." He seemed pleased with this memory, adding:
She was married – married to my brother against her inclination. Their fortune was large and our family property was very burdened. And I'm afraid that's all you can say about the behavior of a woman who was her uncle and guardian at the same time. My brother didn't deserve it; he didn't even love her. I had hoped that her appreciation for me would support her in every difficulty, and for some time she did; but finally overcame the misery of her situation, because she experienced great unkindness, all her decision, and even though she had not promised me anything – but how blind I tell! I never told you how that came about. We were burned out for Scotland together within a few hours. The betrayal or stupidity of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a distant relative, and she was granted no freedom, no company, no pleasure until my father's point was reached. I had relied too much on her steadfastness, and the blow was harsh – but if their marriage had been happy, as young as I was then, I would have had to reconcile with it for a few months, or at least I wouldn't have had to complain about it now. However, this was not the case. My brother had no regard for them; his joys were not as they should have been, and from the beginning he treated them unkindly. The consequence of this was all too natural for such a young, lively, inexperienced mind as Mrs. Bridgerton. At first, she resigned herself to all the misery of her situation; and it would have been happy if she had not lived to overcome the regret that the memory of me caused. But can we wonder that with such a husband, to provoke impermanence, and without a friend who could advise or hold her back (because my father lived only a few months after her marriage, and I was in The East Indies with my regiment), should she fall? Maybe I would have stayed in England - but I wanted to promote the happiness of both by moving away from her for years, and had arranged my exchange for this purpose. The shock that their marriage had caused me," he continued with great excitement, "was of little weight – was nothing compared to what I felt when I heard about her divorce about two years later. THAT was what spread this darkness – even now the memory of what I had suffered – and had arranged for my exchange for this purpose. The shock that their marriage had caused me," he continued with great excitement, "was of little weight – was nothing compared to what I felt when I heard about her divorce about two years later. THAT was what spread this darkness – even now the memory of what I had suffered – and had arranged for my exchange for this purpose. The shock that their marriage had caused me," he continued with great excitement, "was of little weight – was nothing compared to what I felt when I heard about her divorce about two years later. THAT was what spread this darkness – even now the memory of what I had suffered – "
That's all he could say, and got up hastily and walked around the room for a few minutes. Eleanor, affected by his relationship and even more so by his plight, could not speak. He saw her concern, came to her, took her hand, squeezed her, and kissed her with grateful respect. A few more minutes of quiet effort allowed him to proceed calmly.
who had meanwhile fallen into misfortune, carried me to a visit to a sponge house, where he was imprisoned for debts; and there, in the same house, under a similar detention, was my unfortunate sister. So changed – so faded – worn down by acute suffering of all kinds! I could hardly believe that the melancholic and sickly figure in front of me were the remains of the beautiful, flowering, healthy girl I had once fallen in love with. What I had to endure to see her like that – but I have no right to hurt your feelings by trying to describe it – I have already tormented you too much. That she was apparently in the last stage of a vertigo was – yes, in such a situation it was my greatest consolation. Life could do nothing for them except to give time for better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw them accommodated in comfortable accommodations, and under appropriate companions; I visited her every day for the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last moments."
Again, he stopped to recover; and Eleanore expressed her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern about the fate of his unfortunate friend.
and I would have liked to have done it in the strictest sense, watching over their upbringing myself, if the nature of our situation had allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and that's why my little Eliza came to school. I met her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother (which happened about five years ago and who gave me ownership of the family property), she visited me in Delaford. I called her a distant relative; but I am well aware that I was generally suspected of a much closer connection with her. It has now been three years (she had just reached the age of fourteen) that I removed her from school to hand her over to the care of a very respectable woman from Dorset'shire who had the care of four or five other girls of about the same lifetime; and for two years I had every reason to be satisfied with their situation. But last February, almost twelve months back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her (carelessly, as it turned out in the meantime) at her sincere request to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was looking after her father there because of his health. I knew him as a very good man, and I thought well of his daughter – better than she deserved, because with an extremely persistent and ill-considered secrecy she would not say anything, would not give any hint, although she certainly knew everything. He, her father, a well-meaning but not quick-sighted man, I think really couldn't give any information; for he had generally been confined to the house, while the girls roamed the city and made acquaintances who chose them; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he himself was convinced, of his daughter's complete carelessness in the business. In short, I couldn't find out anything other than that she was gone; all the rest was left to guess for eight long months. What I thought, what I feared, can be imagined; and whatever I suffered."
"You dear heaven!" cried Eleanore, "could it be – could be Warwick!" –
in great need, without a credible home, without help, without friends, without knowledge of his address! He had left her and promised to return; he did not return, nor did he write, nor did he replace them."
"That goes beyond anything!" exclaimed Eleonore.
and will later no doubt turn with gratitude to her own condition, when she compares it to that of my poor Eliza, when she looks at the miserable and hopeless situation of this poor girl and imagines herself with such a strong affection for him, still as strong as her own, and with a spirit tormented by self-reproach, who have to accompany them through life. Certainly, this comparison must have its benefit for her. She will feel her own suffering as nothing. They assume no wrongdoing and cannot bring shame. On the contrary, every friend must be made even more her friend by her. The concern for their misfortune and respect for their inner strength must strengthen every bond. However, use your own discretion when you tell her what I told you. You need to know best what its effect will be; but I was not serious,
Eleanore's thanks followed this speech with grateful seriousness; also participated with the assurance that she hoped Marianne would gain a material advantage from communicating what had happened.
"Their attempts to acquit him hurt me more," she said, "than anything else; for it irritates them more than the most complete conviction of his unworthiness can. Well, although at first she will suffer a lot "I'm sure she will soon become lighter. Have you," she continued after a brief silence, "ever seen Mr. Warwick since you left him behind in Barton?"
"Yes," he replied earnestly, "once upon a time. A meeting was inevitable."
Eleanore, frightened by his behavior, looked at him anxiously and said
,
"What? Did you meet him to..."
"I couldn't meet him in any other way. Eliza had confessed to me, albeit very reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to the city, which was within fourteen days of me, we met by appointment, he to defend me to punish his behavior. We returned unharmed, so the meeting never went abroad."
Eleanore sighed at the imaginary necessity of it; but to a man and a soldier, she presumed not to blame it.
"So," colonel Bridgerton said after a pause, "has been the unfortunate resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly I have fulfilled my trust!"
"Is she still in town?"
"No; as soon as she recovered from her sleep, because I found her near her delivery, I took her and her child to the countryside, and there she stays."
When he soon remembered that he would probably separate Eleanore from her sister, he ended his visit, received the same grateful confirmations from her again, and left her full of compassion and appreciation for him.
Chapter 162
The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins, who had been waiting near the lodges to pay his farewell tribute to them, was able to bring home the good news that she could be seen in very good health and in a bearable mood as expected, after the melancholic scene that happened so recently in Rosings. Then he hurried to Rosings to comfort Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return, with great satisfaction, he brought back a message from her ladyship, in which he emphasized that she felt so jaded that she wished very much to have them all to eat.
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without remembering that she might have been introduced to her as her future niece at that time if she had chosen it that way; nor could she think without a smile what the outrage of her ladyhood would have been. "What would she have said? how would she have behaved?' were questions with which she amused herself.
Their first topic was the downsizing of the Rosings party. "I assure you, I feel it extraordinarily," said Lady Catherine; "I don't think anyone feels the loss of friends as much as I do. But I am especially attached to these young men and know that they are so attached to me! They were extremely sorry to leave! But that's how they always are. The dear colonel gathered tolerably until the end; but Drury seemed to feel it most clearly, more, I think, than last year. His affection for rosings is certainly increasing.'
Mr. Collins had a compliment and allusion to throw in here, which were kindly ridiculed by mother and daughter.
Lady Catherine noticed after dinner that Miss Mitchell seemed to be out of tune and immediately explained this herself, assuming that she didn't want to go home anytime soon, adding,
"But if that's the case, you have to write to your mother and ask that you stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very happy about your company, I'm sure."
"I am very attached to your ladyhood for your kind invitation," Elizabeth replied, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I have to be in town next Saturday."
"Well, at this pace, you're only going to be here for six weeks. I expected you to stay for two months. I told Mrs. Collins before you came. There can be no reason to leave so early. Mrs. Mitchell could certainly spare you another fourteen days."
"But my father can't do that. He wrote last week to speed up my return.'
'Oh! Of course, your father can spare you if your mother can. Daughters are never so important to a father. And if you stay for a whole month, it's in my power to take one of you all the way to London, because I'm going there for a week in early June; and since Dawson has nothing against the Barouche box, there will be a lot of room for one of you – and indeed, if the weather is cool, I wouldn't mind taking you both with me as you're not big either of you.'
'You are all kindness, gracious woman; but I think we have to stick to our original plan."
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. 'Woman. Collins, you have to send a servant with you. You know I always speak my mind, and I can't stand the idea of two young women traveling alone in the mail. It is highly inappropriate. You have to come up with the idea of sending someone. I have the world's greatest aversion to something like this. Young women should always be adequately guarded and cared for according to their life situation. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of having her take two servants with her. Miss Drury, the daughter of Mr. Drury of Pemberley and Lady Anne, could not have seemed otherwise decent. I pay too much attention to all these things. You have to send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I'm glad it occurred to me to mention it;
'Let my uncle send a servant for us.'
'Oh! Your uncle! He has a servant, doesn't he? I am very glad that you have someone who thinks of these things. Where to change the horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the bell, you will be taken care of."
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask about her trip, and since she didn't answer them all herself, attention was needed, which Elizabeth considered her luck; or she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for lonely hours; whenever she was alone, she gave in to him as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a lonely walk where she could indulge in all the joys of unpleasant memories.
Mr. Drury's letter would know her by heart pretty soon. She studied every sentence; and their feelings towards his author were at times very different. When she remembered the style of his speech, she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and scolded him, her anger turned against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His affection aroused gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not approve of him; Nor could she for a moment regret her refusal or feel the slightest inclination to ever see him again. In their own behavior in the past, there was a constant source of anger and regret; and in the unfortunate shortcomings of her family, a subject of even more severe sorrow. They were hopeless to remedy the situation. Her father, content to laugh at her, would never bother to tame the wild vertigo of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far removed from the law, was completely insensitive to evil. Elizabeth had frequently teamed up with Jane to control Catherine and Linda's carelessness; but while they were supported by their mother's forbearance, what chance could there be for improvement? Catherine, moronic, irritable and completely under Linda's guidance, had always been offended by her advice; and Linda, stubborn and careless, would hardly listen to them. They were ignorant, lazy and vain. As long as there was an officer in Meryton, they flirted with him; and while Meryton was just a walk from Longbourn, they would go there forever. with manners so far removed from the law, was completely insensitive to evil. Elizabeth had frequently teamed up with Jane to control Catherine and Linda's carelessness; but while they were supported by their mother's forbearance, what chance could there be for improvement? Catherine, moronic, irritable and completely under Linda's guidance, had always been offended by her advice; and Linda, stubborn and careless, would hardly listen to them. They were ignorant, lazy and vain. As long as there was an officer in Meryton, they flirted with him; and while Meryton was just a walk from Longbourn, they would go there forever. with manners so far removed from the law, was completely insensitive to evil. Elizabeth had frequently teamed up with Jane to control Catherine and Linda's carelessness; but while they were supported by their mother's forbearance, what chance could there be for improvement? Catherine, moronic, irritable and completely under Linda's guidance, had always been offended by her advice; and Linda, stubborn and careless, would hardly listen to them. They were ignorant, lazy and vain. As long as there was an officer in Meryton, they flirted with him; and while Meryton was just a walk from Longbourn, they would go there forever. but while they were supported by their mother's forbearance, what chance could there be for improvement? Catherine, moronic, irritable and completely under Linda's guidance, had always been offended by her advice; and Linda, stubborn and careless, would hardly listen to them. They were ignorant, lazy and vain. As long as there was an officer in Meryton, they flirted with him; and while Meryton was just a walk from Longbourn, they would go there forever. but while they were supported by their mother's forbearance, what chance could there be for improvement? Catherine, moronic, irritable and completely under Linda's guidance, had always been offended by her advice; and Linda, stubborn and careless, would hardly listen to them. They were ignorant, lazy and vain. As long as there was an officer in Meryton, they flirted with him; and while Meryton was just a walk from Longbourn, they would go there forever.
Concern for Jane's name was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Drury's statement, by deferring Woodland to all her previous good opinion, increased the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection proved to be sincere, and his behavior was free from reproach, unless anyone could invoke the self-evidentness of his trust in his friend. How painful it was then to think that Jane had been deprived of a situation so desirable in every respect, so rich in benefits, so auspicious by the stupidity and decency of her own family!
When the development of Waterhouse's character was added to these memories, it is easy to believe that the cheerful spirits, who were rarely depressed before, were now so affected that it became almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
Her appointments at Rosings were as common in the last week of their stay as they were in the beginning. The very last evening was spent there; and her lady again inquired exactly about the details of her trip, gave them instructions for the best method of packaging, and was so desperately dependent on the need to place the clothes in the only right way that Mary felt obliged to undo all the work of the morning and repack her suitcase on her return.
When they separated, Lady Catherine wished them a good trip with great condescension and invited them to come back to Hunsford next year; and Miss de Bourgh made an effort to make a kink and hold out his hand to both.
Chapter 163
Miss Dorset's discomfort was greatly relieved by this conversation, and she went back home in a mood that almost would have defied another week of the same little party in the same bad weather if she had been put to the test; but since this very evening brought her brother down from London in whole or more than quite his usual cheerfulness, she had nothing more to try for herself. That he still refused to tell her what he was up to was only the promotion of happiness; the day before it might have irritated, but now it was a nice joke – which was only suspected of hiding something that was planned as a pleasant surprise for them. And the next day brought her a surprise. Henry had told him to just go and ask the Schmidts how they were doing and be back in ten minutes, but he was gone for over an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for him to walk with her in the garden, finally came up to him impatiently in sweeping and shouted, "My dear Henry, where have you been all this time?"
"Sit with them for an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.
But that was just the beginning of their surprise.
"Yes, Mary," he said, pulling her arm into his and walking along the arch as if he didn't know where he was: "I couldn't leave sooner; Esther looked so beautiful! I'm pretty determined, Mary. My decision is clear. Will it surprise you? No: You need to know that I am determined to marry Esther Price."
The surprise was now complete; for despite all that his consciousness may indicate, the suspicion that he had such views had never penetrated into the imagination of his sister; and she saw so truly the amazement she felt that he was forced to repeat what he had said, more completely and solemnly. The once admitted conviction of his determination was not unwelcome to him. There was even joy about the surprise. Mary was in the mood to enjoy a connection with the Schmidt family and not to be dissatisfied with the fact that her brother married a little under him.
"Yes, Mary," was Henry's final assurance. "I'm pretty trapped. You know with what idle intentions I began; but that's the end of them. I am flattered that I have not made insignificant progress in their affection; but my own are completely fixed."
"Happy, happy girl!" cried Mary as soon as she could speak; "What a game for them! My dearest Henry, that must be my first feeling; but my second, which you should have just as sincerely, is that I approve of your choice of my soul and foresee your happiness as warmly as I desire and desire. You will have a sweet little woman; all gratitude and devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What a great match for them! Mrs. Norris often speaks of her happiness; what will she say now? In fact, the joy of the whole family! And she has some true friends in it! How happy they will be! But tell me everything! Talk to me forever. When did you start thinking about them seriously?"
Nothing could be more impossible than answering such a question, although nothing could be more pleasant than being asked. "How the pleasant plague had afflicted him," he could not say; and before he had expressed the same feeling three times with a small variation of the words, his sister eagerly interrupted him with: "Ah, my dear Henry, and this has led you to London! That was your business! You decided to consult the admiral before you decided."
But he vehemently denied that. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on a marriage plan. The admiral hated marriage and never considered it forgivable for a young man with independent assets.
"As soon as Esther is known to him," Henry continued, "he will eat her. She is exactly the right woman to dispel all prejudices for a man like the admiral, because he would describe her if he actually had enough linguistic sensitivity to embody his own ideas. But until it is absolutely regulated – beyond all interference regulated, he will know nothing of the matter. No, Mary, you're quite wrong. They haven't discovered my business yet."
"Well, good, I'm satisfied. I now know who it has to relate to, and I'm not in a hurry with the rest. Esther Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That Mansfield should have done so much – that you should have found your destiny in Mansfield! But you're right; you couldn't have chosen better. There is no better girl in the world, and you are not lacking in happiness; and their connections are more than good. The Schmidts are undoubtedly among the first people in this country. She is the niece of Sir Thomas Schmidt; that will be enough for the world. But further, further. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own happiness?"
"No."
"What are you waiting for?"
"For – for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her cousins; but I don't think I'll ask for nothing."
"Oh no! You can't. If you were even less pleased – suppose she didn't already love you (which I can have little doubt about) – you would be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her being would immediately make everything her own. From my soul I do not believe that she would marry you without love; that is, if there is a girl in the world who is able to remain unaffected by ambition, I can expect her to do so; but ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse."
As soon as her zeal could rest in silence, he was so happy to tell how she could be to listen; and a conversation followed that was almost as interesting to her as it was to himself, although he actually had nothing to tell but his own feelings, nothing to get upset about than Esther's charms. Esther's beauty of face and figure, Esther's grace and cordiality were the inexhaustible theme. The gentleness, modesty and sweetness of her character were warmly explained; this sweetness, which in the judgment of the man is such an essential part of the value of every woman, that although he sometimes loves where she is not, he can never believe that she is missing. He had good reason to rely on her and praise her. He had often seen it tried. Was there one from the family, except Edmund, who hadn't somehow constantly practiced their patience and forbearance? Their affection was obviously strong. To see her with her brother! What could prove more delightfully that the warmth of her heart was equal to his gentleness? What could be more encouraging for a man who had their love in mind? Then their understanding was above suspicion, fast and clear; and her manners were the mirror of her own humble and elegant spirit. That's not all. Henry Dorset had too much mind not to feel the value of good principles in a woman, although he was not used to serious thought to know her by proper name; but when he spoke of her having such consistency and regularity in her behavior, such a high idea of honor,
"I could tell her so?? fully entrust," he said; "And that's what I want."
Perhaps his sister, who really believed that his opinion of Esther Price hardly went beyond her merits, about her prospects, rejoiced.
"The more I think about it," she exclaimed, "the more I am convinced that you are quite right; and although I should never have chosen Esther Price as the girl who would most likely bind you to herself, I am now convinced that she is exactly the one who will make you happy. Your evil plan for their peace turns out to be a wise thought indeed. You will both find your good in it."
"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know them at that time; and she will have no reason to lament the hour it first put in my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she ever was herself or ever saw anyone else. I'm not going to take them from Northamptonshire. I will rent Everingham and rent an apartment in this area; maybe Stanwix Lodge. I will lease Everingham for seven years. In half a word, I am sure of an excellent tenant. I could now name three people who would give me my own terms and thank me."
"Ha!" cried Mary; "Settle into Northamptonshire! That's pleasant! Then we are all together."
When she had spoken it, she remembered and wished it was unspoken; but there was no reason to confuse; for her brother saw her only as the alleged inmate of mansfield's rectory and replied that he should only invite her to his own house in the kindest way and claim the best right to her.
"You have to give us more than half of your time," he said. "I cannot admit that Mrs. Grant has the same claim as Esther and I, because we will both have a right to you. Esther will really be your sister!"
Mary only needed to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was now very destined to be the guest of neither brother nor sister for many months.
"You're going to split your year between London and Northamptonshire?"
"Yes."
"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of its own: no longer with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage for you to get away from the admiral before your manners are affected by the contagion from him, before you make any of his foolish opinions your own or learn to sit at your dinner as if it were the best blessing for him life! You are not aware of the win, for your respect for it has blinded you; but in my estimation, your early marriage may be your salvation. To see you grow up in word or deed, appearance or gestures like the admiral would have broken my heart."
"Well, well, we don't think the same way here. The admiral has his faults, but he is a very good man and was more than just a father to me. Few fathers could have left me half as free. You must not be biased against Esther. I have to make sure they love each other."
Mary held back to say what she felt, that there could not be two people whose character and manners were less in line: time would show him; but she could not prevent this reflection on the admiral. "Henry, I appreciate Esther Price so much that if I could assume that the next Mrs. Dorset would have half as much reason to loathe the name of my poor, poorly used aunt, I would prevent marriage if possible; but I know you: I know that a woman you love would be the happiest of all women, and that even if you stopped loving, she would still find in you the generosity and decency of a gentleman."
The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Esther Price happy, or not loving Esther Price anymore, was, of course, the basis of his eloquent answer.
"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, "how she took care of all the demands of her aunt's stupidity with such indescribable kindness and patience, worked with her and for her, her color was beautifully highlighted as she bent over work, then she returned to her place to finish a note, which she had previously written for the service of this stupid woman, and all this with such inconspicuous gentleness, as if it were self-evident that she should not spend a moment with her own command, her hair as neatly styled as ever, and when writing a small curl falling forward, which shook her back every now and then, and in the middle of it still spoke or listened to me in between and and as if she liked to listen, what I said. If you had seen her like this, Mary,
"My dearest Henry," Cried Mary, paused for a moment and smiled at his face, "How happy I am to see you so much in love! I am very pleased. But what will Mrs. Rushmore and Julia say?"
"I don't care what they say or what they feel. You will now see what kind of woman it is who can bind me, who can bind a reasonable man. I wish the discovery would do them some good. And they will now see how their cousin is treated as she should be, and I wish they could be heartily ashamed of their own heinous negligence and unkindness. They will be angry," he added after a moment of silence and in a cooler tone; "Woman. Rushmore will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill for her; that is, like other bitter pills, it will taste bad for two moments, and then be swallowed and forgotten; because I'm not such a weirdo that I assume that their feelings are more permanent than those of other women, even though I was the object of their feelings. Yes, Mary, my Esther will indeed feel a difference: a daily, hourly difference in the behavior of every being who approaches her; and it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the perpetrator, that I am the person who so lives up to the consequence to which he is entitled. Now she is dependent, helpless, without friends, neglected, forgotten."
"No, Henry, not all of them; not forgotten by all; not friendless or forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."
" Edmund! However, I believe that he is generally kind to her, and Sir Thomas in his own way too; but it is the path of a rich, superior, long-winded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund do together, what do they do for their happiness, comfort, honor and dignity in the world, what will I do?"
Chapter 164
Every person in and around Highbury who had ever visited Mr. Alton was willing to make him aware of his marriage. Dinner parties and evening parties were made for him and his lady; and invitations poured in so quickly that she soon had the pleasure of fearing that they would never have a relaxing day.
"I see what it's like," she said. "I see what kind of life I am to lead among you. At my word, we will be absolutely scattered. We really seem to be in fashion. If this lives in the countryside, it is nothing very impressive. I assure you that we do not have an unbound day from Monday to Saturday! – A woman with fewer resources than me must not have been at a loss."
She didn't miss an invitation. Her bathing habits made evening parties completely natural for her, and Maple Grove had given her the taste for dinner. She was a little shocked by the lack of two salons, the meagre attempt to bake cakes, and the lack of ice cream at the Highbury card parties. Mrs. Bates, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Goddard, and others were quite behind in their knowledge of the world, but she would soon show them how everything should be arranged. Over the course of the spring, she must reciprocate her courtesy through a very superior party – where her gaming tables with their individual candles and uninterrupted packs should be set up in true style – and hire more waiters for the evening than her own establishment could deliver to carry the refreshments around at just the right hour and in the right order.
Meanwhile, Emma couldn't be satisfied without dinner in Hartfield for the Alton's. They must not do less than others, or they should be subjected to heinous suspicions and imagine pathetic resentment. It has to be a dinner. After Emma talked about it for ten minutes, Mr. Lodge felt no reluctance and only made the usual condition of not sitting at the end of the table herself, with the usual regular difficulty of deciding who should do it for him.
The people to be invited required little thought. Apart from the Altons, it must be the Winstones and Mr. Hill; so far, everything has been self-evident – and it was hardly less inevitable that poor little Harriet had to be asked to do the eighth: – but this invitation was not issued with the same satisfaction, and in many ways Emma was particularly pleased with Harriet's request to be allowed to refuse it. "She would rather not be in his company than be able to help. She wasn't quite able to see him and his charming, happy wife together without feeling uncomfortable. If Miss Lodge wasn't dissatisfied, she'd rather stay at home." It was exactly what Emma would have wished for if she had thought it was possible enough to want it. She rejoiced at the steadfastness of her little friend – because she knew it was up to her to give up society and stay at home; and she could now invite the very person she desperately wanted to make the eighth, Jane Saxon. Since her last conversation with Mrs. Winstone and Mr. Hill, she has been more conscientious than usual because of Jane Saxon. – Sir. Hill's words were with her. He had said that Jane Saxon received attentions from Mrs. Alton that no one else gave her.
"That's very true," she said, "at least as far as I'm concerned, that was all meant – and it's very shameful. – Of the same age – and always knowing her – I should have been more her friend. – She will never like me again. I have neglected them for too long. But I will pay more attention to it than I did."
Every invitation was successful. They were all detached and all happy. - However, the preparatory interest of this dinner was not yet over. A rather unfortunate circumstance occurred. The two oldest little Hill's were engaged to pay their grandfather and aunt a few weeks' visit in the spring, and her dad now suggested bringing them along and staying in Hartfield for a full day – which would one day be the day of that party. — His professional duties did not allow him to be postponed, but both father and daughter were concerned about it. Mr. Lodge considered eight people at a dinner together to be the extreme his nerves could bear – and here would be a ninth – and Emma feared that it would be a ninth very much out of humor because he couldn't even come to Hartfield for forty -eight hours without falling into a dinner party.
She comforted her father better than she could comfort herself by imagining that while he would certainly make her nine, he always said so little that the increase in noise would be very insignificant. In reality, she thought it was a sad exchange for herself to have him with his serious looks and reluctant conversations towards her instead of his brother.
The event was more favorable for Mr. Lodge than for Emma. John Hill came; but Mr. Winstone was unexpectedly summoned to town and had to be absent that day. In the evening he might come to them, but certainly not for dinner. Mr. Lodge felt quite comfortable; and to see him like this, with the arrival of the little boys and the philosophical serenity of her brother when he heard his fate, even eliminated Emma's greatest anger.
The day came, the company was gathered on time, and Mr. John Hill seemed to devote himself early on to the business, to be pleasant. Instead of dragging his brother to the window while they waited for dinner, he talked to Miss Saxon. Mrs. Alton, as elegant as lace and pearls could make her, he looked at in silence — he just wanted to observe enough for Bella's information — but Miss Saxon was an old acquaintance and a quiet girl, and he could talk to her. He had met her before breakfast when he came back from a walk with his little boys when it had just started to rain. It was natural to have some hopes on this subject, and he said:
"I hope you didn't venture far this morning, Miss Saxon, or I'm sure you must have been wet. – We hardly got home in time. I hope you turned around right away."
"I just went to the post office," she said, "and came home before it rained heavily. It's my daily errand. I always get the letters when I'm here. It saves trouble and gets me out. A walk before breakfast is good for me."
"No walk in the rain, I should imagine."
"No, but it didn't necessarily rain when I left."
Mr. John Hill smiled and replied
,
"That is, you decided to take your walk because you were less than six feet from your own door when I had the pleasure of meeting you; and Henry and John had seen more drops than they could count a long time ago. Swiss Post has a great charm in a time of our lives. When you reach my age, you'll start to think that it's not worth going through the rain for letters."
There was a bit of blushing, and then this answer,
"I must not hope to ever be like you in the midst of all intimate relationships, and therefore cannot expect that mere aging should make me indifferent to letters."
"Indifferent! Oh! no – I never thought you could become indifferent. Letters are not indifferent; they are generally a very positive curse."
"You're talking about business letters; mine are friendship letters."
"I've often thought of them as the worst of the two," he replied coolly. "Business may bring money, but friendships hardly do."
"Ah! you don't mean that seriously now. I know Mr. John Hill too well – I'm very sure he understands the value of friendship as well as any other body. I can easily believe that letters are very little to you, much less than to me, but it's not your ten-year-old that makes the difference, it's not age, it's the situation. You always have every body you love at hand, I probably never do it again; and therefore, until I have survived all my affections, I think a post office must always have the power to pull me out in worse weather than today."
"When I talked about you changing through time, through the progress of the years," said John Hill, "I wanted to imply the change in the situation that time usually brings. I consider one as the other included. Time will generally diminish the interest of any attachment outside of the daily circle – but that's not the change I had in mind for you. As an old friend, allow me to hope, Miss Saxon, that in ten years you will have as many concentrated objects as I do."
It was kindly said and far from offending. A friendly "thank you" seemed meant to laugh about it, but a blush, a trembling lip, a tear in the eyes showed that it was more than a laugh. Your attention has now been claimed by Mr. Lodge, who, as he was used to on such occasions, formed the circle of his guests and paid his special compliments to the ladies, and ended with her – and with all his mildest courtesy, he said,
"I am very sorry to hear, Miss Saxon, that you were out in the rain this morning. Young ladies should take care of themselves. – Young ladies are delicate plants. They should pay attention to their health and complexion. My dear, have you changed your stockings?"
"Yes, sir, I actually did; and I am very grateful for your kind care for me."
"My dear Miss Saxon, young ladies are very safe. – I hope your good grandmother and aunt are doing well. They are some of my very old friends. I wish my health would allow me to be a better neighbor. I am sure that they are paying us a great honour today. My daughter and I are very aware of your kindness and are very happy to see you in Hartfield."
The kind-hearted, polite old man could then sit down and feel that he has done his duty and made every beautiful lady welcome and comfortable.
By this time, the walk in the rain had reached Mrs. Alton, and her objections were now directed at Jane.
"My dear Jane, what am I hearing? – Go to the post office in the rain! – That must not be, I assure you. – You sad girl, how could you do such a thing? – It's a sign I wasn't there to take care of you."
Jane patiently assured her that she had not contracted a cold.
"Oh! Don't tell me. You are really a very sad girl and you don't know how to take care of yourself. - To the post office, however! Mrs. Winstone, have you ever heard anything like this? You and I must exercise our authority positively."
"My advice," Mrs. Winstone said kindly and persuasively, "I feel really tempted to give. Miss Saxon, you must not take such risks. - As much as you have been prone to severe colds, you should be especially careful at this time of year. Spring, which I always think, requires more than ordinary care. Better wait an hour or two or even half a day for your letters than run the risk of getting your cough again. Now you don't feel like you had? Yes, I'm sure you're far too reasonable. You look like you're not going to do something like that again."
"Oh! she should not do this again," Mrs. Alton replied eagerly. We will not allow her to do something like this again." – and nodded significantly – "an agreement must be made, it must indeed be made. I will speak to Mr E. The man who picks up our letters every morning (one of our men, I forgot his name) will also ask for yours and bring them to you. This will prevent all the difficulties you know; and of us I really think, my dear Jane, that you can have no scruples to accept such a concession."
"They are extraordinarily friendly," Jane said; "but I can't give up my early walk. I am advised to be outdoors as much as possible, I have to go somewhere, and the post office is an object; and at my word, I've never had a bad morning before."
"My dear Jane, don't say more about it. The matter is determined, that is, (adorned laughing), as far as I can presume to determine something without the consent of my Lord and Master. You know, Mrs. Winstone, you and I have to be careful how we express ourselves. But I flatter myself, my dear Jane, that my influence is not yet completely exhausted. So if I don't encounter any insurmountable difficulties, consider this point settled."
"Excuse me," Jane said earnestly, "I certainly cannot agree to such an agreement that is so unnecessarily annoying to your servant. If I didn't enjoy the errand, it could be done by my grandma, as always when I'm not here."
"Oh! my darling; but as much as Patty has to do! – And it's a kindness to hire our men."
Jane looked like she didn't want to be defeated; but instead of answering, she started talking to Mr. John Hill again.
"The post office is a wonderful facility!" she said. – "The regularity and handling of it! Considering what it can do and what it can do so well, it's really amazing!"
"This is certainly very well regulated."
"So rare that negligence or mistakes appear! So rare that a letter is even incorrectly transported among the thousands who constantly roam the kingdom – and not one in a million, I suppose, actually lost! And when you consider how many hands and even bad hands have to be deciphered, the amazement becomes even greater."
"Employees become experts out of habit. – You need to start with a certain speed of vision and hand, and exercise improves it. If you want more explanations," he continued with a smile, "they get paid for it. That's the key to too much capacity. The audience pays and must be well served."
The types of handwriting were further discussed and the usual observations were made.
"I've heard it claimed," said John Hill, "that the same kind of handwriting often prevails in a family; and where the same master teaches, of course, it is enough. But for this reason, I should imagine that the similarity is mainly limited to the women, because boys have very little instruction after an early age and crawl into every hand they can get. I think Bella and Emma write very similarly. I didn't always tell their spelling apart."
"Yes," his brother said hesitantly, "there is a similarity. I know what you mean – but Emma's hand is the strongest."
"Bella and Emma both write wonderfully," said Mr. Lodge; "And always. And so did poor Mrs. Winstone" – with half a sigh and half a smile.
"I have never seen the handwriting of any gentleman" – Emma began, ?? where she also looked at Mrs. Winstone; but paused when she noticed that Mrs. Winstone was taking care of someone else – and the break gave her time to think: "Well, how am I supposed to introduce him? – Am I not ready to pronounce his name immediately in front of all these people? Is it necessary for me to use some cumbersome expression? – Your Yorkshire friend – your Correspondent in Yorkshire – that would probably be the way if I were very bad. – No, I can pronounce his name without the slightest concern. I'm certainly getting better and better. – Now to that."
Mrs. Winstone was let go, and Emma began anew, "Mr. Frank Curcelle writes one of the best gentleman hands I've ever seen."
"I don't admire it," Mr. Hill said. "It's too small – it wants strength. It's like writing a woman."
This was not presented by any lady. They justified him against the vile slander. "No, it didn't want strength – it wasn't a big hand, but it was very clear and certainly strong. Didn't Mrs. Winstone have a letter about her?" No, she had recently heard of him, but after answering the letter, she had put it away.
"If we were in the other room," Emma said, "?" if I had my desk, I could certainly present a copy. I have a note from him. Don't you remember, Mrs. Winstone, that one day you hired him to write for you?"
"He decided to say he was employed" –
"Well, well, I have this note; and can show it after dinner to convince Mr. Hill."
"Oh! When a gallant young man like Mr. Frank Curcelle," Mr. Hill said dryly, "writes to a beautiful lady like Miss Lodge, he will of course do his best."
Dinner was on the table. – Mrs. Before you could talk to her, Alton was ready; and before Mr. Lodge reached her with his request to lead her into the dining room, he
said,
"Do I have to go first? I'm really ashamed to always go ahead."
Jane's effort to get her own letters had not escaped Emma's attention. She had heard and seen everything; and felt a certain curiosity to know if this morning's wet walk had produced any. She suspected that it was so; that it would not have met him so resolutely, but in full anticipation of hearing from someone very dear, and that it would not have been in vain. She found that there was an atmosphere of greater cheerfulness than usual – a glow of both the color of the face and the spirits of life.
She could have done an investigation or two about the expedition and the cost of the Irish post office; - it was at the end of her tongue - but she abstained. She was determined not to say a word that would hurt Jane Saxon's feelings; and they followed the other ladies out of the room, arm in arm, with a semblance of benevolence that is very much due to the beauty and grace of everyone.
Chapter 165
A few days passed, and Catherine, although she did not allow herself to suspect her friend, could not help but watch her closely. The result of their observations was not pleasant. Bella seemed to be an altered creature. When she actually saw her surrounded only by her immediate friends in Edgar's Buildings or Pulteney Street, her change in behavior was so insignificant that if it hadn't gone any further, it might have gone unnoticed. Occasionally, she was overcome by something of sluggish indifference or that boastful mindlessness that Catherine had never heard of before; but if nothing worse had appeared, it might have just spread a new grace and aroused a warmer interest. But when Catherine saw her in public and admitted Captain Alsina's attention as readily as it was offered, and giving him almost the same share of her attention and smile as James, the change became too positive to ignore. What might be meant by such insecure behavior, what her friend wanted to get at, went beyond her understanding. Bella could not be aware of the pain she was causing; but it was a certain degree of deliberate thoughtlessness that Catherine could only resent. James was the sufferer. She saw him seriously and restlessly; and as carefree as the woman who had given him her heart might be with his present comfort, for her it was always an object. She was also very worried about poor Captain Alsina. Although she did not like his appearance, his name was a fit for her goodwill, and she thought with sincere compassion of his approaching disappointment; for despite what she thought she heard in the drinking hall, his behavior was so incompatible with the knowledge of Bella's engagement that when she thought about it, she could not imagine that he was aware of it. He may have been jealous of her brother as a rival, but if more seemed hinted at, the fault must have been in her false assumption. She wanted to remind Bella of her situation with a gentle reproach and make her aware of this double unfriendliness; but for the accusation, either the opportunity or the understanding was always against them. If she could suggest a clue, Bella would never understand it. In this distress, the intended departure of the Alsina family became their greatest consolation; their journey to Gloucestershire was to take place within a few days, and the removal of Captain Alsina would at least return to every heart except his own peace. But Captain Alsina now had no intention of leaving; he should not be from the party to Northanger; he should continue in Bath. When Catherine knew this, her decision was made directly. She spoke to Henry Alsina about the subject, regretted his brother's apparent fondness for Miss Dorfman, and begged him to announce her previous engagement.
"My brother knows," was Henry's reply.
"Does he? So why is he staying here?"
He did not answer and began to speak of something else; but she eagerly continued, "Why don't you persuade him to leave? The longer he stays, the worse it gets for him. Please advise him, for his own sake and for all's sake, to leave Bath directly. The absence will make him comfortable again in time; but he can have no hope here, and it remains only miserable."
Henry smiled and said, "I'm sure my brother wouldn't want that."
"Then you will persuade him to leave?"
"Convincing is not the order of the day; but forgive me if I can't even try to convince him. I told him myself that Miss Dorfman is engaged. He knows what it's all about and must be his own master."
"No, he doesn't know what it's all about," Catherine shouted; "He doesn't know the pain he is inflicting on my brother. Not that James ever told me that, but I'm sure he feels very uncomfortable."
"And are you sure it's my brother's work?"
"Yes, very safe."
"Is it my brother's attention to Miss Dorfman or Miss Dorfman's admission that triggers the pain?"
"Isn't it the same?"
"I think Mr. Fenmore would acknowledge a difference. No man is offended by another man's admiration for the woman he loves; Only the woman can make it a torment."
Catherine blushed for her friend and said, "Bella is wrong. But I'm sure she can't torture, because she's very attached to my brother. She had been in love with him since they met, and although my father's approval was uncertain, she almost got a fever. You know she has to hang on to him."
"I understand: she's in love with James and flirting with Frederick."
"Oh! No, not flirting. A woman who is in love with one man cannot flirt with another."
"It's likely that she won't love or flirt as well as she could either individually. The gentlemen have to give in to everyone a little."
After a short pause, Catherine continued, "Then you don't think Bella is so attached to my brother?"
"I can't have an opinion on this topic."
"But what can your brother mean? If he knows their engagement, what can he mean by his behavior?"
"You're a very narrow questioner."
"Am I? I'm just asking what I want to be told."
"But are you just asking what to expect from me?"
"Yes, I think so; for you must know your brother's heart."
"My brother's heart, as you call it, I assure you that I can only guess on this occasion."
"Fountain?"
"Fountain! No, if you want it to be guesses, let's all guess for yourself. To be guided by second-hand assumptions is pathetic. The premises are in front of you. My brother is a lively and perhaps sometimes thoughtless young man; He's known your girlfriend for about a week, and he's known her engagement almost as long as he's known her."
"Well," Catherine said after some thought, "maybe you can guess your brother's intentions from all of this; but I'm sure I can't. But isn't it uncomfortable for your father? Doesn't he want Captain Alsina to disappear? Sure, if your father talked to him, he would leave."
"My dear Miss Fenmore," said Henry, "can't you be a little wrong about this gracious concern for your brother's well-being? Aren't you a bit too far? Would he thank you, either on his own account or on Miss Dorfman's side, for the assumption that her affection, or at least her good behavior, can only be ensured by the fact that she sees nothing of Captain Alsina? Is he only safe in solitude? Or is her heart only faithful to him when she is unsolicited by someone else? He can't think that – and you can be sure he doesn't want you to think so. I'm not going to say, "Don't be restless", because I know you are at this moment; but be as uneasy as you can. You have no doubt about the mutual bond between your brother and your friend; Therefore, rely on the fact that real jealousy can never exist between them; Rely on the fact that no disagreement between them can last. Their hearts are open to each other, as no heart can be for you; they know exactly what is required and what can be worn; and you can be sure that one will never irritate the other beyond what is known to be pleasant."
Noting that she still looked doubtful and serious, he added, "Although Frederick Bath is not leaving with us, he will probably only stay behind us for a very short time, maybe only a few days. His leave of absence is about to expire and he must return to his regiment. And what will their acquaintance be then? Bella Dorfman will drink mass for fourteen days, and she will laugh with your brother for a month at the passion of poor Alsina."
Catherine would no longer fight for comfort. She had resisted his advances for an entire speech, but now it carried her captive. Henry Alsina needs to know best. She blamed herself for the extent of her fears and decided never to think so seriously about this topic again.
Her determination was supported by Bella's behavior in her farewell conversation. The Dorfmans spent the last evening of Catherine's stay on Pulteney Street, and nothing happened between the lovers that could make them uncomfortable or make them leave them with concern. James was in an excellent mood and Bella was very engagingly relaxed. Her tenderness to her friend seemed more like the first feeling of her heart; but that was permissible at such a moment; and once she gave her beloved a shallow contradiction, and once she withdrew her hand; but Catherine remembered Henry's instructions and put everything on reasonable affection. One may imagine the hugs, tears and promises of the farewell beauties.
Chapter 166
When Miss Hargrove repeated the details of this conversation to her sister, which happened very soon, the effect on her was not quite as the former had hoped. Not that Marianne seemed to distrust the truth of any of this, for she listened to everything with the most constant and submissive attention, raised neither objections nor remarks, did not try to justify Warwick, and seemed to show through her tears that she felt it was impossible. But although this behavior assured Eleanore that the conviction of this guilt came to her mind, although she saw with satisfaction the effects of her no longer evading Colonel Bridgerton when he called him by talking to him, even speaking voluntarily, with some kind of compassionate respect, and even though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she saw them no less miserable. Her mind calmed down, but it was a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Warwick's character even harder than the loss of his heart; his seduction and abandonment of Miss Williams, the misery of this poor girl, and the doubts about what he might have been up to with her weighed on her mood so much that she couldn't even bring herself to talk about what she felt to Eleonore; and, silently pondering her grief, she inflicted more pain on her sister than could have been communicated by them through the most open and common confession. his seduction and abandonment of Miss Williams, the misery of this poor girl, and the doubts about what he might have been up to with her weighed on her mood so much that she couldn't even bring herself to talk about what she felt to Eleonore; and, silently pondering her grief, she inflicted more pain on her sister than could have been communicated by them through the most open and common confession. his seduction and abandonment of Miss Williams, the misery of this poor girl, and the doubts about what he might have been up to with her weighed on her mood so much that she couldn't even bring herself to talk about what she felt to Eleonore; and, silently pondering her grief, she inflicted more pain on her sister than could have been communicated by them through the most open and common confession.
To reflect Mrs. Hargrove's feelings or language in receiving and responding to Eleanore's letter would only be to repeat what her daughters had already felt and said; a disappointment that is hardly less painful than that of Marianne, and an indignation even greater than that of Eleanore. Long letters from her, quickly following each other, arrived to tell everything she suffered and thought; To express her anxious care for Marianne and to ask her to endure this misfortune steadfastly. The nature of Marianne's suffering must be bad, when her mother could speak of bravery! Humiliating and humiliating must be the source of that remorse that SHE might wish she wouldn't give in to!
In the interest of her own individual well-being, Mrs. Hargrove had decided that it would be better for Marianne at this time to be somewhere than in Barton, where everything in her field of vision would bring back the past the strongest and strongest in the most embarrassing way, constantly putting Warwick in front of her, as she had always seen him there. She therefore advised her daughters not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings under any circumstances; whose length, although never precisely defined, had been expected by everyone with at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, objects and society that could not be obtained in Barton would be inevitable there and Marianne, she hoped, sometimes deceived into an interest beyond herself and even into amusement.
At the risk of seeing Warwick again, her mother thought she was at least as safe in the city as she was in the countryside, as his acquaintance now had to be dropped by everyone who called themselves her friends. She could never get in the way of design: she could never be exposed to negligence; and chance had less in his favor in the London crowd than even in Barton's retirement, where he could force him to stand in front of her while paying this visit to Allenham for his wedding, which Mrs. Hargrove had initially foreseen as a probable event.
She had another reason to want her children to stay where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife would be in town before mid-February, and she thought it was right that they should see her brother sometimes.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she therefore submitted to it without contradiction, although she turned out to be completely different from what she wanted and expected, although she felt it was completely wrong, formed for erroneous reasons, namely by desire her longer stay in London deprived her of the only possible relief of her misery, of her mother's personal sympathy, and condemned her to such company and such scenes that had to prevent her from ever experiencing a moment of calm.
But it was a great comfort to her that what brought her evil would bring good to her sister; and Eleanore, on the other hand, who sensed that it was not in her power to avoid Edward altogether, consoled herself with the thought that while her extended stay would be against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an immediate return to Devonshire.
Her care to keep her sister from ever hearing Warwick's name was not thrown overboard. Marianne, although without knowing it herself, reaped all his advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings nor Sir John, not even Mrs. Palmifer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Eleanore wished the same leniency could have been for herself, but that was impossible, and she had to listen to everyone's indignation day after day.
Sir John would not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he always had so much reason to think well! Such a good-natured guy! He did not believe that there was a bolder rider in England! It was an inexplicable affair. He wished him with all his heart to the devil." ... He wouldn't speak a word to him anymore, meet him wherever he could, around everything in the world! No, not if it was hidden at Barton's side, and they watched a guy together for two hours! such a sneaky dog! It wasn't until the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and that was the end of it!"
Mrs. Palmifer was equally angry in her own way. "She was determined to end his acquaintance immediately, and she was very grateful that she had never known him at all. She wished with all her heart that Combe Magna wasn't so close to Cleveland; but it meant nothing, for it was far too far away to visit them; she hated him so much that she decided never to mention his name again, and she was to tell everyone she saw how useless he was.
The rest of Mrs. Palmifer's sympathy was to obtain all the details in her power about the upcoming marriage and communicate them to Eleanore. She could soon say, with which ?? Carriage builder the new carriage was built, by which ?? Painter Mr. Warwick's portrait was drawn and in which ?? Warehouse Miss Grey's clothes were on display.
The calm and polite carelessness of Lady Mideltown on this occasion was a happy relief to Eleanore's spirit, who was often depressed by the noisy kindness of others. It was a great comfort for her to be sure, at least in her circle of friends, not to arouse interest in ONE person: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet her without being curious about details or afraid for her the health of the sister.
Any limitation is sometimes elevated beyond its real value by the circumstances of the moment; and she was sometimes troubled by intrusive condolences to judge good parenting as more indispensable for comfort than good-naturedness.
Lady Mideltown expressed her sense of purpose about once a day, or twice when the subject came up very frequently, by saying, "It's really very shocking!" and thanks to this constant, if gentle, venting, he was not only able to see the Miss Hargroves from the beginning without the slightest emotion, but very soon, to see them without remembering a word of the matter; and after thus supporting the dignity of her own sex and expressing her firm criticism of what was wrong in the other, she considered herself free to take care of the interests of her own congregations, and was therefore determined (albeit rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Warwick she would immediately be a woman of elegance and fortune, To leave her her card as soon as she got married.
Colonel Bridgerton's tender, unobtrusive requests were never unwelcome to Miss Hargrove. He had richly earned the privilege of speaking intimately about her sister's disappointment, through the kind zeal with which he had tried to soften her, and they always talked with confidence. His main reward for the painful effort to reveal past sorrows and present humiliations was the compassionate look with which Marianne sometimes watched him, and the softness of her voice whenever (if it did not happen often) she was obliged or able to obey to speak to him herself. THEY assured him that his effort had produced an increase in benevolence towards him, and THESE gave Eleanore hope that it would be further increased later; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who only knew that the Colonel remained as serious as ever and that she could neither persuade him to make the offer herself nor commission her to do it for him, began to think at the end of two days, instead of midsummer, they would not marry before Michaeli, and at the end of a week, there would be no couple at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Hargrove seemed to explain rather that the honors of the mulberry tree, the canal and the yew arbor would all be given to her; and Mrs. Jennings had stopped thinking about Mrs. Gastonois for some time. and at the end of a week that it wouldn't be a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Hargrove seemed to explain rather that the honors of the mulberry tree, the canal and the yew arbor would all be given to her; and Mrs. Jennings had stopped thinking about Mrs. Gastonois for some time. and at the end of a week that it wouldn't be a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Hargrove seemed to explain rather that the honors of the mulberry tree, the canal and the yew arbor would all be given to her; and Mrs. Jennings had stopped thinking about Mrs. Gastonois for some time.
In early February, within fourteen days of receiving Warwick's letter, Eleanore had the painful task of telling her sister that he was married. She had made sure that she conveyed the message to herself as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she wished marianne did not receive the first news of it from the public newspapers, which she eagerly checked every morning.
She received the news with determined serenity; did not notice it and did not shed tears at first; but after a short time they broke out, and for the rest of the day she was in a state that was hardly less pitiful than when she learned to expect the event.
The Warwicks left the city as soon as they were married; and Eleanore, now that there was no danger of seeing one of them, hoped to persuade her sister, who had never left the house since the first blow, to gradually go out again, as she had done before.
Around this time, the two Miss Clayhorns, who had recently arrived at their cousin's home in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again to their larger relatives on Conduit Street and Berkeley Street; and were received by all with great cordiality.
Eleanore was just sorry to see her. Her presence always caused her pain, and she hardly knew how to graciously accommodate Lucy's overwhelming joy of finding her STILL in town.
"I would have been quite disappointed if I hadn't found you here YET," she said repeatedly with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always thought I should. I was almost certain that you wouldn't leave London for a while; although you told me in Barton that you should not stay more than a month. But I thought at the time that she would probably think differently if it mattered. It would have been such a shame to have left before your brother and sister came. And now, to be sure, you won't be in a hurry to leave. I'm amazing I'm glad you didn't stick to YOUR WORD."
Eleanore understood her perfectly and was forced to use all her self-control to give the impression that she did NOT do it.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"
"Not on stage, I assure you," Miss Clayhorn replied with quick cheers; "We came all the way by post and had a very elegant beau to accompany us. Dr or twelve shillings more than us."
"Oh, oh!" shouted Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the doctor is a single man, I assure you of that."
"So," said Miss Clayhorn, smiling artificially, "everyone laughs at me so much at the doctor, and I can't explain why. My cousins say they are sure that I have made a conquest; but I explain for my part that I never think about it from one hour to the next. "Lord! here comes your admirer, Nancy," my cousin said the other day when she saw him crossing the street to the house. In fact, my admirer! I said – I don't know who you are mean. The doctor is not a friend of mine."
"Yes, yes, that's very pretty talking - but it doesn't work - the doctor is the man, as I see."
"Not in fact!" her cousin replied with playful seriousness, "and I ask you to contradict that if you ever hear about it."
Mrs. Jennings immediately gave her the pleasing assurance that she would CERTAINLY NOT do it, and Miss Clayhorn was completely happy.
"I suppose you will leave and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Hargrove, when they come to town," Lucy said, returning to the prosecution after an end to hostile insinuations.
"No, I don't think we're going to do that."
"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."
Eleanore would not please them with further resistance.
"What an enchanting thing it is that Mrs. Hargrove can spare you both together for so long!"
"A long time, indeed!" interrupted Mrs. Jennings. "Well, your visit has only just begun!"
Lucy was silenced.
"I'm sorry we can't see your sister, Miss Hargrove," Miss Clayhorn said. "I'm sorry she's not feeling well..." because Marianne had left the room when she arrived.
"They are very good. My sister will also regret missing out on the pleasure of seeing you;
"Oh dear, that's a pity! but such old friends as Lucy and I! – I think she could see us;
Eleanor rejected the proposal with great courtesy. Their sister may have been lying on the bed or in a sleeping skirt and therefore could not come to them.
"Oh, if that's all," Miss Clayhorn exclaimed, "we might as well visit her."
Eleanore began to find this impudence too much for her temperament; but she was spared the trouble of checking it out, by Lucy's sharp rebuke, which now, as on many occasions, although it did not give much sweetness to one sister's manners, was beneficial in governing those of the others.
Chapter 167
On Saturday morning, Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity to pay the farewell courtesies that he considered indispensable.
"I don't know, Miss Elizabeth," he said, "whether Mrs. Collins has already expressed her kindness because she has come to us; but I am quite sure that you will not leave the house without receiving your thanks for it. I assure you that the favor of your company was very noticeable. We know how little there is to lure someone into our humble abode. Our simple way of life, our small rooms and few servants, and the little we see of the world must make Hunsford extremely boring for a young lady like you; but I hope you will believe us gratefully for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent you from spending your time uncomfortably.'
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great pleasure; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte and the kind attentions she had received must make YOU feel committed. Mr. Collins was satisfied and replied with smiling solemnity:
"I am very pleased to hear that you did not spend your time unpleasantly. We certainly did our best; and fortunately we have it in our power to introduce you to a very superior society, and because of our association with rosings, the common means of varying the humble home scene, I think we can flatter ourselves that your visit to Hunsford may not have been entirely annoying. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the kind of extraordinary advantage and blessing that few can boast of. You can see what kind of basis we stand on. You can see how consistently we work there. In truth, I must acknowledge that despite all the drawbacks of this humble rectory, I should not consider anyone who lives in it to be an object of compassion while sharing our intimacy in Rosings."
Words were not enough to elevate his feelings; and he had to walk around the room while Elizabeth tried to combine politeness and truth in a few short sentences.
"You can actually bring a very positive report from us to Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I am at least flattered that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins, whose daily witness you were; and I fully hope it doesn't look like your friend has suffered an accident – but on this point it will be good to be silent. Let me just assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can heartily wish you the same happiness in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have only one mind and one mindset. There is a remarkable similarity of character and ideas between us in everything. We seem to be meant for each other."
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where this was the case, and with the same sincerity she could add that she firmly believed in and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. However, she did not regret that the performance was interrupted by them by the lady from whom they were descended. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholic to leave them to such a society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and although she obviously regretted that her visitors should leave, she didn't seem to be asking for pity. Her house and household, her community and her poultry and all her dependent affairs had not yet lost their appeal.
Finally the carriage came, the suitcases were fastened, the packages were put in, and it was declared ready. After a loving farewell between the friends, Elizabeth was taken care of the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden, he gave her his best respects to her whole family, without forgetting his gratitude for the kindness he had received longbourn in the winter and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, although unknown. Then he handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was about to be closed when he suddenly reminded her, with some dismay, that they had so far forgotten to leave a message to the ladies of Rosings.
"But," he added, "you will of course wish that your humble respect be conveyed to them, with your grateful gratitude for their kindness to you while you were here."
Elizabeth raised no objection; then the door was allowed to be closed, and the carriage left.
'Oh my goodness!' cried Mary after a few minutes of silence, "it seems to have only been a day or two since we first came! and yet, how much has happened!'
"Very many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.
"We ate at Rosings nine times and drank tea there twice! How much will I have to tell!'
Elizabeth added confidentially, "And how much do I have to hide!"
Your trip was carried out without much conversation or any warning; and within four hours of leaving Hunsford, they reached Mr. Lockhart's house, where they were to stay for a few days.
Jane looked good, and Elizabeth had little opportunity to study her mood amid the various obligations that her aunt's kindness had reserved for her. But Jane was to go home with her, and there would be enough leisure in Longbourn to observe.
It was not without difficulty that she could even wait for Longbourn before telling her sister about Mr. Drury's suggestions. To know that she had the power to reveal what would amaze Jane so extraordinarily, and at the same time had to satisfy so highly what in her own vanity she had not yet been able to suppress, was such a temptation to openness like nothing could have overcome only the state of indecision in which she was concerned about the extent of what she was supposed to communicate remained; and her fear, once she touched on the subject, of being rushed to repeat something from Woodland that could only grieve her sister even more.
Chapter 168
Henry Dorset was back in Mansfield Park the next morning, at an earlier hour than usual for a visit. The two ladies were in the breakfast room together, and luckily for him, Lady Schmidt was about to leave it when he entered. She was almost at the door, and because she had not made so much effort in vain, she went on to the servant after a polite reception, a short sentence about waiting and a "Let Sir Thomas know".
Henry, overjoyed to let her go, bowed and looked after her, and without losing another moment, he immediately turned to Esther, took out some letters and said with an extremely vivid look: "I must feel infinitely committed to every creature that gives me such an opportunity to see you alone: I wished for more, than you can imagine. Since I know what your feelings are as a sister, I could hardly have put up with anyone in the house to share with you the first knowledge of the news I am now bringing. It is made. Her brother is a lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on the promotion of your brother. Here are the letters announcing it, this moment comes at hand. You might like to see them."
Esther couldn't speak, but he didn't want her to speak. It was enough to see the expression of her eyes, the change in the color of her face, the progression of her feelings, her doubts, confusion and bliss. She took the letters as he gave them. The first was from the admiral to inform his nephew in a few words that he had achieved the goal he had set himself, the promotion of young Price, and to add two more, one from the secretary of the First Lord to a friend whom the admiral had hired to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself, through whom it seemed that his lordship was very fortunate to devote himself to the recommendation of Mr. Charles; that Sir Charles was very pleased to have such an opportunity to prove his appreciation for Admiral Dorset, and that the circumstances of Mr. William Price
While her hand trembled under these letters, her eyes ran from one to the other, and her heart swelled with emotion, Dorset continued with undisguised zeal to express his interest in the event.
"I'm not going to talk about my own happiness," he said, "as big as it is, because I only think of yours. Who has the right to be happy compared to you? I almost indulged in my own prior knowledge of what you should have known in front of the whole world. However, I did not lose a moment. The mail arrived too late this morning, but it hasn't come since a moment of delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I was on this subject, I do not want to try to describe; how badly offended, how cruelly disappointed not to finish it while I was in London! I was held day after day in the hope of it, because nothing would be less dear to me than such an object that would have kept me from Mansfield for half the time. But although my uncle responded to my wishes with all the warmth I could wish for and immediately made an effort, there were difficulties due to the absence of one friend and the obligations of another, the end of which I could no longer bear, and since I knew in which good hands I had placed the matter, on Monday I left the trust in so many posts would not pass, before I wouldn't be followed by letters like this. My uncle, the very best man in the world, made an effort, as I expected, after seeing your brother. He was enthusiastic about him. I would not allow myself yesterday to say how happy I am, or to repeat half of what the admiral said in his praise. I postponed everything until his praise was to be the praise of a friend, as this day proves. Now I can say that even I couldn't ask William Price to arouse greater interest or be followed by warmer desires and higher praise,
"Was this all your work?" exclaimed Esther. "Good heavens! how very, very nice! Did you really – was it your wish? I beg your pardon, but I am confused. Did Admiral Dorset apply? How was it? I'm stunned."
Henry was very happy to make it more understandable by starting earlier and explaining exactly what he had done. His last trip to London had done nothing but introduce her brother to Hill Street and get the admiral to spark all his interest in hiring him. That had been his business. He had not communicated it to any creature: he had not even breathed a syllable of it into Mary; Although he was not sure of the matter, he could not have endured to share in his feelings, but that had been his thing; and he spoke with such brilliance of his concern and used such strong expressions, was so rich in deepest interest, in dual motives, in views and desires, more than one could say that Esther could not remain insensitive to his drift, she could have participated; but her heart was so full and her senses still so amazed that she could only listen imperfectly to what he told her about William, and only said when he paused, "How kind! how very friendly! Oh, Mr. Dorset, we are infinitely connected to you! Dearest, dearest William!" She jumped up and hurriedly walked up the door and shouted, "I'm going to go to my uncle. My uncle should know as soon as possible." But this could not be tolerated. The opportunity was too favorable and his feelings too impatient. He was immediately after her. "She must not leave, she must allow him five minutes longer," and he took her hand and led her back to her seat and was in the middle of his further explanation before she knew what she was being held for. However, when she understood, and was expected of her to believe that she had evoked sensations that his heart had never known before, and that everything he had done for William should be attributed to his excessive and incomparable affection for her, she was extraordinarily saddened, and unable to speak for a few moments. She saw all this as nonsense, as mere gimmicks and gallantry that only meant deceiving for the hour; she couldn't help feeling that it was treating her inappropriately and unworthily and in a way she didn't deserve; but it was like himself and completely out of one piece with what she had seen before; and she did not allow herself to show half of the resentment she felt because he had imposed on her an obligation that no lack of tenderness on her part could make a trifle. While her heart was still bouncing with joy and gratitude for Williams, she couldn't seriously resent something that hurt only herself; and after withdrawing her hand twice and trying twice in vain to turn away from him, she stood up and said only with great excitement, "Not, Dorset-san, please don't! I ask you not to do that. This is a kind of speech that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for herself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. For her own sake, she could not be seriously annoyed by something that hurt only herself; and after withdrawing her hand twice and trying twice in vain to turn away from him, she stood up and said only with great excitement, "Not, Dorset-san, please don't! I ask you not to do that. This is a way of speaking that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for them, himself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. For her own sake, she could not be seriously annoyed by something that hurt only herself; and after withdrawing her hand twice and trying twice in vain to turn away from him, she stood up and said only with great excitement, "Not, Dorset-san, please don't! I ask you not to do that. This is a way of speaking that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for them, himself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. and after withdrawing her hand twice and trying twice in vain to turn away from him, she stood up and said only with great excitement, "Not, Dorset-san, please don't! I ask you not to do that. This is a way of speaking that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for them, himself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. and after withdrawing her hand twice and trying twice in vain to turn away from him, she stood up and said only with great excitement, "Not, Dorset-san, please don't! I ask you not to do that. This is a way of speaking that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for them, himself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. I ask you not to do that. This is a way of speaking that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for them, himself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. I ask you not to do that. This is a way of speaking that makes me very uncomfortable. I have to go. I can't stand it." But he still kept talking, describing his affection, asking for a return, and finally offering everything for their acceptance in words so clear that they had only one meaning, even for them, himself, his hand, his fortune. It was so; he had said it. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer. Their amazement and confusion increased; and although she still didn't know how to take him seriously, she could hardly bear it. He pressed for an answer.
"No no No!" she shouted and hid her face. "This is all nonsense. Don't worry me. I can't hear about it anymore. Your kindness to William obliges me to you more than words can express; but I don't want to, I can't stand it, I can't hear them - No, no, don't think about myself. But you don't think about me. I know it's all nothing."
She had torn herself away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard talking to a servant who was on his way to the room where they were. There was no time for further assurances or requests, although she was to part with her at a moment when her modesty seemed alone, a cruel necessity to stand in the way of his sanguine and pressurized spirit, the happiness he sought. She hurried through a door facing the one her uncle was approaching, walking up and down in the extreme confusion of opposing feelings in the east room before Sir Thomas' courtesy or apology was over or he had reached the beginning of the intelligence his visitor wanted to communicate.
She felt, thought, trembled above all; excited, happy, miserable, infinitely committed, absolutely angry. It was all amazing! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But his habits were such that he couldn't do anything without a mixture of evil. He used to make her the happiest of all people, and now he had insulted her – she didn't know what to say, how to take classes, or how to look at it. She didn't want him to be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and offers if they meant just a trifle?
But William was a lieutenant. That was an unequivocal fact, without any doubt. She would think about it forever and forget everything else. Mr. Dorset would certainly never address her like this again: he must have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in this case, how grateful she could appreciate him for his friendship with William!
She would not move further from the east room than to the end of the grand staircase until she had convinced herself that Mr. Dorset had left the house; but when she was convinced that he was gone, she desperately wanted to go down and be with her uncle and have all the happiness of his joy as well as her own and all the benefits of his information or his guesses about what would now be William's goal. Sir Thomas was as cheerful as she could wish for, and very friendly and communicative; and she had such a pleasant conversation with him about William that she felt like nothing had happened that could annoy her until she learned towards the end that Mr. Dorset had agreed to return the same day and dine there. This was an extremely unwelcome hearing, because although he may not have thought anything of what had happened, it would be quite depressing for her to see him again so soon.
She tried to gain the upper hand; tried very hard as the meal hour approached to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for her not to look very shy and uncomfortable when her visitor entered the room. She couldn't have considered it the coincidence of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day she heard about William's promotion.
Mr. Dorset wasn't just in the room – he was soon close to her. He had a message to deliver from his sister. Esther could not look at him, but there was no awareness of past folly in his voice. She immediately opened her note, glad to have something to do, and to feel happy while reading that the fidgeting of her aunt Norris, who was also supposed to dine there, shielded her a little from view.
"My dear Esther, because that's what I can always call you now, to the infinite relief of a tongue that has stumbled upon Miss Price for at least six weeks – I can't let my brother go without sending you a few lines of general congratulations and my most joyful approval and approval. Continue, my dear Esther, and without fear; there can be no significant difficulties. I choose to assume that the assurance of my consent will be something; so that you can smile at him this afternoon with your sweetest smile and send him back to me even happier than he leaves. – Sincerely, your MC."
These were not expressions to do something good for Esther; for although she read in too much haste and confusion to form a clear judgment about Miss Dorset's significance, it was obvious that she wanted to compliment her on her brother's attachment and even seemed to mean it. She didn't know what to do or think. There was misery in the idea that it was serious; there was perplexity and excitement in every way. She was desperate whenever Mr. Dorset spoke to her, and he spoke to her far too often; and she feared that something in his voice and the way he addressed her was something completely different than when he talked to the others. Her comfort at dinner that day was quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas, in a good mood, realized that joy had taken away her appetite, she was ready to sink with shame at the fear of Mr. Dorset's interpretation; for although nothing could tempt her to direct her eyes to the right hand where he was sitting, she felt that his were immediately focused on her.
She was quieter than ever. She would hardly participate, even if William was the subject, because his assignment also came entirely from the right hand, and the connection was painful.
She believed Lady Schmidt was sitting longer than ever and began to be desperate to ever get away; but eventually they were in the salon, and she could think as she wanted, while her aunts finished the theme of William's appointment in their own style.
Mrs. Norris seemed as pleased with the savings for Sir Thomas as she was with every part of it. "Now William would be able to hold himself, which would make a big difference for his uncle, because it was not known how much he had cost his uncle; and in fact, it would also make a difference in their gifts. She was very glad that she had given William what she had done when she said goodbye, very glad even that it had been in her power to give him something quite handsome without material inconvenience at that very moment; that is, for them with their limited means, because now everything would be useful to help set up his cabin. She knew that he had to spend a lot, that he had a lot of things to buy, although his father and mother would enable him to get everything very cheaply;
"I'm glad you gave him something significant," said Lady Schmidt with the most unsuspicious calm, "because I only gave him £10."
"Indeed!" shouted Mrs. Norris and turned red. "At my word, he must have left with well-lined bags and at no cost for his trip to London!"
"Sir Thomas told me that 10 pounds would be enough."
Mrs. Norris, who was not at all inclined to question her sufficiency, began to deal with the matter on another point.
"It's amazing," she said, "how much young people cost their friends, what they educate and bring into the world! They think little about how much it costs or what their parents or their uncles and aunts pay for them throughout the year. Well, here are my sister Price's children; Take them all together, I dare say no one would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, not to mention what I do for them."
"Very true, sister, as you say. But, the poor! they can't help it; and you know it makes little difference to Sir Thomas. Esther, William must not forget my scarf when he goes to the East Indies; and I give him an assignment for everything else worth having. I wish he could go to The East Indies so I could have my scarf. I think I'll have two scarves, Esther."
Esther, meanwhile, who only spoke when she couldn't help it, tried very seriously to understand what Mr. and Miss Dorset were up to. Everything in the world spoke against them being serious, except for his words and his demeanor. Everything natural, probable, reasonable was against it; all their habits and ways of thinking and all their own mistakes. How could she have aroused serious affection in a man who had seen so many and had been admired by so many, and who had flirted infinitely with so many of her superiors; who seemed so unobtrusive to serious impressions, even where efforts had been made to please him; who thought so recklessly, so carelessly, so insensitively about all these points; who was everything for everyone and didn't seem to find anyone who was important to him? And furthermore, how could one assume that his sister, with all her high and worldly ideas of marriage, would pass on anything serious in such a neighborhood? Nothing could be more unnatural. Esther was ashamed of her own doubts. Anything could be possible, rather than serious attachment or serious approval of it. She was quite convinced of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Dorset joined them. The difficulty was to maintain the conviction quite so absolutely after Mr. Dorset was in the room; for once or twice a gaze seemed imposed on her, which she did not know how to classify in the common meaning; with any other man, she would at least have said that it meant something very serious, very pointed. But she still tried not to believe it more than what he would have often said to her cousins and fifty other women.
She thought he wanted to talk to her without being heard by the others. She imagined that he would try all evening, at intervals when Sir Thomas was not in the room or even dealing with Mrs. Norris, and she carefully declined every opportunity.
Finally—esther's nervousness seemed finite, though not remarkably late—he began to talk about leaving; but the comfort of the sound was diminished by the fact that the next moment he turned to her and said, "Do you have nothing to send Mary? No answer to your note? She will be disappointed if she doesn't receive anything from you. Please write to her if it's just one line."
"Oh yes! certainly," Esther exclaimed, rising in a hurry, in the rush of embarrassment and desire to get away – "I will write directly."
Accordingly, she went to the table where she used to write for her aunt and prepared her material without knowing what to say. She had only read Miss Dorset's note once, and it was most depressing to respond to something so imperfect. Quite untrained in such a way of writing notes, she would have had time for scruples and stalks, she would have felt them in abundance: but something must be written immediately; and with only a determined feeling, the desire not to think anything really intended, she wrote the following, to great trembling of both the mind and the hands:
"I am very close to you, my dear Miss Dorset, for your kind congratulations as they relate to my dearest William. The rest of your note, which I know, means nothing; but I am so incapable of anything of the kind that I hope you excuse my request not to pay any further attention to it. I've seen too much of Dorset-san not to understand his manners; if he understood me, he would probably behave differently. I don't know what I'm writing, but it would be a great favor to you to never mention the topic again. With thanks for the honor of your note I remain, dear Miss Dorset, etc., etc."
The conclusion was hardly understandable with growing fear, for she found that Mr. Dorset approached her under the pretext of receiving the news.
"You can't believe I want to hurry you," he said in a low voice, noticing the amazing trepidation with which she wrote the note, "You can't believe I have such a goal. Don't hurry, I beg you."
"Oh! Thank you; I'm all done, just done; it will be ready in a moment; I am very attached to you; if you were kind enough to give that to Miss Dorset."
The note has been held up and must be taken; and when she immediately went to the fireplace where the others were sitting, with her eyes turned away, he had no choice but to leave seriously.
Esther thought she had never experienced a day of greater excitement, both of pain and pleasure; but fortunately, pleasure was not of the kind of dying with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's progress, while the pain, she hoped, would not return. She had no doubt that her note had to appear excessively poorly written, that the language would shame a child because her distress had not allowed an order; but at least it would assure both of them that she would not be forced or satisfied by Mr. Dorset's attentions.
Chapter 169
When the ladies returned to the salon after dinner, Emma found it hardly possible to prevent them from hosting two different parties; – with so much perseverance, to judge badly and to behave badly, Mrs. Alton captivated Jane Saxon and insulted herself. She and Mrs. Winstone were almost always forced to talk to each other or remain silent. Mrs. Alton left them no choice. If Jane oppressed her for a little time, she soon started again; and although much went on between them in a half-whisper, especially on Mrs. Alton's side, one could not help knowing their main themes: the post office – catching a cold – getting letters – and friendship were the subject of discussion for a long time; and they were followed by one that must be at least as uncomfortable for Jane – asking if she had heard of a situation that might seem suitable to her,
"April has come here!" she said, "I'm very worried about you. June will be here soon."
"But I never set on June or any other month – I was just looking forward to summer in general."
"But have you really heard of nothing?"
"I didn't even ask; I don't want to do one yet."
"Oh! My dear, we cannot start too early; They are not aware of the difficulty of procuring exactly what is desirable."
"I don't know!" said Jane, shaking her head; "Dear Mrs. Alton, who could have thought it like me?"
"But you haven't seen as much of the world as I have. You don't know how many candidates there are always for the first few situations. I've seen a lot of that in the neighborhood around Maple Grove. A cousin of Mr. Suckling, Mrs. Bragge, had so many applications; Everyone wanted to be in her family, because she moves in the first circle. Wax candles in the classroom! You can imagine how desirable! Of all the houses in the kingdom, I would love to see you in Mrs. Bragge's house."
"Colonel and Mrs. Campbell should be back in town by midsummer," Jane said. I have to spend some time with them; I'm sure they'll want it; - after that, I will probably be happy to sell myself. But I don't want you to bother to do some research now."
"Trouble! yes, I know your scruples. They are afraid of causing me difficulties; but I assure you, my dear Jane, the Campbells can hardly care more about you than I do. I will write to Mrs. Partridge in a day or two and give her the strict order to look for whatever is suitable."
"Thank you, but I would prefer you not to mention the subject to her; Until the time comes, I don't want to cause physical difficulties for anyone."
"But, my dear child, the time is approaching; here is April, and June, or let's say July, is very close, with such deals to be done in front of us. Your inexperience really amuses me! A situation as you deserve it and your friends would demand for you is not an everyday event, is not achieved from one moment to the next; in fact, in fact, we have to start asking right away."
"Excuse me, Ma'am, but that is by no means my intention; I don't do any research myself and should regret it when my friends hire one. If I am determined in terms of time, I am not at all afraid of being unemployed for a long time. There are places in the city, offices where research would soon produce something – offices for sales – not entirely of human flesh – but of human intellect."
"Oh! my dear human flesh! They shock me quite a bit; if you mean an affair with the slave trade, I assure you, Mr. Suckling has always been more of a friend of abolition."
"I didn't mean, I didn't think about the slave trade," Jane replied; "Government trade, I assure you, was all I had in mind; very different certainly with regard to the guilt of those who continue it; but as far as the greater misery of the victims is concerned, I do not know where it lies. But I just want to say that there are advertising offices, and that if I apply there, I'm sure I'll find something suitable very soon."
"Something that would be enough!" ms. Alton repeated. "Yes, that may correspond to your humble ideas about yourself; – I know what a humble creature you are; but it will not satisfy your friends if you deal with anything that might present itself, with a subordinate, everyday situation, in a family that does not move in a certain circle or is able to master the elegance of life."
"They are very accommodating; but I am very indifferent to all this; I wouldn't mind being with the rich; my humiliation, I think, would only be all the greater; I should suffer more from the comparison. A gentleman's family is all I should condition."
"I know you, I know you; you would deal with everything; but I'll be a little nicer, and I'm sure the good Campbells will be entirely on my side; With your superior talents, you have the right to move in the first circle. Your musical knowledge alone would entitle you to name your own terms, to have as many rooms as you want, and to mix as much into the family as you like; – that is – I don't know – if you could do the harp, you could do all that, I'm very sure; but you sing as well as you play; – yes, I really believe that even without the harp you could determine what you have chosen; – and you must and should be accommodated in front of the Campbells delightfully, honorably and comfortably, or I have some rest.
"You can sum up the joy, honor, and comfort of such a situation," Jane said, "they're pretty much the same; However, I sincerely wish that nothing is being tried for me at the moment. I am extraordinarily attached to you, Mrs. Alton, I am indebted to everyone who feels with me, but I sincerely wish that nothing will be done until the summer. For another two or three months I will stay where I am and how I am."
"And I assure you that I am also very serious," Mrs. Alton replied happily, "by deciding to always be on my guard and instruct my friends to make sure that nothing really unacceptable passes us by."
In this style she continued to run; never thoroughly stopped by anything until Mr. Lodge came into the room; her vanity then had another object, and Emma heard her say to Jane in the same half whisper,
"Here comes this dear old friend of mine, I protest! – Just think of his bravery when he gets away from the other men! – What a dear creature he is – I assure you that I like him extraordinarily. I admire all this quaint, old-fashioned politeness; it is much more to my taste than modern lightness; The modern lightness often disgusts me. But this good old Mr. Lodge, I wish you had heard his gallant speeches to me at dinner. Oh! I assure you, I began to think my caro sposo was absolutely jealous. I think I'm more of a favorite; he noticed my dress. How do you like it? – Selina's choice – pretty, I think, but I don't know if it's not overtrimmed; I have the greatest aversion to the idea of being overtrimmed – quite a horror of plaster. I now have to put on some pieces of jewelry because it is expected of me. A bride, you know, must seem like a bride, but my natural taste is everything for simplicity; A simple style of clothing is so infinitely preferable to plaster. But I'm pretty much in the minority, I think; few people seem to appreciate simplicity of clothing – show and splendor are everything. I have an idea of attaching such a trim as this to my white and silver poplin. Do you think it will look good?"
The whole society was just gathered again in the salon when Mr. Winstone appeared among them. He had returned for a late dinner and walked to Hartfield as soon as it was over. He had been too much awaited by the best judges to be surprised – but the joy was great. Mr. Lodge was almost as happy to see him now as he would have been sorry to see him before. John Hill was only in silent amazement. - That a man who might have spent his evening quietly at home after a business day in London will set off again and walk half a mile to another man's house to be in mixed company until bedtime, end his day with the efforts of courtesy and the noise of the crowd, was a circumstance that affected him deeply. A man who had been on the move since eight in the morning and might have been quiet now, who would have talked and perhaps remained silent for a long time, who would have been in more than one crowd and might have been alone! – Such a man to leave the peace and independence of his own fireplace and on the evening of a cold stormy April day to plunge back into the world! - If he had been able to immediately take back his wife by touching his finger, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong the party rather than dissolve it. John Hill looked at him in amazement, then shrugged his shoulders and said, "I couldn't even have believed him." — If he could have immediately taken his wife back by touching his finger, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong the party rather than dissolve it. John Hill looked at him in amazement, then shrugged his shoulders and said, "I couldn't even have believed him." — If he could have immediately taken his wife back by touching his finger, there would have been a motive; but his coming would probably prolong the party rather than dissolve it. John Hill looked at him in amazement, then shrugged his shoulders and said, "I couldn't even have believed him."
Mr. Winstone, meanwhile, made himself completely clueless in the face of indignation, he was excited, happy and cheerful as usual and with all the right to be the keynote speaker, which gives a day spent somewhere from home to make himself comfortable among the others; and after satisfying his wife's inquiries about his dinner, convincing her that none of her careful instructions to the servants had been forgotten, and spreading the public news he had heard abroad, he went on to a family communication that continued, albeit mainly addressed to Mrs. Winstone, he had not the slightest doubt, that it was highly interesting for everyone in the room. He gave her a letter, it was from Frank and to herself; he had met it in his own way and had allowed himself to open it.
"Read it, read it," he said, "it will bring you joy; just a few lines – you won't need long; Read it to Emma."
The two ladies looked at it together; and he sat there all the time smiling and talking to them, with a slightly muffled but audible voice for all.
"Well, he's coming, you see; good news, I think. Well, what do you say to that? – I always told you he would be back soon, wouldn't he? – Anne, my dear, didn't I always tell you, and you didn't want to believe me? – Next in the city week, you see – at the latest, I dare say; for she is as impatient as the black lord when there is anything to do; most likely, they will be there tomorrow or Saturday. As for their illness, nothing natural. But it's an excellent thing to have Frank among us again, as close as the city. They will stay for a good while when they come, and he will spend half of his time with us. That's exactly what I wanted. Well, pretty good news, isn't it? Have you finished it? Has Emma read everything? Set it up, set it up; we will have a good conversation about it another time, but now it is not enough.
Mrs. Winstone was delighted on this occasion. Their looks and words could not hold them back. She was happy, she knew she was happy and that she should be happy. Their congratulations were warm and open; but Emma couldn't speak so fluently. She was a little busy weighing her own feelings and trying to understand the level of her excitement, which she thought was quite considerable.
However, Mr. Winstone, too eager to be very attentive, too communicative to get others to talk, was very pleased with what she said, and soon left to make the rest of his friends happy by a partial message the whole room must have already been overheard.
It was good that he took everyone's joy for granted, otherwise he might not have found either Mr. Lodge or Mr. Hill particularly pleased. After Mrs. Winstone and Emma, they were the first to be entitled to be made happy; - from them he would have gone to Miss Saxon, but she was so deeply immersed in a conversation with John Hill that it would have been too positive an interruption; and since he was near Mrs. Alton and her attention was distracted, he inevitably began the subject with her.
Chapter 170
After some resistance, Marianne gave in to her sister's requests and agreed to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings for half an hour one morning. However, she made an explicit condition not to pay visits and would only accompany her to Gray's on Sackville Street, where Eleanore negotiated the exchange of some of her mother's old-fashioned jewels.
When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings remembered that there was a lady at the other end of the street to call her; and since she had no business with Gray, it was decided that while her young friends were handling hers, she should pay her visit and pick her up.
As they climbed the stairs, the Miss Hargroves found so many people in front of them in the room that no one was free to take care of their orders; and they had to wait. You could only sit at the end of the counter, which seemed to promise the fastest episode; only one gentleman stood there, and it is likely that Eleanore was not without hope of persuading his courtesy to send him sooner. But the correctness of his eye and the tenderness of his taste exceeded his politeness. He placed orders for a toothpick case for himself, and until the size, shape, and embellishments were determined, all after a quarter of an hour of examination and discussion of each toothpick case in the ?? Finally, Laden were arranged by his own inventive imagination, he had no leisure to pay the two ladies any attention other than what was contained in three or four very wide glances; a kind of note that served to imprint Eleanore's memory of a person and a face, of strong, natural, dignified insignificance, although it was decorated in the first fashion style.
Marianne was spared the annoying feelings of contempt and resentment at this outrageous examination of her facial features and the puppy-like nature of his kind, deciding on all the different horrors of the various toothpick cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of everything; for she was as capable of gathering her thoughts and being as ignorant of what was going on around her in Mr. Gray's shop as she was in her own bedroom.
Finally, the affair was decided. The ivory, gold and pearls all received their place, and the Lord, who had called the last day on which his existence could continue without the possession of the toothpick case, put on his gloves with leisurely care and presented a different view of Miss Hargrove's, but someone who seemed to demand admiration rather than express, left with a happy expression of real arrogance and playful indifference.
Eleanore wasted no time advancing her business, was about to close it when another gentleman appeared at her side. She focused her eyes on his face and, with some surprise, found that he was her brother.
Their affection and joy in meeting was just enough to make a very commendable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Hargrove was really far from regretting seeing his sisters again; rather, it gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries about her mother were respectful and attentive.
Eleanore discovered that he and Esther had been in town for two days.
"I really wanted to visit you yesterday," he said, "but it was impossible because we had to take Harry to see the wild animals in Exeter Exchange, and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Gastonois. Harry was very pleased. This morning I had planned to visit you when I could find maybe half an hour, but you always have so much to do when you first come to the city. I came here to summon a seal to Esther. But tomorrow, I think, I'm sure I'll be able to stop by Berkeley Street and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. As far as I know, she is a woman of great happiness. And also the Mideltowns, you have to introduce me to YOU. As my relatives of my mother-in-law, I will gladly do them all the glory. They are excellent neighbors for you in the countryside, as I understand.
"Indeed excellent. Their attention to our comfort, their kindness in every way, is more than I can express."
"I'm very happy to hear that, at my word, really very happy. But that's how it should be; they are people with great fortune, they are related to you and have all the courtesy and courtesy that can serve to make your situation pleasant one might reasonably expect. And so you have made yourself comfortable in your little house and you lack nothing! Edward brought us an extremely charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, ever, and you all seemed to enjoy it above all. It was a great satisfaction for us to hear it, I assure you.
Eleanore was a little ashamed of her brother; and did not regret that by the arrival of the servant of Mrs. Jennings, who came to tell her that his beloved was waiting for her at the door, he was spared the need to answer him.
Mr. Hargrove accompanied her down the stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeated his hope of visiting her the next day, and said goodbye.
His visit was properly paid. He came with the pretext of wanting to apologize from her sister-in-law because she had not come along; "but she was so busy with her mother that she really didn't have the leisure to go anywhere." However, Mrs. Jennings directly assured him that she should not rely on ceremonies, because they were all cousins?? or something like that, and she should definitely serve Mrs. John Hargrove very soon and bring her sisters to her. His behavior towards them, although calm, was completely friendly; to Mrs Jennings, most attentively polite; and when Colonel Bridgerton came in soon after him, he looked at him with a curiosity that seemed to say that he just wanted to know that he was rich in order to be just as polite to HIM.
After staying with them for half an hour, he asked Eleanore to take him to Conduit Street and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Mideltown. The weather was remarkably beautiful, and she willingly agreed. As soon as they left the house, his investigation began.
"Who is Colonel Bridgerton? Is he lucky?"
"Yes; he has very good property in Dorset'shire."
"I'm happy about it. He seems to be a very gentleman like a man, and I think Eleanore, I can congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable facility in life."
"Me, brother! what do you think?"
"He likes you. I have watched him closely and I am convinced of it. How high is his fortune?"
"I think about two thousand a year."
"Two thousand a year;" and then he increased to enthusiastic generosity, adding, "Eleanore, I wish with all my heart that it was TWICE as much, for your sake."
"In fact, I believe you," Eleanore replied; "but I am very sure that Colonel Bridgerton does not have the slightest desire to marry ME."
it is a kind of thing that" – lowering his voice to an important whisper – "will be extremely welcome to ALL PARTIES." However, reflecting, he added: "That is, I would like to say – your friends are all really worried about seeing you well set up; Esther in particular, because her interest is very close to her heart, I assure you. And her mother, Mrs Gastonois, a very good-natured woman, would certainly give her a lot of joy; that's what she said the other day." a very good-natured woman, I'm sure it would give her great pleasure; that's what she said the other day." a very good-natured woman, I'm sure it would give her great pleasure; that's what she said the other day."
Eleanore would not give an answer.
"It would be something strange now," he continued, "something bizarre if Esther got a brother and I got a sister at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."
"Will Mr. Edward Gastonois marry," Eleanore said with determination?
"It's not really decided, but there's something like that in the excitement. He has an excellent mother. Mrs. Gastonois will come forward with the utmost generosity and settle him with a thousand per year when the match takes place ... The lady is the honourable Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have no doubt that it will take place in time. A thousand a year there is a lot for a mother to give away, to make amends forever, but Mrs. Gastonois has a noble spirit.To give you another example of her generosity: – The other day, when we came to the city, I was aware of this money could not be much with us, she gave Esther banknotes in the amount of two hundred pounds in her hand, and that is extremely acceptable, because we have to live at great cost as long as we are here."
He paused for their approval and sympathy; and she forced herself to say,
"Your spending in town and country must certainly be substantial; but your income is great."
"Not so big, dare I say, how many people assume. However, I do not want to complain; it is undoubtedly convenient, and I hope it will get better over time. The enclosure of Norland Common, which is now being continued, is it And then in this half year I made a small purchase: East Kingham Farm, you have to remember the place where the old Gibson lived, the land was so desirable to me in every way, so immediately adjacent to my own property that I considered it my duty, to buy it. I could not have blamed my conscience for letting it fall into other hands. A man has to pay for his convenience, and it cost me a lot of money."
"More than you think it's really and really worth it."
"Well, I hope not. I could have sold it again the next day, for more than I gave: but in terms of purchase money, I could really have been very unhappy; because the shares were so low at that time that if I had not accidentally had the necessary sum in the hands of my banker, I would have sold at a very large loss.
Eleonore could only smile.
"We also had other big and inevitable expenses when we first came to Norland. Our revered father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained in Norland (and were very valuable) to your mother. Far from me to regret it; he undoubtedly had the right to dispose of his own possessions at will, but as a result we were forced to make large purchases of linen, porcelain, etc. to replace the space for what was taken away. You can imagine how far we must be from being rich after all these expenses and how acceptable mrs Gastonois' kindness is.
"Sure," Eleanore said; "and supported by their generosity, I hope you can still live to be in simple circumstances."
"Another year or two can go a long way," he replied earnestly; "but there is still a lot of work to be done. There is no stone laid from Esther's greenhouse and nothing but the plan of the flower garden is staked out."
"Where should the greenhouse be?"
"On the hill behind the house. The old walnut trees have all been cut down to make room for them. It will be a very beautiful object from many parts of the park, and the flower garden will fall right in front of it and will remain extremely pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that have grown over the forehead in patches."
Eleanore kept her care and reproach to herself; and was very grateful that Marianne was not present to share the provocation.
Now that he had said enough to make his poverty clear and eliminate the need to buy a pair of earrings for each of his sisters, his thoughts took a happier turn on his next visit to Gray, and he began to congratulate Eleanore on having such a girlfriend as Mrs. Jennings.
"She seems to be an extremely valuable woman indeed – her house, her way of life, everything testifies to an extraordinarily good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great benefit to you so far, but can also prove to be materially advantageous in the end. — The fact that she invites you to the city is certainly much in your favor, and it shows such great respect for you that you will most likely not forget after her death.— She must have a lot to leave behind."
"Nothing at all, I would rather assume; for she has only her joints, which will descend to her children."
"But it is inconceivable that she will live up to her income. Few people will do this with ordinary wisdom;
"And don't you think it's more likely that she should leave it to her daughters than to us?"
"Her daughters are both extraordinarily well married, so I can't see the need for her to keep remembering her. While, in my opinion, by paying so much attention to you and treating you in this way, she has given you something kind of claim to her future consideration that a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be friendlier than her behavior, and she can hardly do all this without being aware of the expectation it arouses.
"But it doesn't excite those who are most worried. In fact, brother, your concern for our well-being and prosperity takes you too far."
"Well, of course," he said, and seemed to reflect, "people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Eleanore, what's wrong with Marianne? – she looks very sick, she has lost color and has become quite lean. Is she sick?"
"She's not doing well, she's had a nervous complaint for several weeks."
"I'm sorry. At their age, any kind of disease destroys the flower forever! Yours was very short! She was as pretty a girl as I've ever seen last September, and probably dressed the man too. There was something in their style of beauty to please them in particular. I remember Esther always saying that she would get married sooner and better than you, but not what she loves about YOU, but that's how it happened to her. However, she will be wrong. I wonder if Marianne will marry a man worth more than five or at most six hundred a year NOW, and I'm very deceived if YOU don't do better. Dorset." I know very little about Dorset'shire, but, my dear Eleanore, I will be extremely happy to hear more about it, and I think I can answer that you count Esther and me among the earliest and happiest of your visitors."
Eleanore tried very seriously to convince him that there was no chance that she would marry Colonel Bridgerton; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure for him to be abandoned, and he was really determined to seek intimacy with this Lord and promote marriage through every possible attention. He had just enough remorse because he himself had done nothing for his sisters to be extremely concerned that everyone else should do a lot; and an offer from Colonel Bridgerton or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings was the easiest way to atone for his own negligence.
They were lucky enough to meet Lady Mideltown at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. A plethora of courtesies passed on all sides. Sir John was willing to like anyone, and although Mr. Hargrove didn't seem to know much about horses, he soon portrayed him as a very good-natured guy: while Lady Mideltown saw enough fashion in his exterior to consider his acquaintance worthwhile; and Mr. Hargrove left delighted with both.
"I'm going to have an enchanting story to deliver to Esther," he said as he walked back with his sister. "Lady Mideltown is truly an extremely elegant woman! Such a woman, as Esther will surely be glad to know. And so did Mrs. Jennings, an extremely well-behaved woman, though not as elegant as her daughter. Your sister doesn't even have to have scruples about visiting YOU, which, to tell the truth, was a little bit the case and very natural, because we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man who had earned all his money in a low way; and Esther and Mrs. Gastonois were both strongly convinced that neither she nor her daughters were such women with whom Esther would like to have dealings. But now I can give her a most satisfying account of both."
Chapter 171
It was the second week of May when the three young ladies walked together from Gracechurch Street to the city. in Hertfordshire; and as they approached the fixed inn, where Mr. Mitchell's car was to meet them, they quickly perceived, as a sign of the coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Linda looking out of a dining room upstairs. These two girls had been in the restaurant for over an hour, happily busy visiting an opposite hatter, watching the guard post and preparing a salad and cucumber.
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set with meat as cold as a pantry usually provides, exclaiming, "Isn't that nice? Isn't that a pleasant surprise?'
"And we want to spoil you all," Linda added, "but you have to lend us the money because we just spent ours in the store out there." Then she showed her her purchases: "Look, I bought this hood. I don't think it's very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it or not. I'll tear it to pieces as soon as I get home and see if I can do better."
And when her sisters called it ugly, she added, completely carefree, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier ones in the store; and if I bought something nicer colored satin to garnish it with fresh, I think it will be very bearable. Besides, it won't say much about wearing this summer after leaving the county of Meryton and leaving in fourteen days."
'Are they real!' elizabeth shouted with the greatest satisfaction.
"They will be stored near Brighton; and I want so much for Dad to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and dare I say it would hardly cost anything. Mom wants to go with her, of all people! Just think what a miserable summer we're going to have!'
"Yes," Elizabeth thought, "that would indeed be a delightful plan and would immediately satisfy us completely. Good heavens! Brighton and a whole camp full of soldiers for us who have already been overwhelmed by a poor militia regiment and the monthly balls of Meryton!"
"Now I have news for you," Linda said as they sat down at the table. What do you think? It's excellent news – capital news – and about a specific person we all like!'
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he didn't need to stay. Linda laughed and said
,
"Yes, that's just like your formality and discretion. They thought the waiter wasn't allowed to hear as if he cared! I dare say that he often hears worse than I will say. But he's an ugly guy! I'm glad he's gone. I have never seen such a long chin in my life. Well, but now to my news; it's about the dear Waterhouse; too good for the waiter, isn't it? There is no danger of Waterhouse marrying Mary King. There is for you! She went to her uncle in Liverpool: went to stay. Waterhouse is safe."
'And Mary King is safe!' Elizabeth added; 'safe from a careless connection regarding happiness.'
'She's a big fool when she goes away, when she liked him.'
"But I hope there's no strong bond on either side," Jane said.
"I'm sure it's not on his. I'll stand up for that, he never took care of three straws around her - who could talk about such a disgusting little freckled thing?'
Elizabeth was shocked when she thought that the rudeness of the FEELING, as incapable as she herself was of such crude EXPRESSION, was little more than to house her own chest and imagine herself freely!
As soon as everyone had eaten and the elderly had paid, the car was ordered; and after some inventions, the whole society sat in it with all its boxes, work bags and packages and the unwelcome additions of Kitty and Linda's purchases.
"How beautifully we are all crammed together," Linda exclaimed. "I'm glad I bought my bonnet, if only for fun, to have another bandbox! Well, now let's be quite comfortable and cozy and talk and laugh all the way home. And first, let's hear what has happened to all of you since you left. Have you seen nice men? Did you have a flirtation? I had high hopes that one of you would get a husband before you came back. Jane will soon be a pretty old maiden, I explain. She is almost twenty-three! Lord, how can I be ashamed not to be married before twenty-three! My Aunt Phillips wants you to get a man, you can't imagine that. She says Lizzy should have taken Mr. Collins with her; but I don't think it would have been fun. Lord! how I would like to marry in front of one of you; and then I would accompany you to all the balls. Love me! we had so much fun with Colonel Forster the other day. Kitty and I were supposed to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to dance a little in the evening; (By the way, Mrs. Forster and I are SUCH friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was sick, and so Pen had to come alone; and then, what do you think we've done? We intentionally dressed Chamberlayne in women's clothes to pass as a lady, just think what fun! No one knew about it, except Colonel and Mrs. Forster and Kitty and me, except my aunt, because we were forced to borrow one of her clothes; and you can't imagine how good he looked! When Denny and Waterhouse and Pratt and two or three other men came in, they didn't know him in the slightest. Lord! how I laughed! and Mrs. Forster too. I thought I should have died. And THAT made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was going on.'
With such stories about her parties and good jokes, Linda, supported by Kitty's hints and additions, tried to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as possible, but she couldn't escape the frequent mention of Waterhouse's name.
Her reception at home was very friendly. Mrs. Mitchell was pleased to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner, Mr. Mitchell voluntarily said to Elizabeth
,
"I'm glad you came back, Lizzy."
Their party in the dining room was big, because almost all Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and several were the topics that concerned her: Lady Lucas asked Maria about the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Mitchell was doubly busy, on the one hand she collected a report on the current fashion of Jane, who sat a little further below her, and on the other hand she passed them all on to the younger Lucases; and Linda enumerated the various joys of the morning with a voice that was a little louder than that of any other person, anyone who wanted to hear her.
'Oh! Mary," she said, "I wish you had gone with us because we had so much fun! As we drove on, Kitty and I pulled up the blinds and pretended there was no one in the carriage; and I would have gone all the way if Kitty hadn't been sick; and when we arrived at the George, I think we behaved very decently, because we hosted the other three with the nicest cold lunch in the world, and if you had left, we would have hosted you too. And when we got away, it was so much fun! I thought we should never have gotten in the carriage. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so happy the whole way home! we talked and laughed so loudly that anyone could have heard us ten miles away!'
Mary replied very seriously: "It is far from me, my dear sister, to belittle such joys! They would undoubtedly coincide with the generality of the female mind. But I confess they have no appeal to ME – I would prefer a book infinitely.'
But Linda didn't hear a word of that answer. She didn't listen to anyone for more than half a minute and didn't care about Mary at all.
In the afternoon, Linda urgently had to go to Meryton with the other girls and see how everyone was doing; but Elizabeth steadfastly opposed the plan. It should not be said that the Miss Mitchells could not be home for half a day before pursuing the officers. There was another reason for their resistance. She was afraid to see Mr. Waterhouse again and was determined to avoid it for as long as possible. The consolation for YOU over the imminent withdrawal of the regiment was indeed indescribable. In fourteen days they were to leave – and once they were gone, she hoped that nothing could torment her for his sake.
She hadn't been home for many hours when she realized that the Brighton plan Linda had given them a hint about at the inn was often discussed between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had no intention of giving in; but his answers were at the same time so vague and ambiguous that her mother, although often discouraged, had never doubted that she would finally succeed.
Chapter 172
Esther had by no means forgotten Mr. Dorset when she woke up the next morning; but she remembered the content of her note and was no less optimistic about its impact than she had been the night before. If only Mr. Dorset were to leave! That was her greatest wish: Go and take his sister with him as he should and as he intentionally returned to Mansfield. And why it hadn't already happened, she couldn't imagine, because Miss Dorset certainly didn't want a delay. Esther had hoped to hear the name of the day during his visit yesterday; but he had only spoken of their journey as what would take place shortly.
After clarifying so satisfactorily the belief that her note would convey, she must be amazed to see Mr. Dorset, as she happened to do, come back to the house an hour early as the day before. His coming may have nothing to do with her, but she must avoid seeing him if possible; and then when she was on her way up, she decided to stay there throughout his visit, unless he would really ask for him; and since Mrs. Norris was still in the house, there seemed to be little danger that she was wanted.
She sat there for some time in quite a commotion, listening, trembling and fearing at any moment to be sent; but when no steps approached the east room, she gradually calmed down, was able to sit down and keep busy, hoping that Mr. Dorset had come and would leave without needing to know anything about it.
Almost half an hour had passed, and she felt very comfortable when suddenly the sound of a footbridge could be heard in regular approach; a difficult step, an unusual step in this part of the house: it was that of her uncle; she knew it as well as his voice; she had trembled many times before and began to tremble again at the idea that he was coming to her to talk to her, whatever the subject might be. It was indeed Sir Thomas who opened the door and asked if she was there and if he could come in. The horror of his previous occasional visits to this room seemed to be completely renewed, and she felt like he was re-examining her in French and English.
However, she was anxious to give him a chair and try to appear honored; and had completely overlooked in her excitement the shortcomings of her apartment, until when he entered, he abruptly stopped and said very surprised, "Why don't you have a fire today?"
There was snow on the ground, and she was sitting in a scarf. She hesitated.
"I am not cold, sir: at this time of year I never sit here for long."
"But you have a fire in general?"
"No sir."
"How does this come about? There must be an error here. I understood that you could use this room to make yourself completely comfortable. I know you can't make a fire in your bedroom. There is a big misunderstanding here that needs to be corrected. It is highly unsuitable for you to sit without fire, even if only half an hour a day. You are not strong. You're cool. Your aunt can't be aware of that."
Esther would have preferred to remain silent; but since she had to speak, she could not abstain, for the sake of the aunt she loved most, to say something in which the words "my Aunt Norris" were distinguishable.
"I understand," exclaimed her uncle, reflecting and no longer wanting to hear: "I understand. Her aunt Norris has always and very carefully worked to ensure that young people are brought up without unnecessary leniency; but it should be moderation in all. She is also very robust herself, which of course will influence her opinion about the needs of others. And I can fully understand that in other respects as well. I know what their feelings have always been. The principle itself was good, but maybe in your case it was taken too far, and I think it was. I am aware that sometimes an inappropriate distinction has been made on some points; but I think too well of you, Esther, to assume that you will ever hold a grudge about it. You have an understanding that prevents you from receiving things only partially and partially judging by the event. You will absorb the whole past, you will consider times, people and probabilities, and you will feel that they were not least your friends who raised and prepared you for that mediocrity of conditions that seemed to be your lot. Although her caution may eventually prove unnecessary, she was meant to be kind; and you can be sure that any benefit of prosperity will be doubled by the small privations and restrictions that may have been imposed. I am sure you will not disappoint my opinion of you by refraining from treating your Aunt Norris at any time with the respect and attention she deserves. But enough of that. Sit down, my dear. I have to talk to you for a few minutes,
Esther obeyed with dejected eyes and rising color. After a short pause, Sir Thomas continued, trying to suppress a smile.
"You may not know that I had a visit this morning. I hadn't been in my own room long after breakfast when Mr Dorset was introduced in.
Esther's color became deeper and deeper; and her uncle, who noticed that she was so embarrassed that it was impossible to speak or look up, turned his own eyes away and continued without further pause with his account of Mr. Dorset's visit.
Mr. Dorset's task had been to declare himself Esther's lover, to make decisive motions for her, and to ask for the consent of the uncle who seemed to stand in the place of her parents; and he had done everything so well, so openly, so generously, so correctly, that Sir Thomas, who, moreover, felt that his own answers and his own remarks were very much in keeping with the purpose, was exceedingly happy to give the details of their conversation; and little aware of what was going on in his niece's opinion, imagined that he had to satisfy her with such details far more than himself. He therefore spoke for several minutes without Esther daring to interrupt him. She had hardly felt the desire to do so. Her mind was too confused. It had changed its position; and, her eyes fixed on one of the windows, listened to her uncle in utter dismay and dismay. He paused for a moment, but she had barely realized it when he rose from his chair and said, "And now, Esther, having carried out part of my assignment and showing you everything on a most secure basis and satisfying, I can do the rest by persuading you to accompany me downstairs, where, although I have to assume that I have not been an unacceptable companion myself, I have to submit that you will find one who is still worth listening to. Mr. Dorset, as you may have anticipated, is still in the house. He's in my room hoping to see you there." Having carried out part of my assignment and shown you everything on a highly secure and satisfactory basis, I can do the rest by persuading you to accompany me downwards, where I cannot help but assume that I have not been an unacceptable companion myself, I must submit that you will find an even more audible one. Mr. Dorset, as you may have anticipated, is still in the house. He's in my room hoping to see you there." Having carried out part of my assignment and shown you everything on a highly secure and satisfactory basis, I can do the rest by persuading you to accompany me downwards, where I cannot help but assume that I have not been an unacceptable companion myself, I must submit that you will find an even more audible one. Mr. Dorset, as you may have anticipated, is still in the house. He's in my room hoping to see you there."
There was a look, a horror, an exclamation when he heard what astonished Sir Thomas; but how astonished he was when he heard her exclaim, "Oh! no, sir, I can't, I really can't go down to him. Mr. Dorset must know – he must know this: I told him enough yesterday to convince him; he talked to me about this issue yesterday, and I told him bluntly that I was very uncomfortable and completely out of my power to return his good opinion."
"I don't understand what you mean," said Sir Thomas and sat down again. Out of power to reciprocate his good opinion? What is all this? I know that he spoke to you yesterday and (as far as I know) received as much encouragement to continue as a well-judgmental young woman can afford. I was very pleased with what I collected as your behaviour on this occasion; it showed a very commendable discretion. But now that he has made his advances so neat and honorable, what are your scruples now?"
"You're wrong, sir," cried Esther, who was forced by the anxiety of the moment to even tell her uncle that he was wrong; " You're pretty wrong. How could Mr. Dorset say such a thing? I did not encourage him yesterday. On the contrary, I told him I can't remember my exact words, but I'm sure I told him that I wouldn't listen to him, that I was very uncomfortable in every way, and that I asked him never to talk to him that way again. I'm sure I've said so much and more; and I should have said more if I had been quite sure that he meant something seriously; but I didn't like it, I couldn't bear to insinuate more than might have been intended. I thought everything would go for free with him."
She couldn't say more; she had almost run out of breath.
"Did I understand it that way," Sir Thomas said after a short silence, "that you want to reject Mr. Dorset?"
"Yes."
"Reject him?"
"Yes."
"Put down Mr. Dorset! On what request? From which ?? Reason?"
"Me – I can't like him well enough, sir, to marry him."
"This is very strange!" said Sir Thomas in a voice of calm displeasure. "There is something that does not reach my understanding. Here is a young man who wants to pay you his addresses, with everything that recommends him: not only life situation, wealth and character, but with above-average friendliness, with address and conversation that everyone likes. And he is not an acquaintance of today; you've known him for a long time now. Plus, his sister is your intimate girlfriend, and he did that for your brother, which I suppose would have been an almost sufficient recommendation for you if there hadn't been another. It is very uncertain when my interest might have piqued William. He has already done it."
"Yes," Esther said in a weak voice, looking down with fresh shame; and she was almost ashamed after her uncle drew a picture because she didn't like Mr. Dorset.
"You must have been aware," Sir Thomas now continued, "you must have been aware of a peculiarity in Mr. Dorset's behavior towards you for some time. That can't have surprised you. You must have watched his attentions; and although you have always recorded them very neatly (I can't blame you for that), I have never found them unpleasant for you. I'm half inclined to believe, Esther, that you don't know your own feelings exactly."
"Oh yes, Lord! I actually do. His attention was always on what I didn't like."
Sir Thomas looked at her with deep surprise. "This is a mystery to me," he said. "This needs to be explained. As young as you are and have hardly seen anyone, it is hardly possible that your affection ...«
He stopped and looked at her tightly. He saw her lips shaped into a no, even though the tone was inarticulate, but her face was like scarlet. But with such a humble girl, this may well be compatible with innocence; and decided to at least appear satisfied, he quickly added: "No, no, I know that's out of the question; quite impossible. Well, that's all there is to say."
And for a few minutes he said nothing. He was deep in thought. His niece was also deeply immersed in thought, trying to harden and prepare for further questions. She would rather die than admit the truth; and she hoped to strengthen herself with a little thought beyond that, to betray it.
"Regardless of the interest that seemed to justify Mr. Dorset's choice," said Sir Thomas, starting anew, and very calmly, "his desire to get married so early in the first place is a recommendation for me. I am an advocate of early marriages where the means are adequate, and I want any young man with a sufficient income to settle down as soon as possible after twenty-four. This is my opinion so much that I am sorry to think about how unlikely it is that my own eldest son, your cousin, Mr. Schmidt, will marry early; but at the moment, as far as I can tell, marriage plays no role in his plans or thoughts. I wish he would fix it sooner." Here was a look at Esther. "Because of his predispositions and habits, I think Edmund is much more likely to marry early than his brother. In fact, I think lately, he has seen the woman he might love, who, I am convinced, my eldest son has not. Am I right? Do you agree with me, my dear?"
"Yes."
It was gentle, but it was said calmly, and Sir Thomas easily went to the points of the cousins?? one. But the removal of his alarm did his niece no service: when she was inexplicably confirmed, his displeasure grew; and when he got up and walked around the room with a frown that Esther could imagine, even though she did not dare to raise her eyes, he said shortly afterwards in an authoritarian voice, "Do you have any reason, child, you think badly of Mr. Dorset's temperament?"
"No sir."
She longed to add, "But of his principles I have"; but her heart sank in the face of the appalling prospect of discussion, explanation, and probably non-persuasion. Her bad opinion of him was based mainly on observations that she could hardly dare to mention to her father for the sake of her cousins. Maria and Juliet, and especially Maria, were so closely involved in Mr. Dorset's misconduct that she couldn't portray his character the way she thought she could without betraying her. She had hoped that for a man like her uncle, who was so astute, so honorable, and so good, the simple admission of firm dislike on her side would have been enough. To her infinite sorrow, she realized that this was not the case.
Sir Thomas came to the table where she sat in trembling misery and said with a good dose of cold austerity: "There is no point in me talking to you. We had better put an end to this most humiliating conference. Mr. Dorset must not be left to wait any longer. I would therefore just like to add, since I consider it my duty to appreciate my opinion on your behaviour, that you have disappointed any expectation I had made and have proven to be a character who was exactly the opposite of what I had assumed. Because I, Esther, I think my behaviour must have shown it, since my return to England, I had formed a very positive opinion of you. I had considered you to be particularly free from idiosyncrasy, self-conceit and any inclination towards that independence of the mind that is so prevalent even among young women in modern days, and which is offensive and disgusting in young women beyond all the usual insults. But you have now shown me that you can be stubborn and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself, without consideration or reverence for those who certainly have some right to guide you without even seeking their advice. You showed yourself very, very differently than anything I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, your parents, your brothers and sisters does not seem to have been a moment in your thoughts on this occasion. How they could benefit from it, how they have to be happy about such a facility for you, is none of your business. You only think of yourself, and because you don't feel exactly what a young heated fantasy thinks is necessary for happiness, you decide to reject him immediately, without wanting even a little time to think, a little more time for cool reflection and real examination of your own inclinations; and in a wild fit of folly, throw away such an opportunity to cope in life, entitled, honorable, noble, as you probably never will again. Here is a young man of intellect, character, temperament, manners and fortune, who is extraordinarily attached to you and seeks your hand in the most handsome and altruistic way; and let me tell you, Esther, that you can live eighteen years longer in the world without being approached by a man who owns half of Mr. Dorset's fortune or a tenth of his earnings. I would have liked to have given him one of my own daughters. Mary is nobly married; but if Mr. Dorset had sought Julia's hand, I should have given it to him with superior and more sincere satisfaction than I gave Mary's Mr. Rushmore." After half a break: "And I should have been very surprised if at any time one of my daughters had received a marriage proposal that could bring only half the entitlement, immediately and necessarily and without paying my opinion or, in my opinion, the compliment of a consultation, deny it decisively. I should have been very surprised and hurt by such an approach. I should have considered it a gross violation of duty and respect. You should not be judged by the same rule. You don't owe me the duty of a child. But, Esther, if your heart can absolve you of your ingratitude..." "And I would have been very surprised if one of my daughters had received a marriage proposal at any time, which possibly entails only half of the eligibility of it, immediately and decisively, and without complimenting my opinion or my respect on any advice, deny it decisively. I should have been very surprised and hurt by such an approach. I should have considered it a gross violation of duty and respect. You should not be judged by the same rule. You don't owe me the duty of a child. But, Esther, if your heart can absolve you of your ingratitude..." "And I would have been very surprised if one of my daughters had received a marriage proposal at any time, which possibly entails only half of the eligibility of it, immediately and decisively, and without complimenting my opinion or my respect on any advice, deny it decisively. I should have been very surprised and hurt by such an approach. I should have considered it a gross violation of duty and respect. You should not be judged by the same rule. You don't owe me the duty of a child. But, Esther, if your heart can absolve you of your ingratitude..." and without paying the compliment of a consultation to my opinion or my respect, put a firm denial on it. I should have been very surprised and hurt by such an approach. I should have considered it a gross violation of duty and respect. You should not be judged by the same rule. You don't owe me the duty of a child. But, Esther, if your heart can absolve you of your ingratitude..." and without paying the compliment of a consultation to my opinion or my respect, put a firm denial on it. I should have been very surprised and hurt by such an approach. I should have considered it a gross violation of duty and respect. You should not be judged by the same rule. You don't owe me the duty of a child. But, Esther, if your heart can absolve you of your ingratitude...«
He stopped. Esther was crying so bitterly at the time that, angry as he was, he didn't want to elaborate on this article. Her heart almost broke from such an image of what she appeared to him; by such accusations, so heavy, so multiplied, so rising in terrible gradation! Stubborn, stubborn, selfish and ungrateful. He thought all this to her. She had deceived his expectations; she had lost his good opinion. What was to become of it?
"I'm very sorry," she said inarticulately through her tears, "I'm really very sorry."
"We're sorry! yes, I hope you're sorry; and you will probably have reason to regret the business of that day for a long time."
"If it were possible for me to do things differently," she said with another strong effort; "but I am so firmly convinced that I could never make him happy and that I would be unhappy myself."
Another burst of tears; but despite this outburst, and despite the big black word miserable that served to initiate it, Sir Thomas began to think that a little yielding, a small change in inclination might have something to do with it; and to prophesy positively from the personal request of the young man himself. He knew her as very shy and extraordinarily nervous; and considered it not unlikely that her mind could be in such a state that a little time, a little urging, a little patience and a little impatience, a reasonable mixture of everything on the side of the lover, could unfold its usual effect. If only the gentleman would persevere, if only he had enough love to persevere, Sir Thomas began to have hopes; and these reflections that had passed through his spirit and cheered him up, "Well," he said in a tone that became serious, but of less anger, "Well, child, dry your tears. These tears have no purpose; they can't do anything good. You have to come down with me now. Mr. Dorset has had to wait too long. You have to give him your own answer: we can't expect him to settle for less; and you can only explain to him the reasons for this misconception of your feelings, which he, unfortunately for himself, has certainly absorbed in himself. I'm completely incapable of that."
But Esther showed such reluctance, such misery at the thought of going down to him, that Sir Thomas, after a little thought, thought it better to give in to her. His hopes of both Mr. and Mrs. suffered a little depression as a result; but when he looked at his niece and saw the state of facial features and complexion into which crying had brought her, he thought that through immediate questioning as much could be lost as gained. With a few words without any special meaning, he walked away alone and let his poor niece sit and cry about what had happened, with very miserable feelings.
Her mind was completely confused. Past, present, future, everything was terrible. But her uncle's anger caused her the worst pain of all. Selfish and ungrateful! To have appeared to him like that! She was unhappy forever. She had no one to take care of her, advise her, or speak for her. Her only friend was missing. He might have been able to soften his father; but everyone, perhaps all, would consider them selfish and ungrateful. Perhaps she has to endure the accusation again and again; she might hear or see it or know that it exists forever in every relationship around her. She couldn't help but feel some resentment against Mr. Dorset; but if he really loved her and was also unhappy! It was all misery together.
After about a quarter of an hour, her uncle returned; she was almost ready to faint at the sight of him. However, he spoke calmly, without rigor, without reproach, and she revived a little. There was comfort in his words as well as in his way, because he began with: "Mr. Dorset is gone: he has just left me. I don't need to repeat the past. I don't want to add anything to what you may be feeling now by telling what he felt. It is enough that he behaved in the noblest and most generous manner and confirmed me in an extremely favorable opinion of his mind, heart and temperament. When I introduced him to what you were suffering, he immediately and with the greatest delicacy stopped seeing you for the time being."
Here Esther, who had looked up, looked down again. "Of course," her uncle continued, "it can't be other than that he asks to talk to you alone, even if only for five minutes; a request too natural, a demand too simple to be rejected. But there is no set time; maybe tomorrow, or whenever your mind is set enough. For now, all you need to do is calm down. Check these tears; they only exhaust you. If, as I am willing to assume, you want to pay any attention to me, you will not give in to these emotions, but will strive to put yourself in a stronger state of mind. I advise you to go out: the air will do you good; go on the gravel for an hour; You will have the bushes to yourself and have better air and exercise. And, Esther" (turns around again briefly), "I will not mention below what happened; I won't even tell your Aunt Schmidt. There is no reason to spread the disappointment; Don't say anything about it yourself."
This was an order that was followed with the utmost joy; this was an act of kindness that Esther felt in her heart. To be spared from the endless accusations of her aunt Norris! he left her in a splendor of gratitude. Anything could be more bearable than such accusations. Even seeing Mr. Dorset would be less overwhelming.
She went straight out, as her uncle had recommended, and followed his advice as much as she could; checked her tears; made a serious effort to capture her mood and strengthen her mind. She wanted to prove to him that she wanted his comfort and tried to regain his favor; and he had given her another strong motive for effort, saving the whole matter from the knowledge of her aunts. Not arousing suspicion by their appearance or behavior was now a desirable goal; and she felt up to almost anything that could save her from her Aunt Norris.
She was stunned, stunned, when she came back from her walk and went back to the east room, the first thing she noticed was a fire that was lit and burning. A fire! it seemed too much; it was precisely at this time that it was an exciting, even painful gratitude to grant her such forbearance. She wondered if Sir Thomas could have leisure to think of such a trifle again; but she soon found through the voluntary information of the maid who came in to attend her that it should be like this every day. Sir Thomas had ordered it.
"I really have to be an animal if I can be really ungrateful!" she said in the monologue. "Heaven protect me from being ungrateful!"
She didn't see anything more of her uncle and aunt Norris until they met over dinner. Her uncle's behavior towards her was then as close as possible to what it had been before; she was sure that he did not mean that there should be a change, and that it was only her own conscience that could imagine something; but her aunt soon quarreled with her; and when she realized how much and how unpleasant it could be that she had left without her aunt's knowledge, she felt all the reason she had to bless the kindness that saved her from the same spirit of reproach exercised on a more important subject.
"If I had known you were going out, I should have gotten you to go all the way to my house with some orders for nanny," she said, "which I've had to do ever since, to my very great inconvenience, carry me. I could very badly spare the time, and you might have saved me the trouble if only you had been kind enough to tell us that you were going out. I suppose you wouldn't have cared if you had walked through the bushes or gone to my home."
"I recommended Esther the bushes as the driest place," Sir Thomas said.
"Oh!" said Mrs. Norris with a quick glance, "that was very kind of you, Sir Thomas; but you don't know how dry the road to my house is. Esther would have gone for a walk there just as well, I assure you, with the advantage of benefiting her and accommodating her aunt: it's all her fault. If only she had told us that she was going out, but Esther has something about her, I've seen many times – she likes to go her own way to work; it does not like to be dictated; whenever she can, she goes for her own independent walk; She certainly has a little secrecy and independence and nonsense about her, which I would advise her to get rid of it."
As a general reflection on Esther, Sir Thomas thought that nothing could be more unjust, although he himself had expressed the same feelings lately, and he tried to turn the conversation around: tried it repeatedly before succeeding; for Mrs. Norris had no discernment, now or at any other time, sufficient judgment to see to what extent he found his niece good, or how far he was far from wanting to outweigh the merits of his own children by belittling their children. She approached Esther and was annoyed by this private walk half of dinner.
However, it was finally over; and the evening began for Esther more serene and cheerful than she could have hoped after such a stormy morning; but she trusted first and foremost that she had done the right thing: that her judgment had not misled her. For the purity of her intentions, she could answer; and she was willing to hope, second, that her uncle's displeasure would subside and diminish even further if he looked at the matter with greater impartiality and felt how a good man must feel, how miserable and how unforgivable, how hopeless and how bad it was to marry without affection.
When the meeting she was threatened with for tomorrow was over, she couldn't help but be flattered that the issue would finally be settled, and Dorset-san, once he left Mansfield, that everything would soon be as if such a topic had not existed. She wanted, could not believe, that Mr. Dorset's affection for her could torment him for a long time; his mind was not of this kind. London would soon bring its remedy. In London, he would soon learn to wonder about his infatuation and be grateful for the right reason in her that had saved him from his evil consequences.
While Esther was busy with such hopes, her uncle was called out of the room shortly after tea; an incident that is too commonplace to impress her, and she thought nothing of it until the butler reappeared ten minutes later and came up decisively and said, "Sir Thomas wants to talk to you in his own room, Ma'am." Then she remembered what might be going on; a suspicion came over her, which drove the color from her cheeks; but she immediately got up and was about to obey when Mrs. Norris shouted, "Stay, stay, Esther! what are you all about? Where are you going? don't be in such a hurry. Rely on it, you are not the ones who are being sought; Rely on it, it's me" (looks at the butler); "but you're so eager to introduce yourself. What should Sir Thomas want you for? It is I, Baddeley, you mean; I come at this moment. You mean me, Baddeley, I'm sure; Sir Thomas wants me, not Miss Price."
But Baddeley was strong. "No, Ma'am, it's Miss Price; I'm sure it's Miss Price." And there was half a smile at the words, which meant, "I don't think you would even serve the purpose."
Mrs. Norris was very dissatisfied and had to get back to work; and Esther, walking away in agitated consciousness, found herself alone with Mr. Dorset in another minute, as she had expected.
Chapter 173
"I hope I will soon have the pleasure of introducing you to my son," said Mr. Winstone.
Mrs. Alton, very willing to accept that such a hope meant a special compliment to her, smiled most graciously.
"I suppose you've heard of a certain Frank Curcelle," he continued, "and know him as my son, even though he doesn't bear my name."
"Oh! yes, and I will be very happy about his acquaintance. I am sure Mr. Alton will not waste any time visiting him; and we will both be very happy to see him in the rectory."
"They are very accommodating. – Frank will be very happy, I'm sure. – Next week, if not earlier, he should be in town. We found out in a letter today. I met the letters this morning on my way, and when I saw my son's hand, I assumed to open it — although it was not addressed to me — it was to Mrs. Winstone. She is his main correspondent, I assure you. I almost never get a letter."
"And so you absolutely opened what was addressed to them! Oh! Mr. Winstone – (laughing) I have to protest against that. – A highly dangerous precedent indeed! – I beg you not to let your neighbours follow your example. – In my word, if I may expect that, we married women need to start making an effort! – Oh! Mr. Winstone, I wouldn't have believed you!"
"Yes, we men are sad fellows. You have to take care of yourself, Mrs. Alton. – This letter tells us – it's a short letter – written in a hurry just to let us know – it tells us that they are all coming straight to town, on Mrs. Curcelle's report – she hasn't been well all winter and she finds Enscombe too cold for her – so they should all move south without wasting time."
"Indeed! – from Yorkshire, I think. Enscombe is in Yorkshire?"
"Yes, they are about 190 miles from London, a considerable journey."
"Yes, at my word, very substantially. Sixty-five miles further than from Maple Grove to London. But what is distance from people with great fortunes, Mr. Winstone? You'd be amazed to hear my brother, Mr. Suckling, fly around sometimes. You won't believe me – but he and Mr. Bragge went to London and back twice in a week with four horses."
"The evil of Removing Enscombe," Said Mr. Winstone, "is that Mrs. Curcelle, as far as we know, was unable to leave the sofa for a week. In Frank's last letter, she complained, he said, that she was too weak to come to her conservatory without having both his arm and his uncle's! That speaks for a great deal of weakness – but now she is so impatient to be in the city that she only wants to sleep two nights on the road. – So Frank writes. Delicate ladies certainly have a very extraordinary constitution, Mrs. Alton. You have to admit that to me."
"No, indeed, I will not grant you anything. I always take on the role of my own gender. Indeed, I do. I'll let you know – you'll find me a terrible opponent on this point. I always advocate for women – and I assure you that if you knew how Selina feels about sleeping in an inn, you wouldn't be surprised that Mrs. Curcelle goes to incredible lengths to avoid this. Selina says it's quite a horror for her – and I think I've noticed a little bit of her kindness. She always travels with her own bed linen; an excellent precaution. Is Mrs. Curcelle doing the same?"
"Rely on it, Mrs. Curcelle does everything that any other good lady has ever done. Mrs. Curcelle will not be inferior to any lady in the country because" –
Mrs. Alton eagerly interfered,
"Oh! Mr. Winstone, don't confuse me. Selina is not a fine lady, I assure you. Don't run away with such an idea."
"Isn't it? Then she's not a rule for Mrs. Curcelle, who is as thorough, fine a lady as you can imagine."
Mrs. Alton began to believe that she was wrong to deny so heartily. It was by no means her intention to make her believe that her sister was not a fine lady; perhaps there was a lack of spirit in the pretext; – and she thought about the best way to retire as Mr. Winstone continued.
"Woman. Curcelle is not very much in my favor, as you might suspect – but that's all among us. She loves Frank very much, and that's why I wouldn't speak ill of her. In addition, she is no longer healthy; but by its own admission, it has always been. I wouldn't say that to everyone, Mrs. Alton, but I don't have much confidence in Mrs. Curcelle's illness."
"If she's really sick, why not go to Bath, Mr. Winstone? – To Bath or to Clifton?" "She has put it in her head that her Enscombe is too cold. The fact is, I suppose, she's tired of Enscombe. She is now stationed there longer than ever before, and she is beginning to yearn for change. It's a retired place. A nice place but very secluded."
"Aye – like Maple Grove, dare I say. Nothing can stand as secluded from the street as Maple Grove. Such a huge plantation around it! You seem to be excluded from everything – in complete seclusion. And Mrs. Curcelle probably doesn't have the health or courage of Selina to enjoy this kind of seclusion. Or maybe she doesn't have enough resources to qualify for a country life. I always say a woman can't have too many resources – and I'm very grateful that I have so many myself that I'm pretty much independent of society."
"Frank was here for two weeks in February."
"Well, I remember hearing. He will find a growth in the company of Highbury when he returns; that is, if I may presume to call myself an addition. But perhaps he has never heard of such a being in the world."
This was too loud a cry to pass over a compliment, and Mr. Winstone immediately exclaimed with a very good grace,
"My dear wife! No one but yourself could imagine such a thing. Heard nothing from you! I think Mrs. Winstone's letters have been filled with very little other than Mrs. Alton lately."
He had done his duty and was able to return to his son.
"When Frank left us," he continued, "it was quite uncertain when we would see him again, which makes the news of that day doubly welcome. It was completely unexpected. That is, I always had a strong conviction that he would be back here soon, I was sure that something favorable would come up – but no one believed me. He and Mrs. Winstone were both terribly desperate. "How could he come? And how could you assume that his uncle and aunt would spare him again?' and so on – I always had the feeling that something would happen in our favor; and so it is, you see. I've watched throughout my life, Mrs. Alton, that if things go wrong one month, they're sure to improve the next."
"Very true, Mr. Winstone, perfectly true. That's exactly what I said in the days of courting a certain gentleman in company, when, because things weren't going quite right, he didn't go on as fast as he felt, he was in despair, and exclaimed that he was sure it would be May at this pace before Hymen's saffron robe was put on for us. Oh! the efforts I've made to dispel these gloomy ideas and give him happier views! The carriage – we had disappointments about the carriage; – I remember that one morning he came to me in despair."
She was stopped by a mild coughing fit, and Mr. Winstone immediately seized the opportunity to continue.
"You mentioned May. May is exactly the month that Mrs. Curcelle has ordered or ordered herself to spend in a warmer place than Enscombe – in short, to spend in London; so that throughout the spring we have the pleasant prospect of frequent visits by Frank - exactly the season that should have been chosen for this: days almost the longest; The weather is friendly and pleasant, always invites you to go out and is never too hot to exercise. When he was here before, we made the most of it; but it was a lot of wet, humid, desolate weather; it's always February, you know, and we couldn't do half as much as we had planned. Now the time has come. This will be a complete pleasure; and I don't know, Mrs. Alton, whether the uncertainty of our meetings, the constant expectation that he will come today or tomorrow, and at any hour, may not be friendlier to happiness than actually having him in the house. I think it is. I think it's the state of mind that gives the most spirit and joy. I hope you will be satisfied with my son; but you should not expect a child prodigy. He is generally considered to be a fine young man, but don't expect a child prodigy. Mrs. Winstone's fondness for him is very great and, as you can imagine, most gratifying to me. She thinks no one is equal to him." most pleasing to me. She thinks no one is equal to him." most pleasing to me. She thinks no one is equal to him."
"And I assure you, Winstone-san, that I have very little doubt that my opinion will be decidedly in his favor. I've heard so much praise from Mr. Frank Curcelle. - At the same time, it is fair to note that I am one of those who always judge for themselves and are by no means implicitly guided by others. I would like to remind you that if I find your son, I will judge him. – I'm not a flatterer."
Mr. Winstone thought.
"I hope," he finally said, "I did not treat poor Mrs. Curcelle strictly. If she is sick, I would be sorry to do her wrong; but there are some traits in her character that make it hard for me to speak of her with the forbearance I might wish for. You cannot be ignorant, Mrs. Alton, about my connection with the family, nor about the treatment I have received; and among us, all the blame is to be placed on her. She was the instigator. Without her, Frank's mother would never have been so offended. Mr. Curcelle is proud; but his pride is nothing compared to that of his wife: he is a quiet, sluggish, sovereign pride that would harm no one and would only make him a little helpless and tiring; but their pride is pride and impudence! And what you want to endure less, she has no fair claim to family or blood. She was no one when he married her, hardly the daughter of a gentleman; but since she was transformed into a curcelle, she has surpassed them all in high and powerful demands: but in herself, I assure you, she is an upstart.
"Just think! well, that must be infinitely provocative! I have quite a horror of upstarts. Maple Grove disgusted me in front of people of this kind; because there is a family in the neighborhood that annoys my brother and sister as much as they give themselves! Her description of Mrs. Curcelle made me think of her directly. People with the name Tupman, who have only recently settled there and are burdened with many low connections, but give themselves tremendous airs and expect to gain a foothold with the long-established families. A year and a half is the ultimate thing they could have lived in West Hall; and how they came to their fortune, no one knows. You came from Birmingham, where you can't promise much, you know, Mr. Winstone. There are no high hopes for Birmingham. I always say that there is something terrible in the sound: but nothing more precise is known about the Tupmans, although, as I assure you, quite a lot of things are suspected; and yet, according to their behavior, they even believe they are equal to my brother, Mr. Suckling, who happens to be one of their closest neighbors. It is an infinite pity. Mr. Suckling, who has lived in Maple Grove for eleven years and whose father had it before him – at least I think – I am almost certain that old Mr. Suckling completed the purchase before his death."
They were interrupted. Tea was carried around, and Mr. Winstone, after saying everything he wanted, soon took the opportunity to walk away.
After tea, Mr. and Mrs. Winstone and Mr. Alton sat down with Mr. Lodge to play cards. The remaining five were left to their own devices, and Emma doubted that they would get along well; for Mr. Hill seemed little inclined to talk; Mrs. Alton demanded a resignation that no one wanted to pay, and she herself was in a troubled mood that would have made her prefer to remain silent.
Mr. John Hill proved to be more talkative than his brother. He was to leave her early the next day; and he soon started with –
"Well, Emma, ?? I don't think I have anything more to say about the guys; but you have your sister's letter, and there everything is laid down in detail, we can be sure of that. My accusation would be much more concise than theirs and probably not very much in the same sense; everything I have to recommend to be included in it, do not spoil them and do not make them physical.
"I rather hope to satisfy both of you," Emma said, "?" for I will do everything in my power to make her happy, which will be enough for Bella; and happiness must exclude false forbearance and physics."
"And if you find them disturbing, you have to send them back home."
"That's very likely. You think, don't you?"
"I hope I'm aware that they might be too loud for your dad — or even bother you if your visitation commitments continue to increase as much as they've been doing recently."
"Increase!"
'Determined; You have to be aware that the last six months have made a big difference in your way of life."
"Difference! No, I'm really not."
"There is no doubt that you are much more involved with companies than you used to be. Experience exactly this time. Here I just came down for a day, and you're busy with a dinner party! Your neighborhood is growing and you're mixing with it more. Some time ago, every letter to Bella brought an account of fresh cheerfulness; Dinner at Mr. Cole's or balls at the Crown. The difference that Randalls, Randalls alone, makes in your goings-on is very great."
"Yes," his brother quickly said, "it's Randalls who does everything."
"Well, and since Randalls probably won't have less influence than before, I think it's possible, Emma, ?? that Henry and John are sometimes in the way. And if they do, I just ask you to send them home."
"No," shouted Mr. Hill, "that doesn't have to be the result. Have them sent to Donwell. I will certainly have free time."
"At my word," Emma exclaimed, "you amuse me! I would like to know how many of my many appointments take place without your participation; and why I should be in danger of having leisure to take care of the little boys. These amazing engagements of mine – what were they? Once had dinner at the Cole's - and spoke of a ball that never took place. I can understand you – (nods to Mr. John Hill) – your happiness in meeting so many of your friends here at once pleases you too much to go unnoticed. But you (turned to Mr. Hill), who know how much, very rarely I'm ever two hours away from Hartfield, why you should foresee such a series of debauchery for me, I can't imagine. And as for my dear little boys, I have to say, when mom emma doesn't have time for them,
Mr. Hill seemed to try not to smile; and he succeeded without difficulty when Mrs. Alton began to talk to him.
Chapter 174
Mr. and Mrs. Everyone regretted losing their young friend, whose good mood and cheerfulness had made her a valuable companion, and through whose encouragement her own pleasure had been gently enhanced. However, their joy of going with Miss Alsina prevented them from wishing otherwise; and since they themselves were only to stay in Bath for a week, their abandonment would not feel them for long now. Mr. She accompanied allen to Milsom Street, where she was to have breakfast, and saw her sitting with the friendliest welcome among her new friends; but her excitement to feel like a member of the family was so great, and she was so afraid of not doing exactly the right thing and not being able to maintain her good opinion, that in the embarrassment of the first five minutes she could almost have wished to return to Pulteney Street with him.
Miss Alsina's manners and Henry's smile soon repressed some of her unpleasant feelings; but still, she was far from feeling comfortable; nor could the incessant attentions of the general himself completely calm her down. Yes, as perverse as it seemed, she doubted whether she would not have felt less if she had been cared for less. His concern for her comfort – his constant pleas for her to eat, and his oft-expressed fears that she could not see anything to her liking – even though she had never seen such variety on a breakfast table in her life – made it impossible for her to forget for a moment that she was a visitor. She felt completely unworthy of such respect and did not know what to respond to it. Their calmness was not improved by the general's impatience with the appearance of his eldest son, nor by the resentment he expressed about his laziness when Captain Alsina finally came down. She was quite tormented by the harshness of his father's rebuke, which was out of proportion to the insult; and much of her concern was heightened when she found herself the main cause of the lecture, and that his delay was mainly resented by being disrespectful to her. This put her in a very unpleasant situation, and she felt great compassion for Captain Alsina, without being able to hope for his goodwill.
He listened silently to his father and did not try to defend himself, which confirmed her fear that the restlessness of his mind, because of Bellas, could have been the real cause of his late rise by keeping him sleepless for a long time. It was the first time that she was decisively in his company, and she had hoped to be able to form a judgement about him now; but she barely heard his voice while his father remained in the room; and even after that, so much so that his mood was affected, she could understand nothing but these words, in a whisper to Eleanor: "How glad I will be when you are all free."
The hustle and bustle of walking was not pleasant. The clock struck ten while the suitcases were carried down, and the general had set out to leave Milsom Street for that hour. His coat was not put on directly, but spread out in the curriculum in which he was to accompany his son. The middle seat of the chaise longue had not been moved out, although three people could sit in it, and his daughter's maid had overcrowded it with packages so much that Miss Fenmore had no place to sit; and so much was he influenced by this fear when he delivered it that she had some trouble saving her own new desk from being thrown into the street. Finally, however, the door behind the three women was closed, and they set off at the sober pace at which the handsome four horses of a highly fed gentleman usually travel thirty miles: that's how far Northanger was from Bath, which was now to be divided into two equal stages. Catherine's spirits revived as they drove out of the door; for with Miss Alsina she felt no restraint; and with the interest of a road that was completely new to her, an abbey in front of it and a curve behind it, she caught the last look at Bath without remorse and hit every milestone before she had expected it. The fatigue of a two-hour wait in Petty France, where there was nothing to do but eat without being hungry, and loitering without seeing anything, followed next – and their admiration for the style in which they traveled the fashionable chaise longues and four – postillons, nicely liveried, which so regularly rise in their stirrups, and numerous properly climbed trailblazers sank a little under this resulting inconvenience. If their party had been completely pleasant, the delay would have been nothing; but General Alsina, although such a charming man, always seemed to control the mood of his children, and hardly anything was said except of himself; his observation, along with his dissatisfaction with what the inn offered and his angry impatience with the waiters, made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she should take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was nice, and he desperately wanted her to see as much of the land as possible." If their party had been completely pleasant, the delay would have been nothing; but General Alsina, although such a charming man, always seemed to control the mood of his children, and hardly anything was said except of himself; his observation, along with his dissatisfaction with what the inn offered and his angry impatience with the waiters, made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she should take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was nice, and he desperately wanted her to see as much of the land as possible." If their party had been completely pleasant, the delay would have been nothing; but General Alsina, although such a charming man, always seemed to control the mood of his children, and hardly anything was said except of himself; his observation, along with his dissatisfaction with what the inn offered and his angry impatience with the waiters, made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she should take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was beautiful, and he desperately wanted her to see as much of the land as possible." but General Alsina, although such a charming man, always seemed to control the mood of his children, and hardly anything was said except of himself; his observation, along with his dissatisfaction with what the inn offered and his angry impatience with the waiters, made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she should take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was beautiful, and he desperately wanted her to see as much of the land as possible." but General Alsina, although such a charming man, always seemed to control the mood of his children, and hardly anything was said except of himself; his observation, along with his dissatisfaction with what the inn offered and his angry impatience with the waiters, made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she should take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was beautiful, and he desperately wanted her to see as much of the country as possible." Made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she should take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was beautiful, and he desperately wanted her to see as much of the country as possible." Made Catherine feel more awe of him with every moment and seemed to extend the two hours to four. Finally, however, the release order was issued; and Catherine was then very surprised by the general's suggestion that she take his place in his son's curriculum for the rest of the trip: "The day was nice, and he really wanted her to see as much of the land as possible."
The memory of Mr Allen's opinion, respecting the open wagons of young men, made them blush at the mention of such a plan, and their first thought was to reject it; but their second was of greater reverence for the judgment of General Alsina; he could not suggest anything inappropriate to her; and over the course of a few minutes, she found herself in the curriculum with Henry, as happy a being as ever to exist. A very short attempt convinced her that a curriculum was the most beautiful equipment in the world; the carriage and the foursome, of course, rolled away with some splendor, but it was a difficult and annoying affair, and she could not easily forget that she had stopped for two hours in Petty France. Half the time would have been enough for the curriculum, and the light horses moved so light-footed that if the general had not let his own carriage drive ahead, they could have passed him effortlessly in half a minute. But the merit of the curriculum did not belong only to the horses; Henry drove like this?? good – so quiet – without disturbing her, without marching in front of her or insulting her: so different from the only gentleman coachman with whom she could compare him! And then his hat sat so well, and the countless capes of his coat looked so important! To be driven by him was certainly the greatest happiness in the world besides dancing with him. In addition to any other joy, she now had the pleasure of listening to her own praise; at least on the bill of his sister to be thanked for her kindness by becoming her visitor; to hear that it is classified as a real friendship, and described as true gratitude. His sister, he said, was in an awkward position — she didn't have a female companion — and was sometimes unaccompanied in her father's frequent absence.
"But how can that be?" said Katharina. "Aren't you with her?"
"Northanger is no more than half of my home; I have a branch in my own home in Woodston, which is almost twenty miles from my father's, and I inevitably spend some of my time there."
"How sorry you must be!"
"I'm always sorry to leave Eleanor."
"Yes; but apart from your affection for her, you must love the abbey so much! After getting used to a home like the abbey, an ordinary rectory must be very unpleasant."
He smiled and said, "You had a very positive idea of the abbey."
"To be sure, I have. Isn't it a beautiful old place, just like what you read about?"
"And are you ready to face all the horrors that a building like 'what you read about' can cause? Do you have a strong heart? Nerves suitable for sliding walls and tapestries?"
"Oh! yes – I don't think I should be easily frightened because there would be so many people in the house – and besides, it has never been uninhabited and abandoned for years, and then the family suddenly comes back without giving anything Note how this is generally the case."
"No, sure. We don't have to explore our way into a hall dimly lit by the extinguishing embers of a wood fire – nor do we have to spread out our beds on the floor of a room without windows, doors or furniture. But you need to be aware that when a young lady is introduced (by whatever means) into such an apartment, she is always housed separately from the rest of the family. As they comfortably return to their own end of the house, Dorothy, the old housekeeper, formally leads her up another flight of stairs and through many gloomy corridors into an apartment that has never been used since a cousin or relative died in it about twenty years ago. Can you endure such a ceremony? Won't your mind annoy you when you find yourself in this gloomy chamber – too high and far for you, with only the faint rays of a single lamp to grasp its size – its walls hung with tapestries depicting life-size figures, and the bed, made of dark green fabric or purple velvet, which even represents a funeral appearance? Won't your heart sink into you?"
"Oh! But that's not going to happen to me, I'm sure."
"How anxious you will examine the furniture of your apartment! And what will you recognize? Not tables, toilets, wardrobes or drawers, but on the one hand perhaps the remains of a broken lute, on the other a cumbersome chest that can not open any effort, and above the fireplace the portrait of a beautiful warrior whose facial features become so incomprehensible that you can not avert your eyes from it. Dorothy, no less impressed by your appearance, looks at you with great excitement and drops a few incomprehensible hints. In addition, to lift your spirits, she gives you reason to believe that the part of the abbey you inhabit will undoubtedly be haunted, and tells you that you won't have a single domestic worker within reach.
"Oh! Mr Alsina, how terrible! It's like a book! But that can't really happen to me. I'm sure your housekeeper isn't really Dorothy. Well, what then?"
"Maybe nothing more worrying will happen on the first night. After overcoming your invincible terror in front of the bed, you will retire to rest and get a few hours of restless sleep. But on the second, at the latest on the third night after your arrival, you will probably have a violent storm. Thunderclaps so loud that they seem to shake the building to its foundations will roll around the neighboring mountains – and during the terrible gusts of wind that accompany them, you'll probably think you'll recognize part of it (because your lamp hasn't gone out). the hanging arouses more violently than the others. Naturally unable to suppress your curiosity at such an opportune moment, surrender to it, you will immediately get up, throw your sleep skirt around you and continue to investigate this secret. After a very short search
"In fact not; I should be too afraid to do something like that."
"What! Not if Dorothy has told you that there is a secret underground connection between your apartment and the Chapel of St. Anthony just under two miles away? Could you shy away from such a simple adventure? No, no, you will go into this small arched room and through it into several others, without noticing anything very remarkable in both. In one, perhaps, a dagger, in another, a few drops of blood, and in a third, the remains of an instrument of torture; but since there is nothing unusual about it, and your lamp is almost exhausted, return to your own apartment. However, as you re-enter the small vaulted room, your gaze is drawn to a large, old-fashioned cabinet made of ebony and gold, which, although it examines the furniture closely beforehand, you had passed unnoticed. Driven by an irresistible premonition, you will eagerly approach, unlock its gullwing doors and look in every drawer - but for some time, without discovering anything important - perhaps nothing but a considerable treasure of diamonds. Finally, however, by touching a secret pen, an inner compartment opens – a roll of paper appears – you grab it – it contains many manuscript sheets – you rush into your own chamber with the precious treasure, but as soon as you were able to say "Oh! You – whoever you may be, in whose hands these memories of the miserable Mathilde may fall – when your lamp suddenly goes out in the frame and leaves you in complete darkness." and look in every drawer – but for some time, without discovering anything important – perhaps nothing but a considerable treasure of diamonds. Finally, however, by touching a secret pen, an inner compartment opens – a roll of paper appears – you grab it – it contains many manuscript sheets – you rush into your own chamber with the precious treasure, but as soon as you were able to say "Oh! You – whoever you may be, in whose hands these memories of the miserable Mathilde may fall – when your lamp suddenly goes out in the frame and leaves you in complete darkness." and look in every drawer – but for some time, without discovering anything important – perhaps nothing but a considerable treasure of diamonds. Finally, however, by touching a secret pen, an inner compartment opens – a roll of paper appears – you grab it – it contains many manuscript sheets – you rush into your own chamber with the precious treasure, but as soon as you were able to say "Oh! You – whoever you may be, in whose hands these memories of the miserable Mathilde may fall – when your lamp suddenly goes out in the frame and leaves you in complete darkness." an inner compartment opens – a roll of paper appears – you grab it – it contains many manuscript sheets – you hurry into your own chamber with the precious treasure, but as soon as you were able to decipher "Oh! You – whoever you may be, in whose hands these memories of the miserable Mathilde may fall – when your lamp suddenly goes out in the frame and leaves you in complete darkness." an inner compartment opens – a roll of paper appears – you grab it – it contains many manuscript sheets – you hurry into your own chamber with the precious treasure, but as soon as you were able to decipher "Oh! You – whoever you may be, in whose hands these memories of the wretched Mathilde may fall – when your lamp suddenly goes out in the frame and leaves you in complete darkness."
"Oh! No, no – don't say that. Well, keep going."
But Henry was too amused by the interest he had aroused to carry it on; he could no longer command solemnity for the theme or the voice, and was obliged to ask her to use her own imagination in reviewing Matilda's woe. Catherine, who remembered herself again, was ashamed of her zeal and began to seriously assure him that her attention was focused without the slightest concern on really encountering what he was saying. "Miss Alsina, she was sure, would never put her in such a chamber as he had described! She wasn't afraid at all."
As they approached the end of their journey, their impatience at a sight of the abbey – interrupted for some time by its conversation on completely different subjects – returned with full force, and every bend of the road was awaited with solemn reverence overlooking the massive walls of gray stone rising amidst a grove of ancient oaks, with the last rays of the sun playing in beautiful splendour on their high Gothic windows. But the building stood so low that she stepped through the large gates of the cottage onto the grounds of Northanger without even discovering an antique chimney.
She didn't know she had any right to be surprised, but it was something in that kind of rapprochement that she certainly didn't expect. To pass between modern-looking lodges, to find oneself with such ease in the actual terrain of the abbey and to drive so quickly on a smooth, flat road of fine gravel, without obstacles, anxiety or solemnity of any kind, impressed her as strange and contradictory. However, she did not have much time for such considerations. A sudden rain shower that hit her face made it impossible for her to continue observing and focused all her thoughts on the well-being of her new straw hood; and she was actually under the walls of the abbey, jumped out of the carriage with Henry's help, was under the shelter of the old porch, and had even gone into the hall where her friend and the general were waiting to welcome her, without even feeling a terrible premonition of future misery for herself or even suspecting for a moment, that past horror scenes took place in the solemn building. The wind did not seem to carry the sighs of the murdered; nothing worse had blown than a thick drizzle; and after shaking her cowl well, she was ready to be led into the common salon and able to think about where she was.
An abbey! Yes, it was wonderful to really be in an abbey! But she doubted, as she looked around the room, if anything in her observation had given her consciousness. The furniture was in all the fullness and elegance of modern taste. The fireplace, where she had awaited the generous width and ponderous carvings of earlier times, had contracted into a Rumford, with slabs of plain but pretty marble and ornaments of the prettiest English porcelain above. The windows, which she looked at with peculiar affection because she had heard the general talk that he had preserved them with reverent care in their Gothic form, corresponded even less to her imagination. Although the pointed arches were preserved – their shape was Gothic – they could even be window sashes – but each pane was so large, so clear, so light!
The general noticed how busy her eye was and began to speak of the smallness of the room and the simplicity of the furniture, where everything intended for daily use only pretended to comfort, etc.; However, he flattered himself that there were some apartments in the abbey that were not unworthy of their attention – and just wanted to mention the costly gilding of one in particular when, after pulling out his watch, he stopped briefly to say it surprised within twenty minutes five! This seemed to be the word of separation, and Catherine was pushed away by Miss Alsina in a way that convinced her that in Northanger the strictest punctuality of family hours was expected.
When they returned through the large and high hall, they climbed a wide staircase made of shiny oak, which after many stairs and many landing sites brought them to a long, wide gallery. On the one hand it had a series of doors, on the other it was lit by windows, of which Catherine had just time to discover that they were looking into a quadrangle before Miss Alsina led the way to a room, and could hardly hope that she would find it comfortable, left her with the anxious request, to change her dress as little as possible.
Chapter 175
Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a sublime, dignified location as it belongs to a man of importance; and both he and Elizabeth were accommodated there, much to their satisfaction.
Anne entered her with declining courage, in anticipation of several months of captivity, and anxiously saying to herself, "Oh! when should I leave you?" However, a certain unexpected warmth in the greeting did her good. Her father and sister were happy to see her to show her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness. When they sat down for dinner, she was perceived as an advantage.
Mrs. Clay was very pleasant and smiled a lot, but her politeness and smile were more of a given. Anne had always felt that when she arrived, she would pretend to be appropriate, but the favor of the others was unexpected. They were obviously in an excellent mood, and she was soon to listen to the causes. They didn't feel like listening to her. After getting some compliments about their deep regrets in their old neighborhood that Anne couldn't pay, they only needed to do a few weak researches before the conversation had to be on their own. Uppercross aroused no interest, Kellynch very little: it was all Bath.
They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath had more than met her expectations in every way. Their home was undoubtedly the best in Camden Place; their salons had many decisive advantages over all the others they had either seen or heard, and the superiority was no less in the style of the furnishings or in the taste of the furniture. Their acquaintance was extremely coveted. Everyone wanted to visit them. They had withdrawn from many performances and were still leaving cards from people they didn't know about.
Here were stimulants. Could Anne be surprised that her father and sister were happy? She may not be surprised, but she must sigh that her father should not feel humiliation in his change, that he should see nothing to regret in the duties and dignity of the resident landowner, that he should find so much vain in the smallness of a city; and she must sigh and smile, and also wonder when Elizabeth tore open the folding doors and went from one salon to another with cheers, boasting of her place; given the possibility that this woman, who had once been the mistress of Kellynch Hall, found a scale to be proud of between two walls perhaps ten meters apart.
But that wasn't all they needed to make them happy. They also had Mr. Hightower. Anne had heard a lot from Mr. Hightower. Not only was he pardoned, they rejoiced in him. He was in Bath for about fourteen days; (He had been driving through Bath on his way to London in November when, of course, the news of Sir Walter's stay there had reached him, although he had only been there twenty-four hours, but he had not been able to take advantage of it, but he had now been in Bath for fourteen days, and his first destination on his arrival had been: To leave his card in Camden Place, followed by such zealous efforts to meet, and when they met, of such great openness behavioral willingness, such willingness to apologize for the past, such effort to be re-established as a relationship,
you had no fault in him. He had explained away all the semblance of neglect on his own side. It was completely born out of misunderstandings. He had never thought of throwing himself off; he had feared that he would be thrown off, but did not know why, and sensitivity had silenced him. On the suggestion that he had spoken disrespectfully or carelessly about the family and the family honor, he was quite outraged. He, who had ever boasted of being a high tower, and whose feelings about the connection were only too strict to correspond to the unfeudal tone of today. He was indeed amazed, but his character and general behavior must refute it. He could refer Sir Walter to all who knew him; and certainly, the efforts he had made on this first occasion of reconciliation to be put back on the feet of a relative and presumed heir,
the circumstances of his marriage also allowed much mitigation. This was an article he was not to go into; but a very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a most respectable man, an absolute gentleman (and not a bad-looking man, Sir Walter added) who lived in very good style in Marlborough Buildings and had his own special wish, made known to them by Mr. Hightower, had mentioned one or two things related to marriage, which made a significant difference in the discrediting of this marriage.
Colonel Wallis had known Mr. Hightower for a long time, was also well acquainted with his wife and had understood the whole story exactly. She was certainly not a woman of family, but well educated, educated, rich and overly in love with his friend. There had been the charm. She had been looking for him. Without this attraction, all her money would not have tempted Hightower, and Sir Walter was also sure that she had been a very fine woman. A lot has been done here to soften the business. A very fine woman with a great fortune, in love with him! Sir Walter seemed to admit it as a complete apology; and although Elizabeth could not see the circumstance in such a favorable light, she let it be a great mitigation.
Mr. Hightower had called them repeatedly, had dinner with them once, obviously pleased with the distinction of having been asked, because they generally did not give dinner; In short, delighted at any evidence of nepotism and all his happiness in having intimate relationships in Camden Place.
Anne listened, but without fully understanding it. She knew that a lot of space had to be given to the ideas of those who spoke. She heard everything under embellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational in the course of reconciliation may have no other origin than the language of the caregivers. Still, she felt that in Mr. Hightower's desire to be well received by them after so many years, something more than was immediately apparent. From a worldly point of view, he had nothing to gain by standing in line with Sir Walter; not to risk anything due to a state of variance. In all likelihood, he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch estate would certainly belong to him as much as the title. A reasonable man, and he had looked like a very reasonable man, why should it be an object for him? It could only offer one solution; it was perhaps for Elisabeth's sake. In the past, there might have really been a preference, although convenience and coincidence had pulled him in a different direction; and now that he could afford to please himself, he might want to pay her his addresses. Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with well-behaved, elegant manners, and Mr. Hightower, who knew her, might never have permeated her character, but in public and when he himself was very young. How their temperament and understanding might endure the examination of his present sharper time of life was another concern and a rather anxious one. Most sincerely, she wished that he might not be too nice, or too attentive, if Elizabeth was his subject; and that Elizabeth was inclined to believe that way herself,
Anne mentioned the fleeting glances she had of him in Lyme, but without caring much about it. "Oh! yes, maybe it had been Mr. Hightower. They didn't know. Maybe he was." They could not listen to their description of him. They described him themselves; Especially Mr. Walter. He lived up to his very gentleman-like appearance, his charisma of elegance and fashion, his well-formed face, his sensitive eye; but at the same time "he has to complain that he is very undersupplied, a deficiency that seemed to have increased over time; nor could he pretend to say that ten years had not changed almost every characteristic for the worse. Mr. Hightower seemed to think that he (Sir Walter) looked exactly like they did when they last separated;" but Sir Walter had "not quite been able to reciprocate the compliment, which had embarrassed him. However, he did not want to complain. Hightower-san was better to look at than most men, and he didn't mind being seen anywhere with him."
Mr. Hightower and his friends in Marlborough Buildings were in conversation all evening. "Colonel Wallis was so impatient to be introduced to them! and there was a Mrs. Wallis, who was currently known to them only by description, since she waited daily for her delivery; but Mr. Hightower spoke of her as "an extremely charming woman worthy of prominence in Camden Place," and once she recovered, they would get to know each other. Sir Walter thought much of Mrs. Wallis; she is said to have been a very pretty woman, beautiful. "He longed to see them. He hoped she would make up for the many very inconspicuous faces he constantly walked past on the streets. The worst thing about Bath was the number of his inconspicuous wives. He did not want to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of levels was disproportionate. He had often observed as he walked that a pretty face was followed by thirty or thirty-five horrors; and once, while standing in a shop on Bond Street, he had counted eighty-seven women walking by one without a bearable face underneath. Of course, it had been a frosty morning, a sharp frost that hardly any woman under a thousand could withstand. Nevertheless, there was certainly a terrible crowd of ugly women in Bath; and as far as men are concerned! they were infinitely worse. The streets were full of such scarecrows! How little women were accustomed to the sight of something bearable was shown by the effect that a man of decent appearance produced. He has never been anywhere arm in arm with Colonel Wallis (who was an outstanding military personality, although sand-colored hair) without noticing that all women's eyes were on him; every woman's eye was surely on Colonel Wallis." Humble Sir Walter! However, he was not allowed to escape. His daughter and Mrs. Clay all suggested that Colonel Wallis' companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly wasn't sand-haired.
"What does Mary look like?" said Sir Walter in the height of his good mood. "The last time I saw her, she had a red nose, but I hope that doesn't happen every day."
"Oh! no, that must have been pretty random. In general, she has been in very good health since Michaeli and looks very good."
"If I thought it wouldn't tempt her to go out in sharp winds and get rough, I'd send her a new hat and a new pelisse."
Anne wondered if she should dare to suggest that a dress or cap would not be subject to such abuse when a knock on the door interrupted everything. "A knock on the door! And so late! It was ten o'clock. Could it be Hightower-san? They knew he was going to have dinner at Lansdown Crescent. It was possible that he stopped on the way home to ask her how they could not think of anyone else. Mrs. Clay decidedly thought it was Mr. Hightower's knocking." Mrs Clay was right. With all the booth that a butler and a servant could give, Mr. Hightower was led into the room.
It was the same, the same man, with no difference except in clothing. Anne stepped back a little while the others took his compliments and her sister apologized for calling at such an unusual hour, but "he couldn't be so close without wanting to know that neither she nor her girlfriend had a cold the day before," &C. &C; which was all done as politely and received as politely as possible, but their part must then follow. Sir Walter spoke of his youngest daughter; "Mr. Hightower must allow him to introduce him to his youngest daughter" (there was no reason to think of Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very attractively showed Mr. Hightower the pretty facial features, which he had by no means forgotten, and immediately saw, amused by his little surprise, that he had not known at all who she was. He looked completely amazed, but no more amazed than pleased; His eyes lit up! and with the most complete zeal, he welcomed the relationship, alluded to the past and asked to be accepted as an acquaintance. He looked just as good as he had looked in Lyme, his facial expression improved through speaking, and his manners were as accurate as they should be, so polished, so loose, so particularly pleasant that she could compare them in excellence to them just the manners of a person. They weren't the same, but maybe they were equally good. He looked just as good as he had looked in Lyme, his facial expression improved through speaking, and his manners were as accurate as they should be, so polished, so loose, so particularly pleasant that she could compare them in excellence to them just the manners of a person. They weren't the same, but maybe they were equally good. He looked just as good as he had looked in Lyme, his facial expression improved through speaking, and his manners were as accurate as they should be, so polished, so loose, so particularly pleasant that she could compare them in excellence to them just the manners of a person. They weren't the same, but maybe they were equally good.
He sat down with them and improved their conversation a lot. There could be no doubt that he was a reasonable man. Ten minutes were enough to certify this. His tone, his facial expression, his choice of subject, his knowledge of where to stop; it was all the work of a reasonable, astute mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her about Lyme, wanted to compare opinions regarding the place, but especially he wanted to talk about the circumstances that they happened to be guests in the same inn at the same time; To give his own way, to understand something of her and to regret that he should have missed such an opportunity to pay his respects to her. She briefly told him about her party and her business in Lyme. His regret increased as he listened. He had spent his entire lonely evening in the adjoining room; had heard voices, cheerfulness continuously; thought they must be a very adorable group of people, longed to be with them, but certainly without the slightest suspicion that he had the shadow of a right to imagine. If only he had asked who the party was! The name Cumberland would have told him enough. "Well, it would serve to cure him of an absurd habit of never asking a question in an inn that he had assumed as a very young man, because it would be very rude to be curious.
"A young man's ideas of one or two and twenty years," he said, "are more absurd than those of any other group of beings in the world. The folly of the means they often use is only countered by the folly of their intentions."
But he was not allowed to address his reflections only to Anne: he knew it; he was soon dispersed among the others, and only from time to time could he return to Lyme.
However, his investigation yielded a detailed account of the scene she had been involved in there shortly after he left the place. After alluding to "an accident", he has to hear the whole thing. When he asked questions, Sir Walter and Elizabeth also began to ask, but the difference in their way of doing it was not imperceptible. She could only compare Mr. Hightower to Lady Russell, in the desire to truly comprehend what had happened, and to the extent of concern about what she must have suffered when she witnessed it.
He stayed with them for an hour. The elegant little clock on the mantelpiece had struck "eleven with its silver sounds," and the guard could be heard from afar as he told the same story before Mr. Hightower or one of them seemed to feel that he had been there for a long time.
Anne wouldn't have thought it possible that her first evening at Camden Place could have gone so well!
Chapter 176
Mrs. John Hargrove had so much confidence in her husband's judgment that she waited for both Mrs. Jennings and her daughter the next day; and her trust was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters lived, by no means unworthy of her attention; and as for Lady Mideltown, she found her one of the most adorable women in the world!
Lady Mideltown was equally pleased with Mrs. Hargrove. On both sides there was a kind of cold-hearted egoism that attracted them to each other; and they sympathized with each other in a bland, decent behavior and a general lack of understanding.
However, the same manners that recommended Mrs. John Hargrove to lady Mideltown's good opinion did not correspond to Mrs. Jennings' imagination, and to her she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman with an unkind speech that met her the man's sisters without any affection and almost without having anything to say to them; because of the quarter of an hour granted to Berkeley Street, she sat there silently for at least seven and a half minutes.
Eleanore wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask, whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Esther voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on Colonel Bridgerton were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Eleanore's compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.
Edward himself assured them that he was in town within a very short time by calling Berkeley Street twice. Twice his card was found on the table when they returned from their morning appointments. Eleanore was pleased that he had called; and even more pleased that she had missed him.
The Hargroves were so enraptured by the Mideltowns that although they weren't very used to giving anything, they decided to give them dinner; and shortly after their acquaintance had begun, he invited them to dinner on Harley Street, where they had rented a very good house for three months. Her sisters and Mrs. Jennings were also invited, and John Hargrove took great care to win over Colonel Bridgerton, who, always glad to be where the Miss Hargroves were, accepted his eager courtesies with some surprise but much more pleasure. You should meet Mrs Gastonois; but Eleanore could not find out whether her sons should be part of the party. However, the expectation of seeing YOU was enough to spark her interest in the engagement; for although she could
now meet Edward The interest with which she looked forward to the party was soon increased more than pleasantly when she heard that The Miss Clayhorn would also be there.
So well they had recommended themselves to Lady Mideltown, so pleasant had she made her zeal that Lucy, although she was certainly not so elegant and her sister was not even noble, was as willing as Sir John to ask her for a week or two in Conduit Street; and it was particularly convenient for the Miss Clayhorns as soon as the Invitation of the Hargroves was known that their visit should begin a few days before the party.
However, their claims to the attention of Mrs. John Hargrove as nieces of the Lord, who had been concerned for her brother for many years, might not have done much to give them seats at their table; but as guests of Lady Mideltown they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a closer look at her character and her own difficulties, and to have the opportunity to make an effort to please them, had rarely been happier in her life than she was when she received the card from Mrs. John Hargrove.
On Eleanore it seemed very different. She immediately began to realize that Edward, who lived with his mother, had to be invited, like his mother, to a party given by his sister; and after all this to see him for the first time in the company of Lucy! – she hardly knew how to endure it!
These fears were perhaps not based solely on reason and certainly not on truth. However, they were relieved, not by their own memory, but by the goodwill of Lucy, who believed she was inflicting a severe disappointment on herself when she told her that Edward would certainly not be on Harley Street on Tuesday and even hoped to carry the pain even further by convincing her that he was kept away from the extreme affection for her, which he could not hide when they were together.
It came the important Tuesday that was to introduce the two young ladies to this impressive mother-in-law.
"Sorry for me, dear Miss Hargrove!" said Lucy as they walked up the stairs together – because the Mideltowns arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings that they all followed the servant at the same time – "There is no one here but you who can feel with me. – I explain it I can hardly stand it. Good gracious! – Immediately I see the person on whom all my happiness hangs – that should be my mother!" –
Eleanore could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility that it could be Miss Morton's mother rather than her own that they would see; but instead of doing so, she assured her with great sincerity that she felt sorry for her – to the utter astonishment of Lucy, who, although feeling very uncomfortable herself, at least hoped to be an object of unbridled envy for Eleanore.
Mrs. Gastonois was a small, skinny woman, upright, even to the point of formality, in her figure, and serious, even to the point of bitterness, in her appearance. Her face color was pale; and their features small, without beauty and, of course, without expression; but a happy contraction of the brow had saved her face from the shame of blandness by giving him the strong characters of pride and nausea. She was not a woman of many words; for unlike people in general, it measured them by the number of their ideas; and of the few syllables that really escaped her, none fell on Miss Hargrove, whom she looked at with the spirited determination not to like her under any circumstances.
Eleanore could not be made unhappy by this behavior NOW. - A few months ago, it would have hurt her extraordinarily; but it was not in Mrs. Gastonois' power to worry her now; – and the difference between her manners and that of Miss Clayhorn, a difference that seemed to have been made intentionally to humiliate her even more, only amused her. She couldn't help but smile when she saw the kindness of mother and daughter to this very person – because Lucy was particularly noble – who would have offended her from everyone else if they had known as much as they did; while she herself, who had relatively no power to hurt her, sat there, emphatically insulted by both. But while smiling at such a misapplied kindness, she could neither reflect on the mean folly from which she sprang, nor observe the attentive attention with which Miss Clayhorn
Lucy was full of jubilation at being so honorably awarded; and Miss Clayhorn just wanted to be teased that Dr. Davies was perfectly happy.
Dinner was great, the servants were numerous, and everything testified to the mistress's inclination to show and master's ability to support her. Despite the improvements and additions made to the Norland estate, and even though its owner had once been around a few thousand pounds to have to sell at a loss, there was nothing to indicate the hardship he had tried, conclude from this; - there was no poverty whatsoever, except for the conversation - but there the shortage was considerable. John Hargrove didn't have much to say about what was worth hearing, and his wife even less. But there was no particular shame in that; for it was very much the case with the bosses of their visitors, almost all of whom suffered from one or the other of these disqualifications in order to be pleasant - lack of intellect,
When the ladies retired to the salon after the dinner, this poverty was particularly clear, because the gentlemen had provided the discourse with some variety - the variety of politics, Fencing of land and riding horses - but then it was all over; and one topic occupied the ladies only until the coffee came in, and these were the comparable sizes of Harry Hargrove and Lady Mideltown's second son William, who were almost the same age.
Had both children been there, the matter might have been determined too easily by measuring them immediately; but since only Harry was present, it was only alleged claims on both sides; and everyone had the right to be equally positive in their opinion and to repeat it as many times as they wanted.
The parties stood like this:
the two mothers, although each was really convinced that their own son was the greatest, politely chose the other.
The two grandmothers were no less partisan but more sincere in their own offspring.
Lucy, who was hardly less concerned with pleasing one parent than the other, found that the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not imagine that there could be the slightest difference between them in the world; and Miss Clayhorn, with an even greater address, spoke as quickly as she could in favor of everyone.
Eleanore, who had once expressed her opinion on William's side, thereby insulting Mrs. Gastonois and Esther even more, did not see the need to enforce it with another claim; and Marianne, when she was called for hers, insulted them all by stating that she had no opinion to express as she had never thought about it.
Before leaving Norland, Eleanore had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which now, just assembled and brought home, adorned her current living room; and these umbrellas, which John Hargrove noticed as he followed the other gentlemen into the room, were solemnly handed over by him to Colonel Bridgerton for his admiration.
"These are done by my eldest sister," he said; "and you, as a man of taste, I dare say, will be satisfied with them. I don't know if you've ever seen any of her performances before, but it's widely believed that she draws very well."
Although the Colonel rejected any claim to connoisseurship, he warmly admired the screens, as he would have done with everything Miss Hargrove had painted; and since the curiosity of the others was naturally aroused, they were passed around for general inspection. Mrs. Gastonois, unaware that it was Eleanore's work, specifically asked to look at it; and after receiving a pleasing testimony of Lady Mideltown's approval, Esther presented it to her mother and at the same time thoughtfully informed her that they were made by Miss Hargrove.
"Hm" – said Mrs. Gastonois – "very pretty" – and returned it to her daughter without even paying attention to her.
Maybe Esther thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude, because a little blushing she immediately said,
"You're very pretty, Ma'am – aren't you?" But on the other hand, she was probably overcome by the fear of being too polite, too encouraging, because she immediately added:
"Don't you think they are something in Miss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am? - She paints very delightful! - How beautiful their last landscape is made!"
"Beautiful indeed! But SHE does everything well."
Marianne couldn't stand it. – She was already very dissatisfied with Mrs Gastonois; and such outdated praise from another at the expense of Eleanore, although she had no idea what was meant by it, immediately provoked her to say with warmth:
"This is admiration of a very special kind! – What is Miss Morton for us? – Who knows or who cares about them?
And with that, she took the umbrellas out of her sister-in-law's hands to admire them for themselves, as they should be admired.
Mrs. Gastonois looked extraordinarily angry and straightened up more rigidly than ever when she replied to this embittered Philip, "Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."
Esther also looked very angry, and her husband was terrified of his sister's audacity. Eleanore was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than by what triggered her; but Colonel Bridgerton's eyes, which were on Marianne, declared that he only noticed the kindness of seeing the tender heart that could not bear to see a sister offended at the smallest point.
Marianne's feelings didn't stop there. The cold impudence of Mrs. Gastonois' general behavior toward her sister seemed to predict such difficulties and hardships for Eleanore, which her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and driven by a strong impulse of loving sensitivity, after a moment she went to her sister's chair, put an arm around her neck and a cheek to hers, and said in a quiet but zealous voice,
"Love, dear Eleanore, don't care. Don't let them make you unhappy."
She couldn't say more; Her mood was overwhelmed, and she hid her face on Eleanore's shoulder and burst into tears. Everyone's attention was called, and almost everyone was worried. Colonel Bridgerton rose and went to them without knowing what he was doing. Jennings gave her with a very intelligent "Ah! Poor darling" immediately their salts; and Sir John was so desperately angry at the originator of this nervous pain that he immediately changed his place near Lucy Clayhorn and gave her a short report on the whole shocking affair in a whisper.
In a few minutes, however, Marianne was so recovered that she could put an end to the hustle and bustle and sit down with the others; although throughout the evening her mind kept the impression of what had happened.
"Poor Marianne!" her brother said to Colonel Bridgerton in a low voice as soon as he could get his attention: "She is not as healthy as her sister, - she is very nervous, - she does not have the constitution of Eleanore - and you have to allow that for a young woman who has been a beauty, there is something very exhausting in the loss of her personal attraction. You might not believe it, but Marianne WAS remarkably handsome a few months ago, just as handsome as Eleanore. Now you behold, it's all gone."
Chapter 177
Elizabeth's impatience to introduce Jane to what had happened could no longer be overcome; and finally, she decided to suppress every detail that concerned her sister and prepared her to be surprised, and the next morning told her the head of the scene between Mr. Drury and her.
Miss Mitchell's amazement was soon diminished by the strong sisterly preference that made any admiration of Elizabeth seem completely natural; and all the surprise soon got lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Drury should have conveyed his feelings in a way that was so unfit to recommend her; but she was even more saddened by the misfortune that her sister's refusal must have caused him.
"That he was so sure of success was wrong," she said, "and certainly should not have occurred; but consider how much it must increase its disappointment!'
"Indeed," Elizabeth replied, "I feel sorry for him from the bottom of my heart; but he has other feelings that will probably soon drive away his respect. But you don't blame me for rejecting him?'
'Shame on you! Oh no.'
"But you blame me for talking so warmly about Waterhouse?"
'No - I don't know you were wrong when you said what you did.'
'But you'll know when I tell you the next day what happened.'
She then talked about the letter and repeated its entire content as far as George Waterhouse was concerned. What a blow that was for poor Jane! who would have liked to go through the world without believing that there is as much wickedness in the whole human race as was collected here in a single one. Even Drury's justification, though grateful for her feelings, was unable to comfort her for such a discovery. She made the most serious effort to prove the probability of an error, trying to clarify one without involving the other.
"You can't do that," Elizabeth said; "You'll never be able to make both of them good at anything. Make your choice, but you have to settle for just one. There is only so much merit between them; just enough to make a good man; and lately it has shifted quite a bit. For my part, I am inclined to believe that it is all Drury; but thou shalt do what thou wilt."
However, it took some time before Jane could elicit a smile.
"I don't know when I was so shocked," she said. "Waterhouse so bad! It's almost unbelievable. And poor Mr. Drury! Dear Lizzy, just think about what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and that with the knowledge of your bad opinion! and to have to tell something like that about his sister! It's really too stressful. I'm sure you must feel that way."
'Oh! No, my regret and compassion are all gone when I see you so full of both. I know that you do him so much justice that I become more carefree and indifferent at any moment. Your abundance makes me saving; and if you complain about him for a long time, my heart will be as light as a feather.'
"Poor Waterhouse! it is such an expression of goodness in his face! such openness and gentleness in its kind!'
"There was certainly a great deal of mismanagement in the upbringing of these two young men. One has all the good and the other all the semblance of it.'
'I never thought Drury-san would be as deficient in appearance as you used to be.'
"And yet I wanted to be unusually clever to show him such a determined dislike for no reason. It is such an incentive for the genius, such an openness to wit, to have such an aversion. One can be constantly insulting without saying anything just; but you can't always laugh at a man without stumbling upon something funny every now and then.'
"Lizzy, when you first read this letter, I'm sure you couldn't handle the matter the way you do now."
"In fact, I couldn't. I was uncomfortable enough, I can say unhappy. And with no one to talk to about my feelings with, without Jane comforting me and telling me that I hadn't been as weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I was! Oh! as I wanted you!'
"How unfortunate that you spoke so strongly about Waterhouse to Drury-san, because now they seem completely undeserved."
'Definitely. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a natural consequence of the prejudices I had fostered. There is one point on which I would like your advice. I want to know whether or not I should make Waterhouse's character generally understandable to our acquaintances."
Miss Mitchell paused for a moment and then replied, "There is certainly no reason to expose him so horribly. What's your opinion?'
'That it shouldn't be tried. Mr. Drury did not authorize me to publish his notice. On the contrary, every single relative of his sister should be kept to me if possible; and if I try to disappoint people about the rest of his behavior, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Drury-san is so fierce that trying to put him in a friendly light would mean the death of half of the good people in Meryton. I'm not up to it. Waterhouse will soon be gone; and that's why it won't mean to anyone here what they really are. Eventually, everything will be figured out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity of not knowing it beforehand. Now I'm not going to say anything about it.'
'You're pretty right. Publishing his mistakes could ruin him forever. Perhaps he now regrets what he has done and is anxious to restore his character. We must not let him despair.'
The turmoil in Elizabeth's mind was calmed by this conversation. She had gotten rid of two of the secrets that had plagued her for fourteen days, and was sure she had a willing listener in Jane whenever she wanted to talk about either of them again. But there was something else lurking behind it, the revelation of which forbade prudence. She did not dare to tell the other half of Mr. Drury's letter, nor to explain to her sister how sincerely she had been appreciated by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could participate; and she was aware that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her throwing off this final burden of secrecy. "And then," she said, "if this very unlikely event ever happens, I will only be able to tell what Woodland himself could tell much more pleasantly.
Now that she had settled at home, she had the leisure to observe the real state of her sister's mood. Jane was not happy. She still had a very tender affection for Woodland. Since she had never felt in love before, her gaze had all the warmth of the first bond and, due to her age and predisposition, a greater consistency than most first bonds often boast; and she appreciated his memory so fervently and preferred it to any other man that all her reason and all her attention to the feelings of her friends were required to stop the indulgence of the regret that must have been harmful to her own health and calm.
"Well, Lizzy," Mrs. Mitchell said one day, "what do you think of this sad affair of Jane NOW? For my part, I am determined never to talk to anyone about it again. That's what I told my sister Phillips the other day. But I can't find out if Jane saw him in London. Well, he's a very unworthy young man – and I don't suppose there's not the slightest chance in the world that she'll ever get him now. There is no question of him coming back to Netherfield in the summer; and I also inquired with everyone who might know.'
"I don't think he'll ever live in Netherfield again."
'Well, yes! it's the way he wants. No one wants him to come. Although I will always say that he made my daughter extremely ill; and if I were them, I wouldn't have endured it. Well, my consolation is that Jane will surely die of a broken heart; and then he will feel sorry for what he has done.'
But since Elizabeth could not find comfort from such an expectation, she gave no answer.
"Well, Lizzy," her mother soon continued, "and so the Collinses live very comfortably, don't they? Well, well, I just hope it lasts. And what kind of table do they hold? Charlotte is an excellent manager, dare I say. If she is half as smart as her mother, she saves enough. There is nothing extravagant in YOUR housekeeping, dare I say.'
'No, nothing at all.'
"A lot of good management depends on it. Yes, yes. THEY will be careful not to exceed their income. YOU will never be tormented for money. Well, may it do them much good! And so, I suppose, they often talk about having longbourn when your father is dead. They see it as their own, dare I say, whenever that happens.'
"It was a topic they couldn't mention before me."
" No; it would have been strange if they had; but I have no doubt that they often talk about it with each other. Well, if they can easily deal with an estate that doesn't legally belong to them, all the better. I should be ashamed to have one that was only related to me.'
Chapter 178
A very brief silent reflection was enough to convince Emma of the nature of her excitement when she heard this news from Frank Curcelle. She was soon convinced that she didn't feel anxious or embarrassed at all about herself; it was for him. Their own attachment had really sunk to a mere nothingness; it was not worth thinking about; – but if he, who had undoubtedly always been the dearest of the two, returned with the same warmth of emotion that he had taken with him, it would be very sad. If a separation of two months did not cool him, dangers and evils were in front of her: - Caution for him and for her would be necessary. She had no intention of re-entangling her own affections, and it would be her duty to avoid any encouragement from him.
She wished she could keep him from making an absolute statement. That would be such a very painful conclusion to their current acquaintanceship! and yet she could not help but anticipate something crucial. She felt as if spring would not pass without a crisis, an event, bringing something that would change her present composed and calm state.
It didn't take very long, though longer, than Mr. Winstone had anticipated before she had the strength to form an opinion about Frank Curcelle's feelings. The Enscombe family wasn't in town as soon as they had imagined, but he was in Highbury very soon after. He rode down for a few hours; he could not do more; but since he came to Hartfield immediately from Randalls, she was then able to exercise all her quick observation, and quickly determine how he was influenced, and how she must act. They met with the greatest kindness. There could be no doubt about his great joy to see them. But she doubted almost instantly that he cared about her as he had, that he felt the same tenderness to the same extent. She watched him well. It was clear that he was less in love than before. Absence,
He was in high spirits; as talkative and laughable as ever and seemed delighted to talk about his previous visit and to come back to old stories: and he was not without excitement. It was not in his calm that she read his relative difference. He was not calm; his spirits were undoubtedly fluttered; he was restless. Lively as he was, it seemed a liveliness that did not satisfy him; but what decided their opinion on the subject was that he only stayed for a quarter of an hour and hurried away to make other visits to Highbury. "He had seen a group of old acquaintances on the street as he walked by – he hadn't stopped he wouldn't stop longer than a word – but he had the vanity to believe they would be disappointed if he didn't call, and much more Since he wanted to stay longer in Hartfield, he had to hurry." She had no doubt that he was less in love – but neither his excited spirit nor his rushing away seemed to be a perfect cure; and she was quite inclined to think that it implied a fear of her returning power and a discreet determination not to confide in her for long.
This was Frank Curcelle's only visit in the course of ten days. He often hoped, wanted to come, but was always prevented. His aunt couldn't stand him leaving her. That was his own account with Randall. If he was very sincere, if he really tried to come, it had to be concluded that Mrs. Curcelle's move to London had not served the wanton or nervous part of her disorder. That she was really sick was very certain; he had declared himself convinced of this to Randalls. Although much had failed, in retrospect he could not doubt that she was in a weaker state of health than half a year ago. He did not believe that it would come from anything that care and medicine could not eliminate, or at least that it could not have many years of existence ahead of it; but he was not to be convinced,
It soon turned out that London was not the right place for them. She couldn't stand his noise. Her nerves were constantly irritated and suffering; and at the end of the ten days, her nephew's letter to Randalls announced a change of plan. They would immediately move to Richmond. Mrs. Curcelle had been recommended there for the medical skills of a respected person and otherwise had a penchant for the place. A fully furnished house in a favorite place was rented, and much benefit was expected from the change.
Emma heard that Frank was writing about this arrangement in the best of moods, and seemed to appreciate the blessing of having two months before him so close proximity to many dear friends – because the house was occupied for May and June. She was told that he was now writing with confidence to be with them often, almost as often as he could wish for.
Emma saw how Mr. Winstone understood these joyful prospects. He saw them as the source of all the happiness they offered. She hoped it wasn't. Two months have to prove it.
Mr. Winstone's own happiness was undeniable. He was very pleased. It was exactly the circumstance he could have wished for. Well, it would really be Frank in their neighborhood. What was nine miles for a young man? – One hour drive. He would always come by. The difference between Richmond and London in this regard was enough to make the whole difference, always seeing him and never seeing him. Sixteen miles – no, eighteen – it must be a full eighteen to Manchester Street – was a serious obstacle. If he could ever escape, the day would be spent coming and coming back. It was no consolation to have him in London; he might as well be in Enscombe; but Richmond was the real distance for light traffic. Better than closer!
A good thing immediately became a certainty by this distance - the ball in the crown. It had not been forgotten before, but it had soon been recognized as in vain to try to set a day. But now it should definitely be; all preparations were resumed, and very soon after the Curcelles moved to Richmond, just a few lines away from Frank to say that his aunt felt much better through the change and that he had no doubt that he could come to them for twenty years – four hours at any time, prompted her to name a day as early as possible.
Mr. Winstone's ball should be a real thing. Only a few mornings stood between the young people of Highbury and happiness.
Mr. Lodge resigned. The season made evil easier for him. May was better than February in every way. Mrs. Bates was engaged to spend the evening in Hartfield, James had been notified in time, and he hoped that neither dear little Henry nor dear little John would have anything to do with them while dear Emma was gone.
Chapter 179
Eleanore's curiosity to see Mrs. Gastonois was satisfied. – She had found in her everything that could make a further connection between the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness and her resolute prejudice against herself to understand all the difficulties that must have confused the engagement of Edward and her and delayed the wedding of Edward and her, if otherwise he had been free; – and she had seen almost enough to be grateful for her own sake that a greater obstacle saved her from suffering under anyone else from the creation of Mrs. Gastonois, saved her from all the dependence on her mood, or any concern for her good opinion. Or at least, if she couldn't bring herself to rejoice that Edward was tied to Lucy, she decided that she should have rejoiced if Lucy had been more gracious.
She wondered that Lucy's mood could be lifted so much by the politeness of Mrs. Gastonois – that her interest and vanity would dazzle her so much that the attention that seemed to be given to her only because she was NOT ELINOR came to light to compliment herself – or to allow her to to be encouraged by a preference that was only given to her because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so had not only been explained by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was explained even more openly the next morning, because at her special request, Lady Mideltown dropped her off on Berkeley Street to have the chance to see Eleanore alone to tell her how happy she was.
The chance turned out to be fortunate, because a message from Mrs. Palmifer shortly after her arrival carried Mrs. Jennings away.
"My dear friend," Lucy shouted as soon as they were alone, "I'll come to talk to you about my happiness. Could anything be as flattering as Mrs. Gastonois treated me yesterday? As utterly gracious as she was! – You know how much I was afraid of the thought of seeing her – but the moment I was introduced to her, her behavior was so sociable that I was supposed to say that she had grown very fond of me ?— You saw everything, and weren't you completely affected by it?"
"She was certainly very polite to you."
"Bourgeois! – Have you seen nothing but politeness? – I've seen a lot more. Such kindness that was not given to anyone but me! – No pride, no arrogance, and your sister as well – all loveliness and kindness!"
Eleanore wanted to talk about something else, but Lucy still urged her to admit that she had reason for her happiness; and Eleanore had to move on.—
"Without a doubt, if they had known about your engagement," she said, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment toward you;
"I thought you would say that," Lucy replied quickly, "but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Gastonois seemed to like me when she didn't, and that she likes me is everything. They will not tell me my satisfaction. I'm sure everything will turn out well, and there won't be any difficulties at all, as I used to think. Mrs. Gastonois is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, in fact! – I am surprised that I should never hear you say how pleasant Mrs. Hargrove was!"
Eleanore had no answer to this and did not try.
"Are you sick, Miss Hargrove? – You seem to be depressed – You don't speak; – you're certainly not doing well."
"I've never been in better health."
"I am very happy about this; but you really didn't look at it. I would be sorry to have YOU sick; You, that was the greatest comfort to me in the world! Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship." —
Eleanore tried to give a civilized answer, although she doubted her own success. But it seemed satisfying Lucy, for she replied directly
,
"In fact, I am completely convinced of your appreciation for me, and besides Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. – Poor Edward! – But now there is a good thing, we will be able to meet, and quite often, because Lady Mideltown is delighted by Mrs. Hargrove, so we will be a good shop on Harley Street, dare I say, and Edward spends half of his time with his sister – besides, Lady Mideltown and Mrs. Gastonois will now come to visit; – and Mrs ... Gastonois and your sister were both kind enough to say more than once that they should always be happy to see me.— They are such adorable women!— I'm sure if you ever tell your sister what I think of her, you can't speak too high."
But Eleanore wouldn't encourage her to hope she SHOULD tell her sister. Lucy continued.
"I'm sure I should have seen it right away if Mrs. Gastonois had developed an aversion to me. For example, if she had only shown me a formal courtesy without saying a word, and then never took notice of it again and never looked at me kindly – you know what I mean – if I had been treated so dismissively, I would have desperately given up everything, I wouldn't have endured IT MAG not, I know it's very violent."
Eleanore was prevented from giving an answer to this bourgeois triumph when the door was torn open, the servant announced Mr. Gastonois and Edward immediately came in.
It was a very unpleasant moment; and everyone's face showed that it was so. They all looked extraordinarily foolish; and Edward seemed to have as much inclination to leave the room as he did to go further in. It was precisely the circumstance in its most unpleasant form, which everyone would have preferred to avoid, that had fallen on them. - Not only were they all three together, but they were together without the relief of another person. The ladies recovered first. It was not Lucy's business to introduce herself, and the appearance of secrecy still had to be maintained. She could therefore only SEE her tenderness, and after addressing him slightly, she said nothing more.
But Eleanore had more to do; and so much was she anxious to do well for his and her sake that, after a moment of reflection, she forced herself to greet him with a look and a manner that was almost loose and almost open; and another fight, another effort improved them. Neither the presence of Lucy nor the awareness of an injustice to her stopped her from saying that she was happy to see him and that she had very much regretted being away from home when he called Berkeley Street earlier. She wouldn't be afraid to give him the attention he deserves as a friend and almost a relative through Lucy's attentive eyes, although she soon realized that they were watching her closely.
Their manners calmed Edward down somewhat, and he had enough courage to sit down; but his embarrassment still surpassed that of the ladies in a ratio that made the case reasonable, although his gender could rarely do it; for his heart did not have the indifference of Lucy, nor could his conscience have quite the lightness of Eleanore.
Lucy, with a reserved and set face, seemed determined not to contribute to the comfort of others, and did not say a word; and almost everything that was said emanated from Eleanore, who was obliged to voluntarily provide all the information about her mother's health, her arrival in the city, etc. which Edward should have inquired about, but never did.
Their efforts did not stop there; for soon after she felt so heroically predisposed, under the pretext of fetching Marianne, leaving the others alone; and she really did, and in the most handsome way, for she lingered for a few minutes in the mooring with the most haughty bravery before going to her sister. However, once this happened, it was time for Edward's raptures to stop; because Marianne's joy immediately drove her to the salon. Her joy at seeing him was like any other of her feelings, strong in herself and strongly expressed. She met him with a hand that would be grasped and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.
"Dear Eduard!" she shouted, "This is a moment of great happiness! – That would make up for almost everything!"
Edward tried to reciprocate her kindness as she deserved, but in front of such witnesses he did not dare to say half of what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two everyone remained silent; while Marianne, with the most eloquent tenderness, sometimes looked at Edward and sometimes Eleanore, and only regretted that their joy in each other should be slowed down by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered appearance and express his fear that she would not agree with London.
"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited seriousness, although her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "Don't think about MY health. Eleanore is fine, you see. That must be enough for both of us."
This remark was not enough to make it easier for Edward or Eleanore to reconcile the goodwill of Lucy, who looked up to Marianne without a very benevolent face.
"Do you like London?" said Edward, ready to say anything that could introduce another topic.
"Not at all. I expected a lot of joy in it, but I didn't find any. Your sight, Edward, is the only consolation it has given me; and thanks to heaven! You are what you have always been!"
She paused – no one spoke.
"I think Eleanore," she added right away, "we have to hire Edward so that when we return to Barton he will take care of us very reluctantly to accept the charges."
Poor Edward mumbled something, but no one knew what it was, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his excitement and could easily trace it back to the bottom she liked best, was completely satisfied and soon spoke of something else.
"We spent such a day on Harley Street yesterday, Edward! So boring, so pathetically boring!
And with this admirable discretion, she postponed the assurance that she found their common relatives more unpleasant than ever and that she was especially disgusted by his mother until they were more among themselves.
"But why weren't you there, Edward? – Why didn't you come?"
"I was busy somewhere else."
"Engaged! But what was it when such friends were to be met?"
"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," Cried Lucy, eager to take revenge on her, "do you think young men never stand for engagements when they don't feel like keeping them, both small and large."
Eleanore was very angry, but Marianne seemed completely insensitive to the sting; for she replied calmly,
"Not so, in fact; because seriously, I'm very sure that conscience only kept Edward away from Harley Street. And I truly believe that he HAS the most sensitive conscience in the world; the most ruthless in fulfilling any obligation, however small, and however it may seem against his interest or pleasure. Of all the bodies I have ever seen, he has the greatest fear of causing pain, violating expectation, and is the most incapable of being selfish. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! Thou shalt never hear yourself praise! – Then you must not be a friend of mine; for whoever wants to accept My love and respect must submit to My open praise."
However, the nature of her praise in the present case was particularly inappropriate for the feelings of two-thirds of her listeners and was so amusing for Edward that he very soon got up to leave.
"Leave so soon!" said Marianne; "My dear Edward, this must not be."
And by pulling him aside a little, she whispered her conviction that Lucy couldn't stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have stopped him if his visit had lasted two hours, left soon after.
"What can bring her here so often?" marianne said as she left her. "Couldn't see that we wanted her gone!
"Why is that? – we were all his friends, and Lucy has been known to him the longest of all.
Marianne looked at her firmly and said, "You know, Eleanore, that this is a kind of talking that I can't stand that I'm the last person in the world to do this. I can't be deceived by assurances that aren't really wanted."
Then she left the room; and Eleanore did not dare to follow her to say more, for as much as she was bound by Lucy's promise of secrecy, she could not give Marianne any information to convince her; and as painful as the consequences may be, if she still remained in a mistake, she had to submit to him. All she could hope for was that Edward would not often expose her or herself to the agony of hearing Marianne's erroneous warmth, nor the repetition of any other part of the pain that had accompanied their last meeting – and she had expected every reason to do so.
Chapter 180
The first week of their return was soon over. The second began. It was the regiment's last stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighborhood quickly collapsed. The dejection was almost everywhere. Only the older Miss Mitchell could still eat, drink and sleep and pursue her usual occupation. Very often they were accused of this insensitivity by Kitty and Linda, whose own misery was very great and who could not understand such hard-heartedness in any of the family members.
'Good heavens! What should become of us? What should we do?' they would often exclaim the bitterness of woe. "How can you smile like that, Lizzy?"
Her loving mother shared all her grief; she remembered what she herself had been through on a similar occasion twenty-five years ago.
"I'm sure," she said, "I cried together for two days when Colonel Miller's regiment left. I thought I should have broken my heart."
"I'm sure I'm going to break MINE," Linda said.
"If only you could go to Brighton!" observed Mrs Mitchell.
"Oh, yes! – if only you could go to Brighton! But Dad is so uncomfortable."
'A little sea bathing would lift me up forever.'
"And my Aunt Phillips is sure it would do ME a lot of good," Kitty added.
Such complaints echoed incessantly through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be distracted by them; but all joy was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Drury's objections; and she had never been so inclined to forgive his interference in his friend's views.
But the gloominess of Linda's view was briefly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the regimental colonel, to accompany her to Brighton. This priceless friend was a very young woman and only recently married. A resemblance in good mood and good mood had recommended she and Linda to each other, and after their three-month acquaintance they had been TWO intimate.
Linda's enthusiasm on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the joy of Mrs. Mitchell, and the humiliation of Kitty are hard to describe. Completely inattentive to her sister's feelings, Linda flew through the house in restless ecstasy, calling everyone for congratulations and laughing and speaking more violently than ever; while the hapless Kitty in the salon continued to lament her fate with just as unreasonable expressions as her accent was annoying.
"I don't understand why Mrs. Forster shouldn't ask ME as well as Linda," she said, "even though I'm NOT her special friend. I have as much right to be asked as they are, and even more so because I'm two years older."
Elizabeth tried in vain to bring her to her senses, and Jane tried to persuade her to resign. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from arousing in her the same feelings as in her mother and Linda that she considered it the death sentence of all common sense for the latter; and as despicable as such a step she had to take, she couldn't help but secretly advise her father not to let her go. She presented him with all the inadequacies of Linda's general behavior, the small advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the likelihood that she would be even less wise with such a companion in Brighton, where the temptations must be like that, than at home. He listened attentively to her and then
said,
"Linda will never have it easy until she exposes herself in any public place, and we can never expect her to do so at such a low cost or inconvenience to her family as she does under the current circumstances."
"If you were aware of the very big drawback," Elizabeth said, "which must come to all of us from the public announcement of Linda's ill-considered and careless behavior – yes, which has already arisen from it, you would certainly judge the affair differently."
'Already got up?' Mr. Mitchell repeated. "What, did she scare away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But don't be depressed. Such squeamish youths, who cannot bear to be associated with a small absurdity, are not worth regretting. Come on, let me see the list of pathetic guys who were kept away by Linda's stupidity."
"In fact, you are wrong. I have no regrets about such injuries. It is not individual but general evils that I am now lamenting. Our importance, our respectability in the world, must be marked by the wild impermanence, self-assurance and contempt for all restraint that characterize Linda's character. Excuse me, because I have to speak plainly. If you, my dear father, do not bother to curb her exuberant mood and teach her that her current occupations should not be the matter of her life, she will soon be out of reach of improvement. Her character will be solidified, and at sixteen she will be the most determined flirt who has ever ridiculed herself or her family; a flirt even in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and from the ignorance and emptiness of their minds, completely incapable of fending off any part of this general contempt that will arouse their anger in admiration. Kitty also finds himself in this danger. She will follow Linda wherever she leads. Vanity, ignorant, idle and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! My dear Father, can you think it is possible that they will not be reprimanded and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not often be implicated in shame?'
Mr. Mitchell saw that her whole heart was on the subject, and he lovingly took her hand and replied
,
"Don't worry, my dear. Wherever you and Jane are known, you must be respected and appreciated; and you won't seem any less beneficial if you have a few – or I could say three – very stupid sisters. We won't have peace in Longbourn unless Linda goes to Brighton. Then let them go. Colonel Forster is a reasonable man and will keep her away from real mischief; and she is fortunately too poor to be a prey object for anyone. In Brighton, she herself will be of less importance as a mean flirtation than here. The officials will find women who are worth their attention. So let's hope that their presence will teach them their own insignificance. In any case, she cannot get many times worse without empowering us to imprison her for the rest of her life.'
Elisabeth had to be satisfied with this answer; but her own opinion remained the same, and she left him disappointed and sad. However, it was not in her nature to increase her anger by engaging with them. She was confident that she had fulfilled her duty, and being angry about inevitable evils or reinforcing them with fear was not part of her predisposition.
If Linda and her mother had known the content of their meeting with their father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their shared talkativeness. In Linda's imagination, a visit to Brighton encompassed all the possibilities of earthly happiness. With the creative eye of fantasy, she saw the officers-covered streets of this cheerful seaside resort. She saw herself as an object of attention, currently unknown to dozens and dozens of them. She saw all the glory of the camp – its tents, which stretched out in beautiful uniformity of the rows, crammed with boys and gays and dazzling with scarlet red; and to complete the sight, she saw herself sitting under a tent and tenderly flirting with at least six officers at the same time.
Had she known that her sister wanted to tear her away from such prospects and realities as these, what would have been her feeling? They could only have been understood by their mother, who might have felt the same way. Linda's trip to Brighton was all that comforted her at her melancholic belief that her husband never intended to go there himself.
But they didn't know what had happened; and her rapture continued with few interruptions until the day Linda left the house.
Elizabeth should now see Mr. Waterhouse for the last time. Since she had been with him frequently since her return, the excitement was pretty much over; the excitement of formal partisanship is just like that. She had even learned to discover an affectation and uniformity with disgust and exhaustion, especially in the gentleness that had initially delighted her. Moreover, in his present conduct against herself, she had a new source of displeasure, for the tendency he soon expressed to renew those intentions that had marked the beginning of her acquaintanceship could only serve to provoke her after what had passed since then. She lost all concern for him when she found herself so chosen as an object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while constantly suppressing it, she could not help but feel the rebuke contained in his belief that, for how long and from what ?? Reason whatsoever, on the very last day of the regiment's stay in Meryton,
he dined with other officers in Longbourn; and Elizabeth was so reluctant to part with him in a good mood that when he inquired about the way her time in Hunsford had gone, she mentioned that Colonel Gill and Mr. Drury had both spent three weeks in Rosings and asked him if he knew the former.
He looked surprised, dissatisfied, worried; but with a memory of a moment and a recurring smile, he replied that he had seen him many times before; and after noticing that he was a very gentleman like a man, she asked her how she liked him. Her answer was warm in his favor. Indifferently, he soon added,
"How long, you said, was he in rosings?"
"Almost three weeks."
"And you've seen him many times?"
'Yes, almost every day.'
"His manners are very different from those of his cousin."
"Yes, very different. But I think Drury-san improves through acquaintance."
'Indeed!' shouted Mr. Waterhouse with a look she didn't miss. "And please, if I may ask?" But suppressing himself, he added in a more cheerful tone: "Does he improve in speech? Has he condescended to add a little politeness to his usual style? – for I dare not hope," he continued in a deeper and more serious tone, "that he has improved in essential points."
'Oh no!' said Elisabeth. "I think essentially he's pretty much what he's always been."
As she spoke, Waterhouse looked as if he barely knew whether to rejoice in her words or distrust their meaning. Something in her facial expression made him listen with anxious and anxious attention, while she added
,
"When I said that he improved through acquaintance, I didn't mean that his mind or manners were in a state of improvement, but that his disposition was better understood because I knew him better."
Waterhouse's alarm now showed up in an elevated complexion and an excited look; He remained silent for a few minutes until he shook off his embarrassment, turned back to it, and said
with a gentle accent,
"You who know my feelings about Drury-san so well will easily understand how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to even take on the APPEARANCE of what is right. His pride in this regard may benefit many others, if not himself, because he only has to keep him from such evil misconduct that I have suffered from. I'm just afraid that the kind of caution you've alluded to, I think, is only evident in his visits to his aunt, whose good opinion and judgment he has great reverence for. I know that his fear of her always worked when they were together; and a lot can be attributed to his desire to pass on the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I'm sure is very close to his heart."
Elizabeth couldn't help but smile, but she only replied with a slight tilt of her head. She saw that he wanted to let her in on the old subject of his complaints, and she was not in the mood to give in to him. The rest of the evening passed with the APPEARANCE on his side of ordinary cheerfulness, but without further attempt to highlight Elizabeth; and they eventually separated in mutual courtesy and possibly in a shared desire to never meet again.
When the party stopped, Linda returned to Meryton with Mrs. Forster, from where they were to leave early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was more loud than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she cried with anger and envy. Mrs. Mitchell was rambling in her good wishes for her daughter's happiness and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity to enjoy herself as much as possible – advice that there was every reason to believe would be well heeded; and in the noisy joy of Linda herself as she bid farewell, the gentler farewells of her sisters were pronounced without being heard.
Chapter 181
The conference was neither as short nor as conclusive as the lady had planned. The Lord was not so easily satisfied. He had all the willingness to persevere that Sir Thomas could wish him to. He had vanity, which at first tended him strongly to believe that she really loved him, although she may not have known it herself; and second, when she was finally forced to admit that she knew her own present feelings, convinced him that he should be able to make those feelings what he wanted in time.
He was in love, very much in love; and it was a love that, acting on an active, Sanguine spirit, of more warmth than tenderness, made its affection seem of greater significance, because it was held back, and determined it to have both the glory and the happiness to force it to love it.
He would not despair: he would not stop. He had every well-founded reason for a solid bond; he knew that she had all the value that could justify the warmest hopes of lasting happiness with her; her behavior precisely at that time, by expressing the altruism and tenderness of her character (qualities that he really considered to be extremely rare), was in the way of increasing all his desires and confirming all his decisions. He didn't know he had a pre-engaged heart to attack. He had no suspicion of this. He saw her more as someone who had never thought about the subject enough to be in danger; who had been guarded by youth, a youth whose spirit was as lovely as the person; whose modesty had prevented them from understanding his attentions, and who was still overwhelmed by the suddenness of the completely unexpected speeches,
did it not have to follow naturally that if he was understood, he should succeed? He fully believed it. Love like his must ensure a return for a man like him with perseverance and without great distance; and he took so much pleasure in the idea of getting her to love him in a very short time that she hardly regretted that she didn't love him now. A small difficulty that had to be overcome, Henry Dorset was nothing evil. Rather, he derived spirits from it. He had been inclined to win hearts too easily. His situation was new and animating.
For Esther, however, who had experienced too much resistance all her life to find any stimulus in it, all this was incomprehensible. She realized that he wanted to persevere; but how he could do that, after such words from her, to which she felt obliged, was incomprehensible. She told him that she did not love him, could not love him, was sure that she should never love him; that such a change was completely impossible; that the topic was the most painful for them; that she must ask him never to mention it again, to allow her to leave him immediately, and to let it be considered complete forever. And as she pressed further, she had added that in her opinion her dispositions were so completely dissimilar that mutual affection was incompatible; and that they were not suitable for each other by nature, upbringing and habit. All this she had said, and with the seriousness of sincerity; but that wasn't enough, because he immediately denied that there was anything unsympathetic in their characters or anything unkind in their situations; and positively explained that he would still love and still hope!
Esther knew her own meaning, but was not a judge of her own kind. Their manner was incurably gentle; and she was unaware of how much it concealed the rigor of her intention. Their restraint, gratitude and gentleness made any expression of indifference seem almost like an effort of self-denial; at least she seems to inflict almost as much pain on herself as she does on him. Mr. Dorset was no longer the Mr. Dorset, who, as a secret, treacherous, treacherous admirer of Maria Schmidt, had been her disgust, whom she had hated to see and speak, of whom she could not believe good qualities, and whose power to be pleasant herself had hardly recognized her. He was now the Lord Dorset, who addressed himself with fervent, altruistic love; whose feelings seem to have become all that is honorable and righteous, whose views on happiness were all fixated on a marriage of bondage; who poured out his feeling for their merits, described and described his affection again, proved as far as words could prove it, and also in the language, tone and spirit of a talented man that he sought them for their gentleness and their goodness; and to top it off, he was now the Mr. Dorset who had given William's promotion!
Here was a change, and here were claims that could only work! She could have despised him in all the dignity of angry virtue on the grounds of Sotherton or in the theatre of Mansfield Park; but he now approached her with rights that required different treatment. She has to be polite, and she has to be compassionate. She must feel honored, and whether she thinks of herself or her brother, she must have a strong sense of gratitude. The effect of the whole thing was so pitiful and agitated, and the words mixed with their rejection expressed such commitment and concern that for a temperament of vanity and hope like that of Dorset, the truth, or at least the strength of their indifference, could well be questionable; and he was not as unreasonable as Esther in his professions as persistent, hardworking,
reluctant he let them go; but there was no expression of despair at the farewell to deny his words or give her hope that he was less unreasonable than he explained.
Now she was angry. A certain resentment arose over such a selfish and ruthless persistence. Here again was a lack of sensitivity and consideration for others, which had previously impressed and disgusted her so much. Here again was something like the same Mr. Dorset that she had previously rejected. How obviously there was a gross lack of feeling and humanity when it came to his own pleasure; and oh! as always, there was no principle to deliver as a duty what the heart lacked! Had her own affection been as free as she might have been, he would never have been able to keep her busy.
This is how Esther thought in true truth and sober sadness as she sat there and thought about the all too great pleasure and luxury of a fire above: wondering about past and present; she wondered about what was yet to come, and in a nervous excitement that made her realize nothing but the conviction that she could never, and under no circumstances, love Mr. Dorset, and the happiness of having a fire to sit and think about it.
Sir Thomas had to wait or had to wait until tomorrow to find out what had happened between the young people. Then he saw Mr. Dorset and received his report. The first feeling was disappointment: he had hoped for better; he had thought that an hour-long plea from a young man like Dorset might not have brought about so little change in a meek girl like Esther; but there was quick consolation in the determined views and sanguine perseverance of the lover; and when Sir Thomas saw so much confidence in the director's success, he could soon rely on it himself.
Nothing was left out on his side of courtesy, compliments, or kindness that could support the plan. Mr. Dorset's steadfastness was honored and Esther praised, and the connection was still the most coveted in the world. In Mansfield Park, Mr. Dorset would always be welcome; he only needed to consult his own judgment and feelings about the frequency of his visits, present or in the future. In the whole family and in the circle of friends of his niece there could only be one opinion, one wish on this subject; the influence of all those who loved them must lean in one direction.
Everything was said that could give courage, every encouragement was received with grateful joy, and the gentlemen said goodbye in the best friendship.
Satisfied that the matter was now on the right and hopeful footing, Sir Thomas decided to refrain from any further intrusiveness with his niece and not to show any open interference. Because of their predisposition, he believed kindness was the best way to work. The request should only be from a quarter. Her family's leniency on a point where she could have no doubt about her desires might be her surest means of passing it on. Accordingly, according to this principle, Sir Thomas took the first opportunity to tell her with mild seriousness that he wanted to overcome: "Well, Esther, I have seen Mr. Dorset again and learned from him exactly how things stand between you. He is a most extraordinary young man, and whatever the event may be, you must feel that you have created a bond without a common character; although, young as you are, and unfamiliar with the ephemeral, changing, volatile nature of love as it generally exists, you cannot be impressed, as I am, by all that is wonderful in a persistence of this kind against discouragement. With him, it's just a matter of feeling: he doesn't claim any merit in it; maybe no one is entitled. But so well chosen, his steadfastness has left a respectable mark. Had his choice been less impeccable, I would have condemned his perseverance."
"In fact, sir," Esther said, "I'm very sorry that Mr. Dorset continues to know that it gives me a very big compliment, and I feel unjustly honored; but I am so firmly convinced, and I have told him so, that it will never be in my power ...«
"My love," Sir Thomas interrupted, "there is no reason to do so. Your feelings are as well known to me as you must be aware of my wishes and regrets. There is nothing more to say or do. From this hour on, the topic between us should never be revived. They have nothing to fear or get upset about. You can't expect me to try to persuade you to marry against your inclinations. Your happiness and advantage are all I have in mind, and nothing is required of you except to endure Mr. Dorset's efforts to convince you that they are not incompatible with his. He acts at his own risk. You are on safe ground. I have worked to ensure that you see him whenever he calls, as you might have done if nothing of the sort had happened. You will see him with the rest of us in the same way, and as often as you can, discard the memory of everything unpleasant. He leaves Northamptonshire so early that even this small sacrifice cannot often be demanded. The future must be very uncertain. And now, my dear Esther, this issue is closed between us."
The promised departure was all Esther could think of with great satisfaction. Her uncle's kind expressions, however, and leniently, were felt reasonable; and when she pondered how much of the truth was unknown to him, she believed she had no right to wonder about the behavior he was pursuing. He, who had married a daughter with Mr. Rushmore: Romantic tenderness was certainly not to be expected from him. She must do her duty and trust that time could make her duty easier than it was now.
Although she was only eighteen, she could not assume that Mr. Dorset's attachment would last forever; she couldn't help but imagine that the constant, incessant discouragement of herself would put an end to it over time. How much time she might spend on his reign at her own discretion is another concern. It would not be fair to ask for a young lady's accurate assessment of her own perfection.
Despite his intended silence, Sir Thomas felt compelled once again to raise the issue with his niece in order to prepare her briefly to communicate it to her aunts; a measure that he would have avoided, if possible, but which became necessary from Mr Dorset's completely opposite feelings about any secrecy of the proceedings. He had no idea about obfuscation. In the rectory, where he liked to talk to his two sisters about the future, all this was known, and it would be a great pleasure for him to have enlightened witnesses to the progress of his success. When Sir Thomas understood this, he felt the need to immediately introduce his own wife and sister-in-law to the business; although because of Esthers he feared the effect of the message to Mrs. Norris almost as much as Esther herself. He disapproved of their erroneous but well-meaning zeal. In fact, at that time, Sir Thomas was not very far from classifying Mrs. Norris as one of those well-meaning people who always do wrong and very unpleasant things.
However, Mrs. Norris replaced him. He urged the strictest leniency and silence towards her niece; she not only promised it, but also kept it. She only looked at her heightened malice. She was angry: bitterly angry; but she was angrier at Esther for receiving such an offer than for rejecting it. It was an injury and an affront to Julia that should have been Mr. Dorset's choice; and regardless, she didn't like Esther because she had neglected her; and she would have disliked such an elevation to someone she had always tried to depress.
Sir Thomas took this opportunity to give her more discretion than she deserved; and Esther could have blessed her for only being able to see her displeasure and not hear it.
Lady Schmidt took it differently. She had been a beauty all her life, and a wealthy beauty; and beauty and wealth were all that aroused their respect. Knowing that she was wanted by a wealthy person in marriage therefore raised her a lot, in her opinion. By convincing her that Esther was very pretty, which she had previously doubted, and that she would be advantageously married, she somehow felt honored to call her niece.
"Well, Esther," she said, as soon as they were alone with each other afterwards, and she had really known something like impatience to be alone with her, and her face, as she spoke, had an extraordinary liveliness; "Well, Esther, I had a very pleasant surprise this morning. I just have to talk about it once, I told Sir Thomas, I have to do it once, and then I will have done it. I bring you joy, my dear niece." And she looked at her smugly and added, "Hm, we're really a pretty family!"
Esther turned red and doubted at first what to say; when she immediately replied
, hoping to attack her on her vulnerable side,
"My dear aunt, you can't wish on me to do anything differently than I did, I'm sure. You can't want me to get married; for you would miss me, wouldn't you? Yes, I'm sure you'd miss me too much for that."
"No, my dear, I should not think of missing you when such an offer gets in your way. I could very well do without you if you were married to such a respected man as Mr. Dorset. And you have to be aware, Esther, that it is the duty of every young woman to accept such an impeccable offer as this."
That was almost the only rule of conduct, the only piece of advice Esther had received from her aunt over the course of eight and a half years. It silenced them. She felt how unprofitable quarrels would be. If her aunt's feelings were against her, nothing could be hoped for to attack her understanding. Lady Schmidt was quite talkative.
"I want to tell you something, Esther," she said, "I'm sure he fell in love with you at the ball; I am sure that the disaster was done that evening. You looked remarkably good. Everyone said it. Sir Thomas said it. And you know, Chapman helped you get dressed. I am very glad I sent Chapman to you. I will tell Sir Thomas that I am sure it happened that evening." And still following the same happy thoughts, she soon added, "And I'll tell you what, Esther, that's more than I did for Maria: the next time Pug has a litter, you should have a puppy."
Chapter 182
No misfortune happened to prevent the ball again. The day was approaching, the day was coming; and after a morning of anxious observation, Frank Curcelle reached Randalls in complete certainty of himself before dinner, and everything was safe.
There had not been a second meeting between him and Emma. The room in the crown should testify to it; - but it would be better than a joint meeting in a crowd. Mr. Winstone had asked so earnestly that she would arrive there as soon as possible after them to get her opinion on the appropriateness and comfort of the rooms before other people came that she could not refuse him, and therefore has to spend a quiet break in the company of the young man. She was supposed to bring Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in time, the Randalls' party just in time for them.
Frank Curcelle seemed to have been on guard; and although he didn't say much, his eyes revealed that he wanted to have a delightful evening. They all walked around together to see if everything was as it should be; and within a few minutes, without much surprise, the contents of another car were added, the sound of which Emma could not hear at first. "So unreasonable early!" she would exclaim; but she now found that it was a family of old friends who, like herself, came out of special desire to help Mr. Winstone's judgment; and they were so closely followed by another wagon of cousins who had been asked to come early with the same remarkable seriousness for the same assignment that it seemed as if half of society would soon be gathered for the purpose of a preparatory inspection.
Realizing that her taste wasn't the only taste That Mr. Winstone relied on, Emma felt that being the darling and confidant of a man who had so many confidants and confidants wasn't the very first award on the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but a little less open-heartedness would have made him a higher character. – General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a man what he should be. – She could imagine such a man. The whole society walked around, looked and praised again; and then, since they had nothing else to do, they formed a kind of semicircle around the fire to observe in their different modes until other themes were started that a fire in the evening was still very pleasant despite May.
Emma realized that it was not Mr. Winstone's fault that the number of privy councillors was not yet greater. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates' door to provide their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be brought by the Alton's.
Frank stood next to her, but not fixed; there was a restlessness that showed a restless mind. He looked around, he went to the door, he looked for the sound of other carriages – impatient to start, or afraid to always be near them.
They spoke of Mrs. Alton. "I think she has to be here soon," he said. "I'm very curious to see Mrs. Alton, I've heard so much about her. I don't think it can be long before it comes."
A carriage could be heard. He was immediately on his way; but coming back, said,
"I forget that I don't know her. I have never seen Mr. or Mrs. Alton. I have no business."
Mr. and Mrs. Alton appeared; and all the smiles and decency passed.
"But Miss Bates and Miss Saxon!" said Mr. Winstone and looked around. "We thought you would bring them."
The error had been small. The carriage was now sent after them. Emma longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Alton might be; how he was touched by the dignified elegance of her dress and her amiable smile. He immediately qualified to form an opinion by giving it the necessary attention after the performance.
In a few minutes, the carriage returned. – Someone spoke of rain. "I'm going to make sure there are umbrellas, sir," Frank said to his father, "Miss Bates must not be forgotten," and he was gone. Mr. Winstone followed; but Mrs. Alton stopped him to satisfy him with her opinion of his son; and it began so swiftly that the young man himself, although he did not move slowly by any means, could hardly be out of earshot.
"A really very fine young man, Mr. Winstone. You know, I told you frankly to form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am very satisfied with him. – Believe me. I never compliment. I consider him a very handsome young man, and his manners are exactly what I like and approve of – so really the gentleman, without the slightest imagination or puppy. You must know that I have a great aversion to puppies – quite a horror in front of them. They were never tolerated in Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor I ever had patience with them; and we sometimes said very cutting things! Selina, who is almost sinfully mild, endures them much better."
While she spoke of his son, Mr. Winstone's attention was captivated; but when she arrived at Maple Grove, he could remember that ladies had just arrived to take care of her and had to rush away with a happy smile.
Mrs. Alton turned to Mrs. Winstone. "I have no doubt that it's our carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and our horses are so very nimble! – I think we drive faster than everyone else. – What a pleasure to send your carriage for a friend! quite unnecessary. You can be sure that I will always take care of them."
Miss Bates and Miss Saxon entered the room accompanied by the two gentlemen; and Mrs. Alton seemed to consider it her duty, as did Mrs. Winstone, to receive her. Her gestures and movements could be understood by anyone who watched like Emma; but her words, the words of all, were soon lost under the incessant stream of Miss Bates, who came in in in conversation and had not finished her speech for many minutes after being let into the circle by the fire. When the door opened, she was heard,
"So very accommodating of you! – No rain at all. Nothing to mean. I don't take care of myself. Pretty thick shoes. And Jane explains – Good! – (as soon as she was in the door) Good! That is indeed brilliant! – This is admirable! – Excellently invented, at my word. Nothing to want. I couldn't have imagined it. – So well enlightened! – Jane, Jane, look! – have you ever seen anything? Oh! Mr. Winstone, you really must have had Aladdin's lamp. The good Mrs. Stokes would no longer know her own room. I saw them when I came in; it stood in the entrance. 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes," I said, but I didn't have time for more." She has now been received by Mrs. Winstone. "Very well, thank you, Ma'am. I hope you're doing well. Very happy to hear. So much anxiety that you might get a headache! – To see you pass by so many times and know how much trouble you have to have. Pleased to hear it indeed. Ah! Dear Mrs. Alton, I am so grateful to you for the carriage! - excellent time. Jane and I are done. Did not keep the horses for a moment. Most comfortable car. – Oh! and I am sure our thanks go to you, Mrs. Winstone, in this regard. Mrs. Alton had kindly sent Jane a message, or we should have done it. – But two such offers in one day! – Never were such neighbors. I said to my mother, "To my word, Ma'am." Thank you, my mother is doing remarkably well. Went to Mr. Lodge. I asked her to take her scarf – because the evenings are not warm – her big new scarf – Mrs. Dixon's wedding gift. – So kind of her to think of my mother! Bought in Weymouth, you know – Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three others, Jane says, where they hesitated for some time. Colonel Campbell preferred an olive. My dear Jane, Are you sure you haven't wet your feet? – It was only a drop or two, but I'm so scared: – but Mr. Frank Curcelle was so extreme – and there was a mat to step on – I'll never forget his extreme politeness. – Oh! Mr. Frank Curcelle, I have to tell you that my mother's glasses have never made a mistake since; The rivet never came out again. My mother often speaks of your good-naturedness. Isn't it, Jane? – Don't we often talk about Mr. Frank Curcelle? – Ah! here is Miss Lodge. – Dear Miss Lodge, how are you? – Very good, thank you, very good. That meets in fairytale land! – Such a transformation! – Don't have to give a compliment, I know (looks highly complacent to Emma) – that would be rude – but at my word, Miss Lodge, you look – how do you like Jane's hair? — You are a judge. — She did everything herself. It's wonderful how she does her hair! – No hairdresser from London, I think, could do that. – Ah! I explain to Dr. Hughes – and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and talk briefly with Dr. and Mrs. Hughes. – How are you? How are you doing? - Very good, thank you. That's delightful, isn't it? – Where is dear Mr. Richard? – Oh! There he is. Don't disturb him. Much better occupied with talking to the young ladies. How are you, Mr. Richard? – I saw you the other day riding through the city – Mrs. Otway, I protest! – and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway and Miss Caroline. – So many friends! – and Mr. George and Mr. Arthur! – How are you? How are you all doing? - Quite well, I am very attached to you. Never better. – Don't I hear another carriage? – Who can that be? – Most likely the worthy Cole. – At my word, it's lovely to stand around among such friends! And such a noble fire! – I am completely roasted. No coffee, thank you for me – never take coffee. – A little tea, if you will, sir, goodbye – no hurry – oh! here it comes. Everything so good!"
Frank Curcelle returned from Emma to his station; and as soon as Miss Bates was calm, she inevitably heard the speech of Mrs. Alton and Miss Saxon, who stood a bit behind her. – He was thoughtful. Whether he also overheard, she could not determine. After quite a few compliments to Jane for her dress and appearance, compliments very quietly and correctly received, Mrs. Alton obviously wanted to get compliments herself – and it was: "How do you like my dress? – How do you like my cut? – How did Wright make my hair?" – with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Alton then said, "No one can think less about clothing in general than I can – but on such an occasion, when all eyes are so much on me, and as a compliment to Winstone." s – who undoubtedly give this ball mainly to pay homage to me – I don't want to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except mine. – So Frank Curcelle is a capital dancer, I understand. – We'll see if our style fits. – Frank Curcelle is certainly a fine young man. I like him a lot."
At that moment, Frank began to speak so vigorously that Emma could imagine that he had overheard his own praise and no longer wanted to hear; – and the voices of the ladies were drowned out for a while, until another interruption brought Mrs. Alton's tones back clearly forward.-Mr. Alton had just joined them, and his wife shouted
,
"Oh! You've finally found out, haven't you, in our seclusion? – I told Jane at that moment, I thought you would wait impatiently for news from us."
"Jane!" – repeated Frank Curcelle with a surprised look. and displeasure. "It's easy – but Miss Saxon doesn't disapprove of it, I suppose."
"How do you like Mrs. Alton?" Emma said in a whisper.
"Not at all."
"You are ungrateful."
"Ungrateful! – What do you think?" Then switching from a frown to a smile – "No, don't tell me – I don't want to know what you mean. – Where is my father? – When should we start dancing?"
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed to be in a strange mood. He went to look for his father, but was quickly back with Mr. and Mrs. Winstone. He had met them in a little confusion that had to be revealed to Emma. Mrs. Winstone had just thought of asking Mrs. Alton to start the ball; that she would expect it; which stood in the way of all her wishes to give Emma this award. – Emma heard the sad truth with steadfastness.
"And what should we do for a real partner for them?" said Mr. Winstone. "She'll think Frank should ask her."
Frank immediately turned to Emma, ?? to demand their earlier promise; and boasted of being an engaged man, of which his father seemed to be his most perfect confirmation – and then it seemed that Mrs. Winstone wanted him to dance with Mrs. Alton himself, and that her job was to help him persuade him to do so, which was done pretty soon. Winstone and Mrs. Alton led the way, Mr. Frank Curcelle and Miss Lodge followed. Emma has to submit to being second behind Mrs. Alton, even though she had always considered the ball special to her. It was almost enough to make her think about getting married. Mrs Alton undoubtedly had the advantage of being completely satisfied in vanity at that time; because although she had intended to start with Frank Curcelle, she could not lose from the change. Mr. Winstone could be his son's superior. Emma smiled happily, delightedly to see the respectable length of the forming set and to feel like she had so many hours of unusual celebrations ahead of her. She was more concerned that Mr. Hill wasn't dancing than anything else. – There he was, among the bystanders, where he was not supposed to be; he was supposed to dance – not count himself among the husbands and fathers and whist players who pretended to feel interest in dancing until their rubbers were made up – as young as he looked! – He could not have had it anywhere better than where he had put himself. His tall, firm, upright figure between the massive figures and the bent shoulders of the older men was such that Emma felt that she had to attract everyone's attention; and, with the exception of her own partner, there was no one in the whole line of young men who could be compared to him. - He stepped a few steps closer, and these few steps were enough to prove how noble, with what natural grace he must have danced, if only he would bother. - Whenever she caught his gaze, she forced him to smile; but in general he looked serious. She wished he could love a ballroom more and like Frank Curcelle more. – He seemed to observe them often. She didn't have to convince herself that he was thinking about her dancing, but when he criticized her behavior, she wasn't afraid. There was nothing better than a flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no doubt that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had. and these few steps were enough to prove how noble and with what natural grace he must have danced if he had only made the effort. but in general he looked serious. She wished he could love a ballroom more and like Frank Curcelle more. – He seemed to observe them often. She didn't have to convince herself that he was thinking about her dancing, but when he criticized her behavior, she wasn't afraid. There was nothing better than a flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no doubt that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had. and these few steps were enough to prove how noble and with what natural grace he must have danced if he had only made the effort. but in general he looked serious. She wished he could love a ballroom more and like Frank Curcelle more. – He seemed to observe them often. She didn't have to convince herself that he was thinking about her dancing, but when he criticized her behavior, she wasn't afraid. There was nothing better than a flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no doubt that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had. she forced him to smile; but in general he looked serious. She wished he could love a ballroom more and like Frank Curcelle more. – He seemed to observe them often. She didn't have to convince herself that he was thinking about her dancing, but when he criticized her behavior, she wasn't afraid. There was nothing better than a flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no doubt that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had. she forced him to smile; but in general he looked serious. She wished he could love a ballroom more and like Frank Curcelle more. – He seemed to observe them often. She didn't have to convince herself that he was thinking about her dancing, but when he criticized her behavior, she wasn't afraid. There was nothing better than a flirtation between her and her partner. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no question that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no doubt that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had. They seemed more like happy, uncomplicated friends than lovers. There was no doubt that Frank Curcelle thought less of her than he had.
The ball went well. The anxious worries, the incessant attentions of Mrs. Winstone were not thrown away. Every body seemed happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, rarely awarded until a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given right at the beginning of its existence. Of very important, very recordable events, it was no more productive than such meetings usually are. However, there was one that Emma thought something of. – The last two dances before dinner began, and Harriet had no partner; – the only young lady who sat down – and the number of dancers had been so equal so far, that as it could be someone detached, was the miracle! But Emma's amazement soon subsided when she saw Mr. Alton strolling around. He wouldn't ask Harriet to dance if it could be avoided,
but escape wasn't his plan. He came to the part of the room where the sitter-by were collected, talked to some and walked around in front of them as if to show his freedom and his determination to preserve it. He did not fail to stand directly in front of Miss Smith or to talk to those close to her. – Emma saw it. She wasn't dancing yet; she worked her way up from the bottom up and therefore had leisure to look around, and by just turning her head a little, she saw everything. When she was halfway up the set, the whole group was right behind her, and she no longer allowed her eyes to watch her; but Mr. Alton was so close that she heard every syllable of a dialogue that took place just then between him and Mrs. Winstone; and she noticed that his wife, standing directly above her, not only listened, but even encouraged him with meaningful looks. The kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Winstone had left her seat to join him and say, "Don't you dance, Mr. Alton?" to which his prompt response was, "Very gladly, Mrs. Winstone, if you want to dance with me."
"Me! – oh! no – I would get you a better partner than myself. I'm not a dancer."
"If Mrs. Gilbert wants to dance," he said, "it will give me great pleasure, I'm sure – because although I'm starting to feel more like an old married man and that my dancing days are over, it would give me a lot it's always a great pleasure to get up with an old friend like Mrs. Gilbert."
"Woman. Gilbert doesn't plan to dance, but there's a young lady who's free, and I'd love to see her dance – Miss Smith." "Miss Smith! – oh! – I hadn't noticed that. – They are extremely accommodating – and if I were not an old married man. – But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Winstone. You will excuse me. I would love to do anything else at your command – but my dancing days are over."
Mrs. Winstone said nothing more; and Emma could imagine, with what a surprise. and ashamed, she must return to her place. That was Mr Alton! the gracious, pleasing, gentle Mr. Alton. – She looked around for a moment; he had joined Mr. Hill at a distance and was preparing for a quiet conversation while a smile full of joy went back and forth between him and his wife.
She wouldn't look anymore. Her heart was glowing, and she feared her face might be just as hot.
In another moment, a happier sight hit her;-Mr. Hill leading Harriet to the set! She had never been more surprised, rarely more pleased than at that moment. She was full of joy and gratitude, both for Harriet and for herself, and longed to thank him; and although she was too far away for a speech, her expression said a lot as soon as she could catch his gaze again.
His dance turned out to be exactly what she had believed, extremely good; and Harriet would almost have been too lucky if it hadn't been for the cruel state of things before, and for the very perfect joy and very high sense of the award that heralded her happy facial features. It was not thrown at her, she jumped higher than ever before, flew further into the middle and was in a constant run of smile.
Mr. Alton had retreated to the card room and looked (as Emma believed) very stupid. She did not believe that he was quite as hardened as his wife, although he became very similar to her; She expressed some of her feelings by audibly telling her partner,
"Hill feels sorry for poor little Miss Smith! – Very good-natured, I explain."
Dinner was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates could be heard without interruption from that moment until she sat at the table and picked up her spoon.
"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you? – Here's your tap. Mrs. Winstone asks you to put on your front compartment. She says she fears that there will be droughts in the corridor even though everything has been done – A door nailed shut – Tons of mats – My dear Jane, you really have to. Mr Curcelle, oh! They are too accommodating! How well you put it on! – so satisfied! Really excellent dancing! – Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I said, to help the grandmother to bed, and came back again, and no one missed me. Grandma was quite comfortable, had a lovely evening with Mr. Lodge, lots of chatting and backgammon. - Tea was made downstairs, biscuits and baked apples and wine before she got away: incredible luck on some of her litters: and she inquired a lot about you, how you enjoyed yourself and who your partners were. 'Oh!' I said, 'I'm not going to preempt Jane; I had her dance with Mr. George Otway; she will be happy to tell you tomorrow: her first partner was Mr. Alton, I don't know who will ask her next, maybe Mr. William Cox." My dear Sir, you are too pleasing. – Is there no one you would not prefer? – I am not helpless. Sir, you are very nice. At my word, Jane on one arm and I on the other! – Stop, stop, let's stand back a little, Mrs. Alton leaves; Dear Mrs. Alton, how elegant she looks! – Beautiful lace! – Now we are all following their train. Quite the queen of the evening! – Well, there we are in the corridor. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no, there is only one. Well, I was convinced that there were two. How very strange! I was convinced that there were two, and there was only one. I've never seen anything equal to comfort and style – candles everywhere. – I told you about your grandmother, Jane – There was a little disappointment. but first a fine fricassee of veal bries and some asparagus was brought in, and the good Mr. Lodge, who found the asparagus not quite cooked enough, sent everything out again. Now, there's nothing grandma loves more than veal bries and asparagus – so she was pretty disappointed, but we agreed we wouldn't talk to anyone about it for fear it would get around at the dear Miss Lodge who would be so worried! – Well, that's brilliant! I am quite amazed! couldn't have guessed anything! – So much elegance and abundance! – I haven't seen anything like this since – Well, where are we supposed to sit? where should we sit? Somewhere, so Jane is not in a drought. It doesn't matter where I sit. Oh! Do you recommend this page? – Well, I'm sure Mr. Curcelle – but it seems too good – but as you like. What you are commanding in this House cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how can we ever remember half of the dishes for grandma? Soup too! Bless me! I shouldn't be helped so quickly, but it smells excellent, and I can't help but get started."
Emma didn't have the opportunity to talk to Mr. Hill until after dinner; but when they were all back in the ballroom, their eyes irresistibly invited him to come to her and say thank you. He was warm in his condemnation of Mr Alton's conduct; it had been an unforgivable rudeness; and Mrs. Alton's appearance also received the due share of reproach.
"They wanted to wound more than Harriet," he said. Emma?? why are they your enemies?"
He saw with smiling penetration; and when she received no response, she added, "I suspect she shouldn't be angry with you, whatever he may be. – Of course, you do not say anything about this assumption; but confess, Emma, ?? that you wanted him to marry Harriet."
"I did," Emma replied, "?" and they cannot forgive me."
He shook his head; but there was a forgiving smile, and he just
said,
"I'm not going to scold you. I'll leave you to your own considerations."
"Can you entrust me with such flatterers? – Does my vain spirit ever tell me that I am wrong?"
"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit. If one misleads you, I'm sure the other will tell you."
"I admit that I was completely wrong about Mr. Alton. There's one little thing about him that you discovered that I didn't discover: and I was firmly convinced that he was in love with Harriet. It was through a series of strange mistakes!"
"And in return for acknowledging so much, I will justifiably tell you that you made a better choice for him than he did for himself. – Harriet Smith has some first-class qualities, which Mrs. Alton is completely without. An unpretentious, determined, naïve girl – infinitely preferable to any man with mind and taste to a woman like Mrs. Alton. I found Harriet more accomplished than I expected."
Emma was extremely pleased. — They were interrupted by the hustle and bustle of Mr. Winstone, who called on everyone to start dancing again.
"Come, Miss Lodge, Miss Otway, Miss Saxon, what are you all doing? – Come, Emma, ?? give your comrades an example. Every body is lazy! Every body sleeps!"
"I'm ready," Emma said, "?" whenever I am needed."
"Who are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Hill.
She hesitated for a moment and then replied, "With you if you ask me."
"Will you?" he said, offering his hand.
"Indeed, I will. You've proven that you can dance, and you know we're not really that much brother and sister to make it indecent at all."
" Brother and sister! not really."
Chapter 183
A cursory glance was enough to convince Catherine that her apartment was very different from the one Henry had tried to describe. It was by no means excessively large and contained neither tapestry nor velvet. The walls were wallpapered, the floor carpeted; the windows were neither less perfect nor darker than those of the salon below; the furniture, though not from the latest fashion, was pretty and comfortable, and the atmosphere of the room was anything but unforgiving. Since her heart was instantly calmed on this point, she decided not to waste time to investigate anything in particular, as she was very afraid of disappointing the general by any delay. Her cowl was therefore thrown off in a hurry, and she was preparing to loosen the laundry package that the chaise seat had mediated for her immediate accommodation when her gaze suddenly fell on a large tall chest standing back in a deep niche on one side of the fireplace. The sight made them cringe; and forgetting everything else, she stood there and stared at it in motionless amazement as these thoughts ran through her:
"This is indeed strange! I did not expect such a sight! A tremendously heavy chest! What can it hold? Why should it be placed here? Also pushed back, as if it should be out of sight! I will examine it – whatever the cost, I will examine it – directly – in daylight. If I stay until the evening, my candle can go out." She stepped forward and examined it closely: it was made of cedar wood, strangely inlaid with slightly darker wood and built about a foot above the ground on a carved stand made of the same. The castle was silver, although tarnished by age; at each end were the imperfect remains of handles, also made of silver, which may have been prematurely broken by a strange force; and in the middle of the lid was a mysterious cipher made of the same metal. Catherine bent over it attentively, but without being able to distinguish anything with certainty. She couldn't go in whichever direction she took it, believe that the last letter is a T; and yet it was a fact that it should be something else in this House not to cause ordinary astonishment. If it wasn't originally theirs, what strange events could have brought it into the Alsina family?
Her anxious curiosity grew at every moment; and she grasped the clasp of the castle with trembling hands and decided to at least convince herself of its contents under all circumstances. With difficulty, for something seemed to be resisting her efforts, she lifted the lid a few centimeters; but at that moment, a sudden knock on the door of the room startled her, gave up her hold, and the lid closed with frightening ferocity. This outdated intruder was Miss Alsina's maid, who was sent by her mistress to benefit Miss Fenmore; and although Catherine immediately dismissed her, it reminded her of what she should do and, despite her anxious desire to penetrate this secret, forced her to continue dressing without further delay. Their progress was not fast, for their thoughts and eyes were still focused on the object so well calculated for interest and concern; and although she dared not to waste a moment on a second attempt, she could not stay many steps away from the chest. Finally, however, after putting an arm in her dress, her toilet seemed so almost finished that the impatience of her curiosity could surely be given in. A moment could certainly be spared; and so desperate should be the effort of its power that if it is not secured by supernatural means, the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! and although she dared not to waste a moment on a second attempt, she could not stay many steps away from the chest. Finally, however, after putting an arm in her dress, her toilet seemed so almost finished that the impatience of her curiosity could surely be given in. A moment could certainly be spared; and so desperate should be the effort of its power that if it is not secured by supernatural means, the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! and although she dared not to waste a moment on a second attempt, she could not stay many steps away from the chest. Finally, however, after putting an arm in her dress, her toilet seemed so almost finished that the impatience of her curiosity could surely be given in. A moment could certainly be spared; and so desperate should be the effort of its power that if it is not secured by supernatural means, the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! After putting an arm in her dress, her toilet seemed so almost finished that the impatience of her curiosity could surely be yielded to. A moment could certainly be spared; and so desperate should be the effort of its power that if it is not secured by supernatural means, the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! After putting an arm in her dress, her toilet seemed so almost finished that the impatience of her curiosity could surely be yielded to. A moment could certainly be spared; and so desperate should be the effort of its power that if it is not secured by supernatural means, the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession! the lid should be thrown back in a moment. With this spirit, she jumped forward, and her trust did not deceive her. Their determined effort threw back the lid and gave their astonished eyes the sight of a white cotton blanket resting properly folded at one end of the chest in undisputed possession!
She looked at it with the first blush of surprise when Miss Alsina, worried about whether her friend would be ready, entered the room, and to the growing shame of having cherished an absurd expectation for a few minutes, the shame of being caught in it was added. "This is a strange old chest, isn't it?" said Miss Alsina as Catherine hastily closed it and turned to the glass. "It's impossible to say how many generations there are here. How it came about that it was brought to this room, I do not know, but I did not let it move because I thought it might sometimes be useful to hold hats and hoods. The worst thing is that it is difficult to open due to its weight. But at least it's out of the way in this corner."
Catherine had no leisure to talk, blushed immediately, tied her dress and made wise decisions with the fiercest determination. Miss Alsina gently hinted at her fear of being late; and in half a minute they walked down the stairs together, in a not entirely unfounded concern, for General Alsina went up and down the salon, the clock in his hand, and had pulled the bell by force at the moment of their entry, ordered "Dinner directly on the table!"
Catherine trembled at the emphasis he spoke to, and sat there pale and breathless, in the most humble mood, worried about his children, and loathing old chests; and the general, who regained his courtesy when he looked at her, spent the rest of his time scolding his daughter for having so foolishly rushed her beautiful friend, who was completely out of breath in a hurry, when there was not the slightest opportunity to hurry up the world: but Catherine could not overcome the double torment, To have involved her friend in a lecture and to have been a great simplicity herself until they sat happily at the dining table, when the smug smile of the general and a good appetite of their own came up, put her back in peace. The dining room was a noble space, in its dimensions equivalent to a much larger salon than the usual one, and furnished in a style of luxury and cost that almost escaped the untrained eye of Catherine, who saw little more than its spaciousness and the number of her companions. From the former, she loudly expressed her admiration; and the general conceded, with a very gracious expression on his face, that it was by no means a room of small size, and further confessed that, although he was as negligent in such things as most people, he regarded a rather large dining room as such a necessities of life; he assumed, however, "that they had a much larger apartment with Mr. Must be used to everyone?" with a very gracious expression, admitted that it was by no means a room of small size, and further confessed that although he was as careless in such things as most people, he saw a fairly large dining room as one of the necessities of living; he assumed, however, "that they had a much larger apartment with Mr. Must be used to everyone?" with a very gracious expression, admitted that it was by no means a room of small size, and further confessed that although he was as careless in such things as most people, he saw a fairly large dining room as one of the necessities of living; he assumed, however, "that they had a much larger apartment with Mr. Everyone has to be used to?"
"No, indeed," was Catherine's honest assurance; "Sir. Allen's dining room was no more than half the size," and she had never seen a room as large as this in her life. The good mood of the general increased. Since he had such rooms, he thought it was easy not to use them; but in his honor, he believed that there would be more comfort in rooms only half the size. Mr. Allen's house, he was convinced, had to be just the right size for rational happiness.
The evening passed without further disturbance and, with the occasional absence of General Alsina, with a lot of positive cheerfulness. Only in his presence did Catherine feel the slightest fatigue from her journey; and even then, even in moments of dullness or restraint, a general feeling of happiness prevailed, and she could think of her friends in Bath without even the slightest desire to be with them.
The night was stormy; the wind was refreshed all afternoon from time to time; and when the party stopped, it blew and rained heavily. Catherine listened with reverence to the storm as she crossed the hall; and when she heard it raging around a corner of the old building and closing a distant door with sudden anger, she felt for the first time that she was really in an abbey. Yes, these were characteristic sounds; they reminded them of an innumerable variety of terrible situations and horrific scenes that had experienced such buildings and initiated such storms; and most warmly she rejoiced in the happier circumstances that accompanied her entry into such solemn walls! She had nothing to fear from midnight murderers or drunken gallants. Henry had certainly only had fun with what he had told her that morning. In a house so set up and so guarded, she had nothing to explore or suffer and could safely walk into her bedroom as if it were her own room in Fullerton. As wise as her opinion strengthened when she went upstairs, she was empowered, especially when she realized that Miss Alsina slept only two doors from her to enter her room with a bearably strong heart; and their mood was immediately supported by the cheerful flame of a wood fire. "How much better is that," she said as she walked to the fender — "how much better to find a fully lit fire than to have to wait trembling in the cold for the whole family to lie in bed, as so many poor girls must have, and then to have a faithful old servant who scares you by coming in with a faggot! How glad I am that Northanger is the way it is! If it had been like in other places,
she looked around the room. The window curtains seemed to move. It could be nothing but the fierceness of the wind that penetrated through the shutters; and she boldly stepped forward, carelessly hummed a melody to convince herself of it, bravely peered behind every curtain, saw nothing on both low windowsills that could scare her, and when she put a hand against the shutters, she felt the strongest conviction of the power of the wind. A glance at the old chest as it turned away from this investigation was not without benefit; she spurned the gratuitous fears of an idle imagination and, with the happiest indifference, began to get ready for bed. "She should take her time; she should not hurry; she didn't care if she was the last person upstairs in the house. But she did not want to make her fire; that would be cowardly, as if she wanted light protection after the bed." The fire went out, therefore, and Catherine, who had spent almost an hour with her precautions, began to think of going to bed when, as she looked around the room to say goodbye, she was surprised by a rush, old-fashioned black closet that she had never noticed, though in a conspicuous situation. Henry's words, his description of the ebony cabinet, which was initially to escape her observation, immediately fell over her; and although nothing could really be in it, there was something bizarre about it, it was certainly a very remarkable coincidence! She took her candle and looked closely at the closet. It wasn't necessarily ebony and gold; but it was japan, black-yellow japan of the most beautiful kind; and when she held her candle, the yellow had very much the effect of gold. The key was in the door, and she had a strange desire to look inside; however, not with the slightest expectation of finding anything, but it was so strange, according to what Henry had said. In short, she couldn't sleep until she examined it. So she placed the candle on a chair with great caution, grabbed the key with a very trembling hand and tried to turn it over; but it resisted their utmost power. Worried, but not discouraged, she tried otherwise; a bolt flew, and she believed she was successful; but how strangely mysterious! The door was still immovable. She paused for a moment in breathless amazement. The wind howled through the chimney, the rain poured against the windows, and everything seemed to speak of the horror of their situation. However, to retreat to bed, to be unsatisfied at such a point would be in vain, since sleep must be impossible with the consciousness of such a mysteriously closed cabinet in their immediate vicinity. Therefore, she turned again to the key, and after moving it for a few moments with the determined speed of the last effort of hope in every possible way, the door suddenly gave way to her hand: her heart jumped with jubilation over such a victory, and after she had torn open every folding door, the second was secured only by latches of less wonderful construction than the lock, although her eye could not see anything unusual, a double row of small drawers appeared to you with some larger drawers at the top and bottom; and in the middle a small door, also locked with lock and key, in all probability secured an important cavity. since sleep had to be impossible with the consciousness of such a mysteriously closed closet in their immediate vicinity. Therefore, she turned again to the key, and after moving it for a few moments with the determined speed of the last effort of hope in every possible way, the door suddenly gave way to her hand: her heart jumped with jubilation over such a victory, and after she had torn open every folding door, the second was secured only by latches of less wonderful construction than the lock, although her eye could not see anything unusual, a double row of small drawers appeared to you with some larger drawers at the top and bottom; and in the middle a small door, also locked with lock and key, in all probability secured an important cavity. since sleep had to be impossible with the consciousness of such a mysteriously closed closet in their immediate vicinity. Therefore, she turned again to the key, and after moving it for a few moments with the determined speed of the last effort of hope in every possible way, the door suddenly gave way to her hand: her heart jumped with jubilation over such a victory, and after she had torn open every folding door, the second was secured only by latches of less wonderful construction than the lock, although her eye could not see anything unusual, a double row of small drawers appeared to you with some larger drawers at the top and bottom; and in the middle a small door, also locked with lock and key, in all probability secured an important cavity.
Catherine's heart beat fast, but her courage did not let her down. With cheeks reddened with hope and eyes strained with curiosity, her fingers reached for the handle of a drawer and pulled it out. It was completely empty. With less concern and greater zeal, she seized a second, a third, a fourth; everyone was equally empty. No one remained unsearched, and nothing was found in any. Well versed in the art of hiding a treasure, she did not miss the possibility of false linings of the drawers, and she groped in vain with anxious sharpness around each one. Only the place in the middle remained unexplored; and although she "had not the slightest idea from the outset of finding anything in any part of the cabinet, and was not in the least disappointed by her bad success so far, it would be foolish not to investigate it thoroughly while she was at it." However, it took some time for her to open the door, as the same difficulty occurred in handling this inner lock as in the outer one; but finally it opened up; and not in vain, as before, was their search; Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper, which was apparently pushed back to the back of the cavity to hide, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest. "However, it took some time for her to be able to open the door, as the same difficulty occurred in handling this inner lock as in the outer one; but finally it opened up; and not in vain, as before, was their search; Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper, which was apparently pushed back to the back of the cavity to hide, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest. "However, it took some time for her to be able to open the door, as the same difficulty occurred in handling this inner lock as in the outer one; but finally it opened up; and not in vain, as before, was their search; Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper, which was apparently pushed back to the back of the cavity to hide, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest. the same difficulty that occurs in the handling of this inner lock as in the outer one; but finally it opened up; and not in vain, as before, was their search; Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper pushed back to the back of the cavity, apparently to hide her, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest. the same difficulty that occurs in the handling of this inner lock as in the outer one; but finally it opened up; and not in vain, as before, was their search; Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper, which was apparently pushed back to the back of the cavity to hide, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest. Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper, which was apparently pushed back to the back of the cavity to hide, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest. Her quick eyes fell directly on a roll of paper, which was apparently pushed back to the back of the cavity to hide, and her feelings at that moment were indescribable. Her heart was pounding, her knees were shaking, and her cheeks became pale. She grasped the precious manuscript with an uncertain hand, for half a glance was enough to determine characters; and while noting this powerful example of what Henry had predicted with terrible sensations, she immediately decided to read every line before trying to rest.
The dim light emitted by her candle caused her to turn to her with concern; but there was no danger of its sudden extinction; it still had a few hours to burn; and so that she would have no greater difficulty in distinguishing the scripture than what its old date might cause, she hastily deleted it. Oh! It was snorted in one and deleted. A lamp could not have leaked with a more terrible effect. Catherine was motionless for a few moments in horror. It was completely done; no remnant of light in the wick could give hope to the newly sparked breath. Impenetrable and immovable darkness filled the room. A violent gust of wind, rising with sudden anger, added new horror to the moment. Catherine trembled from head to toe. In the following pause, a sound such as receding footsteps and the closing of a distant door struck her frightened ear. Human nature could no longer support. A cold sweat stood on her forehead, the manuscript fell out of her hand, and she felt her way to the bed, jumped in hastily, and sought an interruption of the torment by crawling deep under her clothes. Closing her eyes that night in her sleep seemed completely out of the question. With such a fairly aroused curiosity and a feeling so aroused in every respect, peace must be absolutely impossible. The storm also abroad so terrible! She wasn't used to feeling alarmed by wind, but now every explosion seemed to be full of terrible intelligence. The manuscript, so wonderfully found, so wonderfully fulfilling the prediction of the morning, how was that to be calculated? What could it contain? Who could it refer to? How could it be concealed for so long? And how strangely strange that it should fall to her to discover it! However, until she had made herself the mistress of its contents, she could have neither rest nor comfort; and with the first rays of sunshine she was determined to read it. But many were the arduous hours that still had to intervene. She shuddered, rolled in her bed and envied every quiet sleeper. The storm was still raging, and the sounds were manifold, even more terrible than the wind that from time to time struck her frightened ear. The curtains of her bed seemed to be in motion one moment, and the next the lock of her door was churned out, as if someone was trying to enter. Hollow murmurs seemed to creep along the gallery, and more than once their blood was cooled by the sound of distant moaning. Hour after hour passed, and the exhausted Catherine had heard three of all the clocks in house announce before the storm subsided or she unknowingly fell asleep.
Chapter 184
Had Elizabeth's opinion been drawn entirely from her own family, she would not have been able to form a very pleasant opinion about marital happiness or domestic comfort. Her father, enchanted by youth and beauty and the appearance of good humor that youth and beauty in general radiate, had married a woman whose weak mind and illiberal spirit had put an end to any genuine affection for her very early in her marriage. Respect, appreciation and trust were gone forever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Mitchell was not inclined to seek solace for the disappointment that his own carelessness had brought, in any amusements that all too often comfort the unfortunate over their folly and vice. He loved the land and books; and from these preferences his main pleasures had arisen. He owed very little else to his wife, as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the kind of happiness that a man generally wants to owe to his wife; but where other possibilities of entertainment are lacking, the true philosopher will benefit from those that are given.
However, Elizabeth had never been blind to her father's inappropriate behavior as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities and grateful for his loving treatment of herself, she strove to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts the continuing breach of marital obligation and decency that exposed his wife to contempt for her own children was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt as strongly as now the disadvantages that must be attached to the children of such an inappropriate marriage, never before has she been so fully aware of the evils that arise from such an ill-considered direction of talent; Talents who, properly used, would at least have preserved the honorability of his daughters, albeit incapable of expanding the spirit of his wife.
When Elizabeth was pleased with Waterhouse's departure, she found little other reason to be pleased with the loss of the regiment. Her parties abroad were less varied than they used to be, and at home she had a mother and sister whose constant whining at the dullness of everything around her threw a real gloom over her domestic circle; and although Kitty would regain her natural degree of sanity over time, as the disturbers of her brain were eliminated, her other sister, whose predisposition could be used to fear greater evil, would probably be hardened by a situation in all her folly and self-assurance from such a double danger as a watering hole and camp. On the whole, therefore, she found what has sometimes been found in the past, that an event for which she had waited with impatient longing did not take place, bringing all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was therefore necessary to name another time for the beginning of real happiness, to have another point at which their desires and hopes could be pinned down, and to console themselves by reliving themselves of the anticipation of the present and preparing for another disappointment. Her tour to the lakes was now the subject of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours that made the dissatisfaction of her mother and Kitty inevitable; and had she been able to include Jane in the plan, every part of it would have been perfect. and by enjoying the pleasure of anticipation again, she comforts herself for the present and prepares for another disappointment. Her tour to the lakes was now the subject of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours that made the dissatisfaction of her mother and Kitty inevitable; and had she been able to include Jane in the plan, every part of it would have been perfect. and by enjoying the pleasure of anticipation again, she comforts herself for the present and prepares for another disappointment. Her tour to the lakes was now the subject of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours that made the dissatisfaction of her mother and Kitty inevitable; and had she been able to include Jane in the plan, every part of it would have been perfect.
"But it's lucky," she thought, "that I have something to wish for. If the whole arrangement were complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, as I carry around an incessant source of regret about my sister's absence, I can reasonably hope that all my expectations of pleasure will be met. A plan of which every part promises joy can never be successful; and general disappointment is only fended off by defending a little peculiar anger.'
When Linda left, she promised to write to her mother and Kitty very often and very accurately; but her letters were always long awaited and always very short. Those to her mother contained little other than that they had just been brought back from the library, where this and that officer had visited them and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments that made her wild; that she had a new dress or a new parasol, which she would have described in more detail, but had to stop in a violent hurry, as Mrs Forster called her, and they went to the camp; and there was even less to learn from her correspondence with her sister – because her letters to Kitty, although a little longer, were far too full lines under the words to be published.
After the first fourteen days or three weeks of her absence, health, good mood and happiness reappeared in Longbourn. Everything had a more cheerful aspect. The families who had spent the winter in the city came back, and summer cleaning and summer commitments arose. Ms. Mitchell was restored to her usual quarrelsome cheerfulness; and by mid-June, Kitty had recovered so much that she could enter Meryton without tears; an event so promising that Elizabeth gave hope that by the following Christmas she would be so bearably reasonable not to mention one of the above officers once a day, unless another regiment was to be quartered in Meryton by a cruel and malicious order in the War Department.
The time set for the beginning of her northern journey was now rapidly approaching, and only fourteen days were missing when a letter from Mrs. Lockhart arrived, which immediately delayed her start and limited her scope. Mr. Lockhart would be prevented from leaving until fourteen days later in July for business reasons and had to be back in London within a month, and since this remained too short for them to go as far and see as much as they had suggested, or at least to see it with leisure and comfort, On which they had built, they were forced to abandon the lakes and replace a narrower tour, and according to the current plan were not to go further north than Derbyshire. There was enough to see in this county to keep most of its three weeks busy; and on Mrs. Lockhart it had a particularly strong attraction.
Elizabeth was overly disappointed; She had taken it upon herself to see the lakes and still thought that maybe there had been enough time. But it was up to them to be satisfied – and certainly their temperament to be happy; and everything was soon in order again.
There were many ideas associated with the mention of Derbyshire. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and his owner. "But sure," she said, "I can enter his county with impunity and rob her of a few petrified spars without him noticing me."
The expected period has now been doubled. Four weeks were to pass before the arrival of her uncle and aunt. But they died, and Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart with their four children finally appeared in Longbourn. The children, two girls aged six and eight and two younger boys, were to remain under the special care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite and whose consistent sense and sweet temperament adapted them exactly to take care of them in every way – to teach them, play with them and love them.
The Lockharts stayed only one night in Longbourn and the next morning set out with Elizabeth in search of news and entertainment. One joy was certain – that of the suitability of companions; a suitability that included health and temperament to endure discomfort – cheerfulness to increase any pleasure – and affection and intelligence that could provide for each other when there was disappointment abroad.
It is not the aim of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which it passed; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham etc. are well known. A small part of Derbyshire is the whole current concern. After the small town of Lambton, the setting of Mrs. Lockhart's former residence, and where she had recently experienced some acquaintances, they bent their steps after seeing all the main wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth learned from her aunt that Pemberley was located. It wasn't in their direct road, still more than a mile or two away. When Mrs. Lockhart spoke about her route the night before, she expressed a desire to see the place again. Mr. Lockhart declared his willingness,
"My dear, don't you want to see a place you've heard so much about?" said her aunt; "Also a place with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Waterhouse spent all his youth there, you know."
Elizabeth was desperate. She felt that she had no business in Pemberley and had to assume that she didn't want to see it. She has to admit that she was tired of seeing big houses; after going through so many, she really didn't enjoy fine carpets or satin curtains.
Mrs. Lockhart has abused her stupidity. "If it were just a beautiful, richly equipped house," she said, "I wouldn't care about it; but the facilities are delightful. They have some of the most beautiful forests in the country."
Elizabeth said nothing more – but her mind could not comply. The opportunity to meet Drury-san arose immediately during the tour of the place. It would be terrible! She blushed at the mere introduction and thought it would be better to talk openly with her aunt than to take such a risk. But there were objections to that; and she finally decided that it could be the last resource if her private inquiries about the family's absence were not answered positively.
So when she retired in the evening, she asked the maid if Pemberley wasn't a very nice place? What was the owner's name? and, without much concern, whether the family was down for the summer? The last question was followed by a most welcome denial – and now that her alarms had been eliminated, she had leisure, a great curiosity to see the house for herself; and when the subject was taken up again the next morning and she turned to her again, she could answer willingly and with appropriate indifference that she actually had no aversion to the scheme. So they should go to Pemberley.
Chapter 185
Edmund had great things to hear on his return. Many surprises awaited him. The first thing that happened was not least of interest: the appearance of Henry Dorset and his sister, who walked through the village together as he rode in. He had come to the conclusion – he had meant that they were far away. His absence had been deliberately extended beyond fourteen days to avoid Miss Dorset. He returned to Mansfield with a spirit ready to feed on melancholic memories and tender associations as her own beautiful self stood before him, propped up on her brother's arm, and he found himself undeniably warmly welcomed by the woman who was two Moments before he had thought it was seventy miles away and further, much further away from it than any distance could express.
Her reception from him was of a kind he could not have hoped for if he had expected to see her. When he came from such a fulfilled purpose that had taken him away, he would have expected anything but a satisfied look and words of simple, pleasant meaning. It was enough to make his heart glow and bring him home in the best condition to feel the full value of the other joyful surprises.
William's promotion, with all its details, was soon his master; and with such a secret consolation in his own chest to support joy, he found in it a source of extremely gratifying sensations and unchanging cheerfulness throughout the lunch break.
After dinner, when he and his father were alone, he had Esther's story; and then he was aware of all the great events of the last fourteen days and the present situation in Mansfield.
Esther sensed what was going on. They sat in the dining room so much longer than usual that she was sure they were talking about her; and when the tea finally took her away and she was to be seen again by Edmund, she felt terribly guilty. He came to her, sat down next to her, took her hand and pressed her kindly; and at that moment she thought so, but for the occupation and the scene that the tea stuff granted, she must have betrayed her feelings in an unforgivable excess.
However, he had no intention of conveying to her, through such an act, the unconditional approval and encouragement that her hopes derived from it. It was only meant to express his participation in everything that interested her and tell her that he had heard what enlivened every feeling of affection. In fact, he was completely on his father's side on this issue. His surprise was not as great as his father's that she rejected Dorset, for far from having assumed that she looked at him with a preference, he had always believed the opposite and could imagine that she was received completely unprepared, but Sir Thomas could not think the connection was more desirable than he was. It had every recommendation for him; and while I honored her for what she had done under the influence of her present indifference, He honored her in slightly stronger words than Sir Thomas could disagree, and hoped earnestly and confidently that there would finally be an agreement and that, united by mutual affection, it would seem just right to make them blessed into one another, as he now began to seriously consider them. Dorset had been too hasty. He hadn't given her time to commit. It had started at the wrong end. However, with such forces as his and such a disposition as her, Edmund trusted that everything would lead to a happy ending. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Esther's embarrassment to be careful not to excite her a second time with any word, look, or movement. and optimistic in the belief that it would finally become a couple, and that, united by mutual affection, it would seem that their predispositions were apt to make them beneficial to each other, as he now began to think seriously about it. Dorset had been too hasty. He hadn't given her time to commit. It had started at the wrong end. However, with such forces as his and such a disposition as her, Edmund trusted that everything would lead to a happy ending. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Esther's embarrassment to be careful not to excite her a second time with any word, look, or movement. and optimistic in the belief that it would finally become a couple, and that, united by mutual affection, it would seem that their predispositions were apt to make them beneficial to each other, as he now began to think seriously about it. Dorset had been too hasty. He hadn't given her time to commit. It had started at the wrong end. However, with such forces as his and such a disposition as her, Edmund trusted that everything would lead to a happy ending. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Esther's embarrassment to be careful not to excite her a second time with any word, look, or movement. because now he began to think seriously about it. Dorset had been too hasty. He hadn't given her time to commit. It had started at the wrong end. However, with such forces as his and such a disposition as her, Edmund trusted that everything would lead to a happy ending. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Esther's embarrassment to be careful not to excite her a second time with any word, look, or movement. because now he began to think seriously about it. Dorset had been too hasty. He hadn't given her time to commit. It had started at the wrong end. However, with such forces as his and such a disposition as her, Edmund trusted that everything would lead to a happy ending. Meanwhile, he saw enough of Esther's embarrassment to be careful not to excite her a second time with any word, look, or movement.
Dorset called the next day, and when Edmund returned, Sir Thomas felt more than entitled to ask him to stay for dinner; it was really a necessary compliment. He remained natural, and Edmund then had ample opportunity to watch as he raced along with Esther and what degree of immediate encouragement he could draw from her manners; and it was so little, so very, very little - every chance, every possibility of it, based only on their embarrassment; if there was no hope in their confusion, there was hope in nothing else - that he was almost ready to wonder about his friend's persistence. Esther was worth it all; He thought she was worth every effort of patience, every mental effort, but he did not believe that he could have gone on himself with a breathing woman without a little more to warm his courage than his eyes could see in hers. He was very willing to hope that Dorset saw more clearly, and this was the most pleasant conclusion for his friend from everything he observed before, during and after eating.
In the evening, some circumstances occurred that he considered more promising. When he and Dorset entered the salon, his mother and Esther sat at work so concentrated and silent, as if there was nothing else to take care of. Edmund couldn't help but notice her seemingly deep calm.
"We haven't been so silent all along," his mother replied. "Esther read to me and didn't put the book away until she heard you coming." And indeed, there was a book on the table that looked like it had only recently been closed: a volume of Shakespeare. "She often reads to me from these books; and she was in the middle of a very beautiful speech by this man – what is his name, Esther? – when we heard your footsteps."
Dorset took the tape. "Let me have the pleasure of ending this speech to your ladyship," he said. "I'll find it right away." And by cautiously giving in to the inclination of the leaves, he found it, or within a page or two, quite close enough to satisfy Lady Schmidt, who assured him, as soon as he mentioned the name of Cardinal Wolsey, that he had received the very speech. Esther had made neither a glance nor an offer of help; no syllable for or against. All her attention was focused on her work. She seemed determined not to care about anything else. But the taste was too strong in her. She could not distract her thoughts for five minutes: she was forced to listen; his reading was great and her enjoyment of good reading extreme. However, she had long been accustomed to good reading: her uncle read well, her cousins ?? all, Edmund very good, but in Mr. Dorset. His reading there was a variety of excellence that went beyond what she had ever encountered. The King, queen, Buckingham, Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest talent, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always land at will on the best scene or the best speeches of everyone; and whether it was dignity or pride or tenderness or remorse or whatever was to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was really dramatic. His acting had first taught Esther what pleasure a play could bring, and his reading brought all his acting back to her mind; no, perhaps with greater pleasure, because it came unexpectedly and without such disadvantages that she used to suffer when she saw him on stage with Miss Schmidt. Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest talent, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always land at will on the best scene or the best speeches of everyone; and whether it was dignity or pride or tenderness or remorse or whatever was to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was really dramatic. His acting had first taught Esther what pleasure a play could bring, and his reading brought all his acting back to her mind; no, perhaps with greater pleasure, because it came unexpectedly and without such disadvantages that she used to suffer when she saw him on stage with Miss Schmidt. Wolsey, Cromwell, all were given in turn; for with the happiest talent, the happiest power of jumping and guessing, he could always land at will on the best scene or the best speeches of everyone; and whether it was dignity or pride or tenderness or remorse or whatever was to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was really dramatic. His acting had first taught Esther what pleasure a play could bring, and his reading brought all his acting back to her mind; no, perhaps with greater pleasure, because it came unexpectedly and without such disadvantages that she used to suffer when she saw him on stage with Miss Schmidt. and whether it was dignity or pride or tenderness or remorse or whatever was to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was really dramatic. His acting had first taught Esther what pleasure a play could bring, and his reading brought all his acting back to her mind; no, perhaps with greater pleasure, because it came unexpectedly and without such disadvantages that she used to suffer when she saw him on stage with Miss Schmidt. and whether it was dignity or pride or tenderness or remorse or whatever was to be expressed, he could do it with equal beauty. It was really dramatic. His acting had first taught Esther what pleasure a play could bring, and his reading brought all his acting back to her mind; no, perhaps with greater pleasure, because it came unexpectedly and without such disadvantages that she used to suffer when she saw him on stage with Miss Schmidt.
Edmund watched the progress of her attention and was amused and pleased to see how she gradually faded into the manual work that at first seemed to keep her completely occupied: how she fell out of her hand as she sat motionless over it, and finally, how the eyes, which seemed so eager to avoid him throughout the day, were fixed on Dorset – fixated on him for minutes, in short, fixated on him until Dorset's attraction drew on her and the book was closed, and so on charm was broken. Then she shrank back into herself, blushed and worked as hard as ever; but it had been enough to encourage Edmund for his friend, and when he thanked him warmly, he hoped to express Esther's secret feelings as well.
"This piece must be a favorite with you," he said; "You read as if you knew well."
"I think it will be a favourite from this hour on," Dorset replied; "But I don't think I've ever had a Shakespeare volume in my hand since I was fifteen years old. I once saw Henry the Eighth play, or I heard from someone who did, I'm not sure which one. But you get to know Shakespeare without knowing how. It is part of the constitution of an Englishman. His thoughts and beauties are so widespread that you can touch them everywhere; you are instinctively familiar with him. No man in his mind can open a good part of one of his pieces without immediately falling into the flow of its meaning."
"Undoubtedly, Shakespeare has been known to some extent," Edmund said, "since his earliest years. His famous passages are quoted by all; they are in half of the books we open, and we all talk about Shakespeare, use his parables and describe with his descriptions; but this is completely different from reproducing its meaning as you have given it. Knowing him in pieces and shreds is common enough; knowing him quite thoroughly may not be unusual; but reading it well is not an everyday talent."
"Sir, you do me honor," was Dorset's response with a bow of played seriousness.
Both gentlemen took a look at Esther to see if she could be praised; but both felt that it could not be. Their praise had been given in their attention; that must satisfy them.
Lady Schmidt's admiration was pronounced, and strong. "It was really like being in a play," she said. "I wish Sir Thomas had been here."
Dorset was extremely satisfied. If Lady Schmidt, with all her incompetence and dullness, could feel this, the conclusion of what her niece, alive and enlightened as she was, had to feel was uplifting.
"I'm sure, Dorset-san, you have a great talent for acting," her ladyhood said shortly afterwards; "And I'll tell you what, I think you're going to have a theater in your house in Norfolk at some point. I mean, if you settled there. Indeed, I do. I think you're going to set up a theater in your home in Norfolk."
"Have you, Ma'am?" he shouted quickly. "No, no, there will never be. Her ladyhood is quite wrong. No theatre in Everingham! Oh no!" And he looked at Esther with an expressive smile, which obviously meant, "This lady will never allow a theater in Everingham."
Edmund saw everything, and saw Esther, who was determined not to see it, to make it clear that the voice was enough to convey the full meaning of the protest; and such a quick awareness of a compliment, such a quick understanding of a clue, he thought, was more favorable than not.
The topic of reading aloud was discussed further. The two young men were the only speakers, but they talked, standing by the fire, about the all too frequent neglect of qualifications, the complete inattention to it, in the ordinary school system for boys, the consequently natural, but in some cases almost unnatural degree of ignorance and clumsiness of people, of reasonable and well-informed people, when they were suddenly called to the need to read aloud, what had come to their minds, giving examples of mistakes and failures with their secondary causes, the lack, of dealing with the voice, the correct modulation and emphasis, of foresight and judgment, all starting from the first cause: lack of early attention and habit; and Esther listened again with great entertainment.
"Even in my profession," Edmund said with a smile, "how little has the art of reading been studied! how little attention was paid to a clear appearance and a good presentation! However, I am talking about the past rather than the present. There is now a spirit of optimism abroad; but among those who were ordained twenty, thirty, forty years ago, the greater number, judging by their achievement, must have thought that reading was reading and preaching was preaching. That's different now. The topic is viewed more fairly. It is believed that clarity and energy can carry weight when it comes to recommending the most solid truths; and besides, there is more general observation and taste, a more critical knowledge spread than before; in every community there is a larger proportion who understand something about the matter and who can judge and criticize."
Edmund had already gone through the divine service once since his ordination; and when this was understood, he had a variety of questions from Dorset concerning his feelings and his success; Questions that were asked, although with the liveliness of friendly interest and quick taste, without any hint of banter or cheerfulness that Edmund knew was the most offensive to Esther, gave him a real pleasure; and when Dorset continued to ask him for his opinion and give his own about how best to present certain passages in worship, and turned out to be a subject he had previously thought about and thought about with judgment, Edmund was even more convinced and satisfied. That would be the way to Esther's heart. It could not be won by everything that gallantry and wit and good-naturedness could do together; or at least,
"Our liturgy," Dorset noted, "has beauties that not even a careless, sloppy reading style can destroy; but it also has redundancies and repetitions that require good reading in order not to feel. At least for myself, I have to admit that I'm not always as attentive as I should be" (here was a look at Esther); "that I think nineteen out of twenty times about how such a prayer should be read, and long to be able to read it myself. Did you speak?" eagerly approach Esther and address her in a soft voice; and when she said "no," he added, "Are you sure you didn't say anything? I saw your lips move. I thought you might tell me to be more attentive and not let my thoughts wander. Don't you want to tell me?"
"No, you actually know your duty too well for me – even if I assume – to
pause, feel herself getting into a mystery, and could not be made to add another word, not by several minutes of pleading and waiting. Then he returned to his former station and continued as if there had been no such tender interruption.
"A well-delivered sermon is even more unusual than well-read prayers. A good sermon in itself is not uncommon. It is more difficult to speak well than to compose well; that is, the rules and tricks of composition are often the subject of study. A thoroughly good sermon, well presented through and through, is a great satisfaction. I can never hear such a thing without the greatest admiration and respect, and more than half the desire to take orders and preach myself. There is something in the eloquence of the pulpit, when it is truly eloquence that is entitled to the highest praise and honor. The preacher who can touch and influence such a heterogeneous mass of listeners, limited to topics and long worn and flimsy in all ordinary hands; who can say something new or conspicuous, something that attracts attention without hurting taste, or wears down the feelings of his listeners, is a man who could not be honored enough in his public capacity. I want to be such a man."
Edmund laughed.
"Indeed, I should. I have never in my life listened to a respected preacher without some kind of envy. But then I have to have a London audience. I could only preach to the educated; to those who were able to appreciate my composition. And I don't know if I should like to preach often; every now and then, maybe once or twice in the spring, after half a dozen Sundays together were eagerly awaited; but not for consistency; it wouldn't be enough for consistency."
Here Esther, who couldn't help but listen, involuntarily shook her head, and Dorset was immediately back by her side, asking to know her meaning; and when Edmund realized that he pulled up a chair and sat down close to her, that it was to be a very thorough attack, that appearance and undertone should be well tested, he sank as quietly as possible into a corner, turned around his back, and took a newspaper, very sincerely wishing that dear little Esther could be persuaded to do so, to explain away this shaking of the head to the satisfaction of her passionate lover; and as a serious attempt to bury every sound of the business of itself in its own marble, above the various advertisements of "A highly desirable estate in South Wales"; "To parents and guardians"; and a "hunter of the high season".
Esther, meanwhile, resented that she had not been as motionless as she had been speechless, and was deeply saddened to see Edmund's orders, trying to fend off Mr. Dorset and avoid both his looks and his questions with everything that was in her modest, gentle manner; and he, irresistibly, insisted on both.
"What does shaking your head mean?" he said. "What should it express? Disapproval, I'm afraid. But of what? What did I say to displease you? Did you think I would raise the issue inappropriately, lightly and disrespectfully? Just tell me if it was me. Only tell me if I was wrong. I want to be hired correctly. No, no, I beg you; Put down your work for a moment. What does this shaking of the head mean?"
In vain she said, "Pray, my Lord, do not do it; pray, Mr. Dorset," repeated twice; and in vain she tried to leave. With the same quiet, zealous voice and the same close neighborhood, he continued and asked the same questions as before. She became more and more restless and dissatisfied.
"How can you, Lord? They amaze me completely; I wonder how you...«
"Am I astonishing you?", he said. "Are you wondering? Is there something in my current request that you do not understand? I will immediately explain to you everything that causes me to push you in this way, what interests me in your appearance and your actions and arouses my current curiosity. I won't leave you amazed for long."
Involuntarily, she couldn't resist half a smile, but she didn't say anything.
"You shook your head when I admitted that I don't always want to perform the duties of a clergyman for a long time. Yes, that was the word. Consistency: I'm not afraid of the word. I would spell it, read, write it with anyone. I don't see anything disturbing in the word. Did you think I should do it?"
"Maybe, sir," said Esther, who was finally tired of speaking— "maybe, sir, I thought it was a pity that you didn't always know each other as well as you seemed to be at that moment."
Dorset, pleased to get her to talk, was determined to move on; and poor Esther, who had hoped to silence him with such an utter rebuke, sadly found herself in error, and that it was only a change from one object of curiosity and a series of words to another. He always had something to ask for an explanation. The opportunity was too fair. Nothing of the sort had happened since he saw her in her uncle's room, and that wouldn't happen to him again before he left Mansfield. The fact that Lady Schmidt only sat on the other side of the table was a trifle, because she could only ever be considered half-awake, and Edmund's advertising was still of first use.
"Well," Dorset said after a series of quick questions and reluctant answers; "I'm happier than I was because I understand your opinion about me more clearly now. You think I'm insecure: slightly influenced by the mood of the moment, slightly tempted, slightly pushed aside. With such an opinion, no wonder. But we'll see. I will not try to convince you by assurances that I am being wronged; it is not by telling you that my affection is constant. My behavior should speak for me; Absence, distance, time should speak for me. They are meant to prove that I deserve you as far as you can be earned by anyone. You are infinitely superior to me in merit; everything I know. You have qualities that I had never suspected in any human being to such an extent before. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what you see , not only beyond what you see, because you never see something like that – but beyond what you imagine. But still, I'm not afraid. They cannot be won by equal merit. That is out of the question. The one who sees and reveres your merits the most, who loves you most devotedly, has the greatest right to return. That's where I build my self-confidence. With this right, I deserve and will earn you; and once I am convinced that my affection is what I explain, I know you too well not to have the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Esther. No" (sees how she retreats dissatisfied), "forgive me. Maybe I don't have a right yet; but with which ?? other names can I call you? Do you think you're ever present among anyone else in my imagination? No, it's "Esther" that I think about all day and dream of all night. You gave the name such a reality of sweetness,
Esther could hardly have held her seat any longer or, despite all the overly public resistance she foresaw, refrained from at least trying to get away, if there had not been the sound of approaching relief, exactly the sound she had watched for a long time and thought for a long time, strangely delayed.
The solemn procession, led by Baddeley, of tea boards, urns and cake carriers, appeared and freed them from a painful captivity of body and mind. Mr. Dorset had to move. She was free, she was busy, she was protected.
Edmund did not regret being readmitted to the ranks of those who were allowed to speak and listen. But although the conference had seemed long to him, and although he saw a redness of anger when he looked at Esther, he was inclined to hope that so much could not have been said and listened to without gain for the speaker.
Chapter 186
This little explanation with Mr. Hill gave Emma great pleasure. It was one of the pleasant memories of the ball where she walked across the lawn the next morning. – She was very glad that they had communicated so well about the Altons and her opinion about husband and wife were so similar; and his praise of Harriet, his concession in their favor, was particularly satisfying. The impudence of the Altons, who for a few minutes threatened to ruin the rest of their evening, had been the occasion for some of their highest satisfactions; and she was looking forward to another happy outcome – the healing of Harriet's infatuation. From Harriet's way of talking about the circumstances before they left the ballroom, she had high hopes. It seemed as if her eyes were suddenly being opened, and she could see that Mr. Alton was not the superior creature she had believed him. The fever was over, and Emma could not be afraid that the pulse could be accelerated again by hurtful politeness. She relied on the evil feelings of the Altons to provide all the discipline of targeted negligence that could be further required. – Harriet rational, Frank Curcelle not too much in love, and Mr. Hill, who did not want to argue with her, how very happy The summer must be before her!
She wasn't supposed to see Frank Curcelle this morning. He had told her that he could not afford to stop at Hartfield as he would be home until lunchtime. She hasn't regretted it.
Having arranged, reviewed and put all these matters in order, she just turned to the house with a refreshed mind for the demands of the two little boys as well as her grandfather when the big iron sweeper – The gate opened, and two people entered who she had never less expected to see together – Frank Curcelle, with Harriet on his arm – indeed Harriet! One moment was enough to convince them that something extraordinary had happened. Harriet looked pale and frightened, and he tried to cheer her up. – The iron gate and the front door were less than twenty meters apart; – all three of them were soon in the hall, and Harriet immediately sank into a chair and fainted.
A young lady who faints must be recovered; Questions must be answered and surprises explained. Such events are very interesting, but their tension can not last long. A few minutes Emma introduced the whole thing.
Miss Smith and Miss Bickerton, another parkour boarding lady at Mrs. Goddard's, who had also been at the ball, had gone out together and taken a road, Richmond Road, which, although obviously public enough for safety, had led them into the alarm. – About half a mile behind Highbury it made a sudden turn and was deeply shaded by elms on each side, it was very retracted for a considerable distance; and when the young ladies had come a bit far in, they had suddenly noticed a group of gypsies at a short distance in front of them on a wider green strip on the side. A watchful child came up to them to beg; and Miss Bickerton, overly frightened, emitted a loud scream, told Harriet to follow her, ran up a steep embankment, overcame a light hedge at the top, and made the most of her way by taking a shortcut back to Highbury. But poor Harriet could not follow. She had suffered greatly from cramps after dancing, and her first attempt to climb the embankment brought such a return that she became absolutely powerless – and in this state and extremely frightened she had to remain.
How the vagrants would have behaved if the young ladies had been braver must be doubted; but such an invitation to attack could not be resisted; and Harriet was soon attacked by half a dozen children, led by a fat woman and a great boy, all noisy and outrageous in appearance, if not absolutely in words. – More and more anxiously, she immediately promised them money and took it with her stock exchange, gave them a shilling and asked them not to want more or to make them sick. - She could then walk, even if only slowly, and moved away - but her fear and her stock market were too tempting, and she was persecuted or rather surrounded by the whole gang and demanded more.
In this state, Frank Curcelle had found her, she trembled and conditioned, she loud and outrageous. By a happy coincidence, his departure from Highbury had been delayed to come to her aid at this critical moment. The friendliness of the morning had led him to go on and leave his horses to meet him on another road, a mile or two behind Highbury – and coincidentally he had borrowed a pair of scissors from Miss Bates the night before and forgotten to restore it, he had been forced to stop at her door and walk in for a few minutes: he was therefore later than he had intended; and since he was on foot, he was not seen by the whole group until almost near them. The horror that the woman and the boy had created in Harriet was then their own share. He had left her completely frightened; and Harriet, eagerly clinging to him and barely able to speak, had just enough strength to reach Hartfield before her mood was completely overwhelmed. It was his idea to bring them to Hartfield: he hadn't thought of any other place.
This was the content of the whole story – his communication and that of Harriet as soon as she regained her senses and her language. He did not dare to stay longer than to see her healthy; these several delays did not allow him to lose another minute; and Emma pledged to assure Mrs. Goddard of her safety, noting to Mr. Hill that there were so many people in the neighborhood, and he set out with all the grateful blessings she could say for her friend and herself.
Such an adventure as this – a fine young man and a lovely young woman thrown together in this way could hardly fail to suggest certain ideas to the coldest heart and the most consistent mind. At least that's what Emma thought. Could a linguist, a grammarian, even a mathematician have seen what she was doing, witnessed their joint appearance and heard their story of it without feeling that there were circumstances at work that made them particularly interesting to each other? - How much more must an imaginist like her burn from speculation and foresight! – especially with such an anticipation, as her mind has already created.
It was a very extraordinary thing! In her memory, nothing like this had ever occurred to a young lady in the village; no rencontre, no alarm of kind; – and now it had happened to this very person, just at the hour when the other one happened to come by to save her! – It was certainly very strange! – And knowing how she did it, the favorable state of mind of each individual at that time, hit her all the more. He wanted to overcome his attachment to himself, she was just recovering from her mania for Mr. Alton. It seemed as if everything was united to promise the most interesting episodes. It was not possible that the occurrence should not be strongly recommended to each other.
In the few minutes of conversation she had had with him, while Harriet had been partially callous, he had spoken of her fear, her naivety, her fervor when she grabbed his arm and clung to him, with an amused and delighted sensibility; and only most recently, after Harriet's own report had been given, he had expressed his indignation at the heinous stupidity of Miss Bickerton in the warmest terms. Everything should take its natural course, but neither forced nor supported. She wouldn't take a step, nor drop a hint. No, she had had enough of interference. A scheme could not hurt, a merely passive scheme. It was nothing more than a wish. Beyond that, it would not go on under any circumstances.
Emma's first decision was to prevent her father from knowing what had happened, aware of the fear and anxiety it would cause: but she soon felt that hiding must have been impossible. Within half an hour it was known throughout Highbury. It was precisely the event to engage those who talk the most, the young and the lowly; and all the youths and servants of the place soon rejoiced in terrible news. Last night's ball seemed to have gone down in the gypsies. Poor Mr. Lodge trembled as he sat there and, as Emma had foreseen, would hardly be satisfied without her promise never to go beyond the bushes again. It was a comfort to him that many requests for him and Miss Lodge (because his neighbors knew he loved to be asked about him) as well as Miss Smith arrived during the rest of the day; and he had the pleasure of coming back to get an answer that they were all very indifferent – which, although not quite right, because she was doing perfectly well and Harriet not much else, Emma would not interfere. She had an unfortunate state of health for the child of such a man, for she hardly knew what malaise was; and if he did not invent diseases for her, she could not play a role in a message.
The gypsies. did not wait for the operations of the judiciary; they undressed in a hurry. The young ladies of Highbury might have been able to go back to safety before their panic began, and the whole story soon shrank to a matter of little importance except for Emma and her nephews: – in her imagination she asserted herself, and Henry and John were quietly asking every day about the story of Harriet and the Gypsies and still stubbornly correcting it, if it deviates even slightly from the original performance.
Chapter 187
There was one point that Anne would have noted even more gratefully when she returned to her family than that Mr. Hightower was in love with Elizabeth, which was that her father was not in love with Mrs. Clay; and it was anything but easy for her when she had been home for a few hours. As she walked down for breakfast the next morning, she found that the lady had only had a decent excuse to leave her. She could imagine that Mrs. Clay had said that "now Miss Anne had come, she could not imagine herself at all;" because Elizabeth replied in a kind of whisper: "This does not have to be a reason. I assure you that I don't feel it. and she was about to hear her father say, "My dear Madam, this must not be. You haven't seen anything of Bath. They were only here to be useful. You must not run away from us now. You have to stay to meet Mrs. Wallis, the beautiful Mrs. Wallis. For your fine mind, I know very well that the sight of beauty is a true satisfaction."
He spoke and looked so serious that Anne was not surprised when Mrs. Clay cast a furtive glance at Elizabeth and herself. Your facial expression might express some vigilance; but the praise of the fine spirit did not seem to make her sister think. The lady could not help but give in to such joint requests and promise to stay.
That same morning, when Anne and her father happened to be alone together, he began complimenting her on her improved appearance; he found her "less thin on her person, on her cheeks; greatly improves their skin, their complexion; clearer, fresher. Had she used anything special?" "No, nothing." "Only Gowland," he suspected. "No, nothing at all." "Ha! he was surprised by this;" adding, "Surely there is nothing you can do better than to carry on as you are; They can't be better than good; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of Gowland during the spring months. Mrs Clay used it on my recommendation, and you can see what it did for her. They see how it has carried their freckles."
If only Elisabeth could have heard that! Such a personal praise could perhaps have caught her eye, especially since Anne did not have the impression that the freckles had become fewer at all. But everything has to take its chance. The evil of marriage would be diminished much if Elizabeth also married. As for herself, she might always have a home with Lady Russell.
Lady Russell's serene spirit and polite manners were put to the test on this point in her traffic in Camden Place. The sight of Mrs. Clay in such favor and of Anne so overlooked was an ongoing provocation for her there; and annoyed her so much when she was gone, as a person in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new releases and has a very large acquaintance, has time to get angry.
When she became known to Mr. Hightower, she became more charitable or indifferent to others. His manners were an immediate recommendation; and when she conversed with him, she found that the feast supported the superficial so completely that, as she told Anne, she was at first almost ready to exclaim, "Can this be Mr. Hightower?" and could not seriously imagine a more pleasant or appreciative man. Everything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world and a warm heart. He had strong feelings of family belonging and family honor, without pride or weakness; he lived with the generosity of a rich man, without display; he judged for himself in all essentials, without opposing public opinion at any point of worldly decency. He was consistent, attentive, moderate, open; never run away from spirits or egoism that imagined strong feelings; and yet with a sensitivity to the kind and lovely and a value for all the bliss of domestic life that characters of imaginary enthusiasm and fierce excitement rarely really possess. She was sure that he had not been happy in the marriage. Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had not been a misfortune to upset him, nor (she soon began to suspect) to prevent him from thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction with Mr. Hightower outweighed all the plague of Mrs. Clay. She was sure that he had not been happy in the marriage. Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had not been a misfortune to upset him, nor (she soon began to suspect) to prevent him from thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction with Mr. Hightower outweighed all the plague of Mrs. Clay. She was sure that he had not been happy in the marriage. Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had not been a misfortune to upset him, nor (she soon began to suspect) to prevent him from thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction with Mr. Hightower outweighed all the plague of Mrs. Clay.
It had now been a few years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her excellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not surprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell saw nothing suspicious or contradictory in Mr. Hightower's great desire for reconciliation, nothing that required more motives than it seemed. According to Lady Russell, it was completely natural that At a mature age, Hightower found it to be an extremely desirable object, and what would highly recommend to him among all reasonable people to be on good terms with his boss family; the simplest process in the world of time on a naturally clear head and erring only in the heyday of youth. However, Anne presumed to smile about it and finally mention "Elizabeth". Lady Russell listened and saw,
It was a hint of the future that Anne had to submit to after a little observation. She could not find anything at the moment. In this house, Elizabeth must be the first; and she had the habit of receiving such general attention as "Miss Hightower" that any special attention seemed almost impossible. Even Mr. Hightower, one must not forget, has not been a widower for seven months. A small delay on his side could be very excusable. In fact, Anne could never see the pile around his hat without fearing that she was the inexcusable by attributing such imaginations to him; for although his marriage had not been very happy, it had lasted so many years that it could not comprehend a very quick recovery from the terrible impression of its dissolution.
Whatever the outcome, he was without question her most pleasant acquaintance in Bath: she didn't see anyone equal to him; and it was a great indulgence to talk to him from time to time about Lyme, whom he apparently wished as vividly, to see her again and to see more than she did. They went through the details of their first meeting many times. He told her that he had looked at her with some seriousness. She knew it well; and she also remembered another person's gaze.
They didn't always think the same. His value for rank and connection that she perceived was greater than hers. It wasn't just a courtesy, it must have been a sympathy for the cause that led him to warmly engage with the concern of her father and sister to excite them on a subject she thought was unworthy. The Bath newspaper announced one morning the arrival of the Dowager Viscountess Galloway and her daughter, the honourable Miss Carteret; and all the comfort of No. –, Camden Place, was swept away for many days; because the Galloways were (in Anne's opinion most unfortunately) cousins ?? the Hightowers; and the agony was to introduce oneself correctly.
Anne had never seen her father and sister in contact with the nobility before, and she has to admit disappointed. She had hoped for better from her high expectations of her own life situation and was reduced to a wish she had never foreseen; a wish that they would have more pride; for "our cousins?? Lady Galloway and Miss Carteret;" "Our cousins, the Galloways," sounded in their ears all day.
Sir Walter had once been with the late Viscount but had never seen anyone in the family; and the difficulties of the case arose from the fact that since the death of the said deceased Viscount, as a result of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter, all intercourse had been suspended by ceremonies an unfortunate omission at Kellynch. No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. Neglect had been haunted on the sinner's head; for when poor Lady Hightower herself died, Kellynch did not receive a letter of condolence, and consequently there were only too many reasons to believe that the Galloways considered the relationship to be over. How to put this anxious matter in order and be admitted as a cousin again was the question: and it was a question that, more rationally, neither Lady Russell nor Mr. Hightower considered it unimportant. "Family ties have always been worth caring for, good company always worth seeking; Lady Galloway had rented a house in Laura Place for three months and would live in style. She had been to Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard of it she was described as a charming woman. It was highly desirable that the connection should be renewed when possible, without compromising on decency on the part of the Hightowers, and Lady Russell had heard that she was described as a charming woman. It was highly desirable that the connection be renewed when possible, without compromising on the decency of the Hightowers. and Lady Russell had heard that she was called a charming woman. It was highly desirable that the connection be renewed when possible, without compromising on the decency of the Hightowers.
Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his right honorable cousin. Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Hightower could admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess. "She was very much honored, and should be happy in their acquaintance." The toils of the business were over, the sweets began. They visited in Laura Place, they had the cards of Dowager Viscountess Galloway, and the Honorable Miss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible: and "Our cousins in Laura Place,"--"Our cousin, Lady Galloway and Miss Carteret," were talked of to everybody.
Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Galloway and her daughter been very friendly at all, she would still have been ashamed of the excitement they caused, but they were nothing. There was no superiority in style, performance or understanding. Lady Galloway had earned the name "a charming woman" because she had a smile and a polite answer for everyone. Miss Carteret, who had even less to say, was so inconspicuous and so clumsy that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place without her birth.
Lady Russell confessed that she had expected something better; but still "it was worth an acquaintance to have;" and when Anne dared to tell Mr. Hightower her opinion about her, he agreed that they were nothing in themselves, but still claimed that as family ties they had as good company as those who would gather good company around them. Anne smiled and said,
"My idea of good company, Hightower-san, is the company of smart, well-informed people who talk to each other a lot; that's what I call good company."
"You're wrong," he said gently, "this is not good company, this is the best. Good company requires only birth, upbringing and manners, and as far as education is concerned, it is not very beautiful. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means dangerous in good company, on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. It is demanding. My dear cousin (sits down with her), "You have a better right to be demanding than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the company of these good ladies in Laura Place and enjoy everything You can count on them to move into Bath this winter in the first sentence, and as rank is rank,your notoriety as related to them will help to fix your family (our family, let me say) in the degree of consideration, that we must all wish for.
"Yes," Sighed Anne, "we will indeed be known as related to them!" then she remembered and did not want to be answered, adding: "I really believe that far too much effort has been made to make the acquaintance I confess, it annoys me that we are trying so hard to make the relationship recognized, which, as we can be sure, is completely indifferent to them.
"Forgive me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your current quiet lifestyle, it could be, as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Hightower and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as an acquaintance."
"Well," Anne said, "I'm certainly proud, too proud to enjoy a reception that is so completely dependent on the place."
"I love your indignation," he said; "It's very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the aim is to be built here with all the prestige and dignity that Sir Walter Hightower should be entitled to. You talk about being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I do not want to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if examined, would undoubtedly have the same purpose, although the species may seem a little different. On one point I am sure, my dear cousin. (He continued, speaking more softly, even though there was no one else in the room.) "I'm sure we have to feel the same on one point. We must feel that any newcomer to your father's company among his peers or superiors can be useful in diverting his thoughts from those who are among him."
As he spoke, he looked at the place Mrs. Clay had taken lately: a sufficient explanation of what he meant specifically; and although Anne could not believe that they had the same kind of pride, she was pleased that he did not like Mrs. Clay; and her conscience admitted that his desire to promote her father's acquaintanceship was more than excusable in terms of defeating her.
Chapter 188
Within a few days of this meeting, the newspapers of the world announced that the lady of Thomas Palmifer, Esq. was safely delivered by a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfying paragraph, at least for all those intimate connections that knew him before.
This event, which was most important to Mrs. Jennings' happiness, caused a temporary change in her timing and equally influenced the engagements of her young friends; for since she wanted to be with Charlotte as much as possible, she went there every morning as soon as she was dressed and returned late at night; and the Miss Hargroves spent the whole day on Conduit Street every day at the special request of the Mideltowns. For their own comfort, they would much rather have stayed at Mrs. Jennings' house, at least all morning; but it was not a thing to be pushed against the will of all. Her hours were therefore left to Lady Mideltown and the two Miss Clayhorn's, who actually valued her company as little as she was supposedly wanted.
They had too much intellect to be the former desirable companions; and by the latter they were looked at with envious eyes because they invaded THEIR soil and shared the kindness they wanted to monopolize. Although nothing could be more polite than Lady Mideltown's behavior towards Eleanore and Marianne, she didn't like them at all. Since they did not flatter themselves or their children, she could not believe them good-naturedly; and because they liked to read, she considered them satirical: perhaps without knowing exactly what it means to be satirical; but THAT meant nothing. It was common reprimand and easy to give.
Her presence was a reluctance for both her and Lucy. It controlled the inaction of one and the business of the other. Lady Mideltown was ashamed of doing nothing in front of them, and the flattery Lucy was proud of at other times made her fear she would despise her for it. Miss Clayhorn was the least upset by the presence of the three; and it was in their power to reconcile them completely with it. If one of them had only given her a full and accurate account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Warwick, she would have felt richly rewarded for sacrificing the best place by the fire after dinner that her arrival entailed. But this mediation was not granted; for although she often threw pity on Eleanore for her sister, and thought more than once before Marianne about the impermanence of the beau, there was no choice but an indifferent look at the former, disgusted at the latter. An even lesser effort might have made her her friend. If only they had laughed at the doctor! But she, more than the others, were so unbiased to do her a favor that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day hearing no other jelly about it than giving herself what she was so kind.
However, all these jealousies and dissatisfaction were so completely unexpected from Mrs. Jennings that she thought it was a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and in general, she congratulated her young friends every night for escaping the company of a stupid old woman for so long. Sometimes she joined them at Sir John's, sometimes in her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in an excellent mood, full of joy and importance, attributed Charlotte's well-being to her own care, and was willing to tell as precise, as meticulous details of her situation as only Miss Clayhorn was curious enough to desire. One thing bothered her; and she complained about it daily. Mr Palmifer maintained the general but unpretentious opinion of his sex that all infants were equal; and although at different times she could clearly perceive the most striking similarity between this baby and each of his relatives on both sides, it was not possible to convince his father of this; not convincing him that it wasn't exactly like any other baby of the same age; nor could he be persuaded to acknowledge the simple claim that it is the finest child in the world.
I now come to a misfortune that happened to Mrs. John Hargrove at that time. Coincidentally, when her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings visited her for the first time on Harley Street, another of her acquaintances had passed by – a circumstance in itself that apparently would not hurt her. But while other people's imagination will tempt them to make wrong judgments about our behavior and decide it through minor appearances, their own happiness must always be at the mercy of chance to some extent. In the present case, this last lady who arrived allowed her imagination to surpass truth and probability to such an extent that when she only heard the name of Miss Hargroves and understood her as Mr. Hargrove's sisters, she immediately concluded that they would stay at home on Harley Street; and this faulty construction produced invitation cards for her as well as for her brother and sister to a small musical party in her house within a day or two afterwards. As a result, Mrs. John Hargrove not only had to accept the extraordinarily great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Hargroves, but, worse still, had to endure all the inconvenience of treating her with attention: and who could say that they wouldn't expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one. Invitation cards for her and her siblings to a small musical party in their house. As a result, Mrs. John Hargrove not only had to accept the extraordinarily great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Hargroves, but, worse still, had to endure all the inconvenience of treating her with attention: and who could say that they wouldn't expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one. Invitation cards for her and her siblings to a small musical party in their house. As a result, Mrs. John Hargrove not only had to accept the extraordinarily great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Hargroves, but, worse still, had to endure all the inconvenience of treating her with attention: and who could say that they wouldn't expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one. Not only did John Hargrove have to expose himself to the extraordinarily great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Hargroves, but, worse still, had to expose himself to all the inconvenience of apparently treating her with attention: and who could not say that would expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one. John Hargrove not only had to expose himself to the extraordinarily great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Hargroves, but, worse still, had to expose himself to all the inconvenience of apparently treating her with attention: and who could say not expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one. and who could say that they didn't expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one. and who could say that they didn't expect to go out with her a second time? The power to disappoint them, that was true, always had to be theirs. But that wasn't enough; because when people are fixated on a behavior that they know is wrong, they feel hurt by the expectation of a better one.
Marianne had now gradually become so habited to go out every day that she had become indifferent whether she left or not, and she prepared herself quietly and mechanically for the engagement every evening, albeit without expectation the slightest amusement of all and very often without knowing until the last moment, where it should lead them.
She had become so completely indifferent to her clothes and appearance that she did not pay half the attention to her throughout her toilet, which she received from Miss Clayhorn in the first five minutes of her togetherness when she was finished. Nothing escaped YOUR close observation and general curiosity; she saw everything and asked everything; was never easy until she knew the price of each part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her clothes overall with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hope of finding out before saying goodbye how much her laundry cost weekly and how much she had to spend on herself each year. The impudence of this kind of research was generally concluded with a compliment, which, while meant to be his douceur, was perceived by Marianne as the greatest imposition of all; for after undergoing an examination of the value and design of her dress, the color of her shoes, and the hairstyle of her hair, she was almost certain that she would be told that she looked extraordinarily elegant at "her word," and she dared to say that would make many conquests."
With such encouragement as this, she was released into her brother's carriage on this occasion; which they were ready to enter five minutes after stopping at the door, a punctuality that was not very pleasant for their sister-in-law, who had gone before them to the house of their acquaintances and hoped for a delay on their part could cause inconvenience to either herself or her coachman.
The events of that evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, included a lot of people who had a real taste for the performance, and a lot more who didn't have one at all; and the performers themselves, as usual, were the first private performers in England according to their own assessment and that of their immediate friends.
Since Eleanore was neither musical nor applied to it, she turned her eyes away from the grand piano without hesitation whenever she pleased, and directed them, even through the presence of harp and violoncello, at will to anything else in the room. At one of these fleeting glances, she saw in a group of young men exactly the one who had given them a lecture on toothpick cases at Gray's. She noticed him soon after, looking at herself, and trusting her brother; and had just decided to get his name from the latter when they both approached her and Mr. Hargrove introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Gastonois.
He addressed her with serene politeness and turned his head to a bow that so ?? clearly assured how words could have done that he was exactly the Coxcomb she had described him as by Lucy. It would have been happy for them if their appreciation for Edward depended less on his own merit than on the merit of his closest relatives! Because then his brother's bow must have given the finishing touches to what would have started the bad mood of his mother and sister. But while she wondered about the difference between the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of the vanity of one kept her from all charity with the modesty and value of the other. Why they were different, Robert himself shouted to her in the course of a quarter of an hour conversation; for when one speaks of his brother, and lamenting the extreme GAUCHERIE, which he truly believed to have prevented him from interfering in the right company, he openly and generously attributed it much less to a natural deficiency than to the misfortune of a private upbringing; while he himself, although probably without particular material superiority by nature, merely through the advantage of a public school, was as well suited to mingle in the world as any other man.
"With my soul," he added, "I don't think that's all it is, and that's how I often tell my mother when she grieves about it. 'My dear wife', I always say to her, 'You have to spare yourself ... The evil can no longer be remedied, and it was entirely your own fault. Why should you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to give Edward private lessons at the most critical time of his life? They would have sent him to Westminster as well as me, instead of sending him to Mr Pratt, all of this would have been prevented." That's how I always look at it, and my mother is completely convinced of her mistake."
Eleanore would not disagree with his opinion, for whatever her general assessment of the benefits of a public school, she could not think with satisfaction of Edward's place of residence in Mr. Pratt's family.
"You live in Devonshire, I think," was his next observation, "in a cottage near Dawlish."
Eleanore corrected him regarding his situation; and it seemed quite surprising to him that anyone could live in Devonshire without living near Dawlish. But he gave his warm applause to her house style.
"For my part," he said, "I love a cottage; they always have so much coziness, so much elegance. And I protest that if I had money left, I would buy a little land and build one myself, near London, where I could go at any time, and gather a few friends around me and be happy. I advise anyone who wants to build a cottage friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day to ask me for advice and presented me with three different plans from Bonomi, of which I should choose the best one. "My dear Courtland," I said, throwing them all into the fire immediately, "don't adopt any of them, but definitely build a cottage." And what I imagine will be the end.
"Some people believe that there can be no accommodation and no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I stayed at my friend Hightowert near Dartford last month. Lady Hightowert wanted to give a dance. 'But how can this be? done?' she said, "my dear Gastonois, tell me how to handle it. There is no room in this cottage that can accommodate ten couples and where can dinner be?" I immediately saw that there could be no difficulties, so I said, "My dear Lady Hightowert, don't be restless. The food parkour will accommodate eighteen couples with ease; Card tables can be set up in the salon; the." The library can be open for tea and other refreshments, and have dinner arranged in the salon.' Lady Hightowert was delighted by the thought we were measuring the dining room, and found out that it would hold exactly eighteen couples, and the matter was arranged exactly according to my plan. So you see, if you just know how to do it, any comfort can be enjoyed just as well in a cottage as in the most spacious apartment."
Eleanore agreed with everything, because she did not believe that he deserved the compliment of a rational opposition.
Since John Hargrove did not enjoy music more than his eldest sister, his mind was equally free to focus on something else; and during the evening a thought came to him, which he told his wife about her consent when they came home. Contemplating Mrs. Dennison's mistake of accepting his sisters as their guests had suggested that they were really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings' duties kept them from home. The cost would be nothing, the inconvenience no more; and it was an overall attention that indicated the tenderness of his conscience that it was necessary for his complete disenfranchisement from his promise to his father. Esther was frightened by the proposal.
"I don't see how you can do that," she said, "without insulting Lady Mideltown, because they spend every day with her; otherwise I would love to do it. You know, I am always ready to give them every attention in my power, as I lead them out tonight. But they are Lady Mideltown's visitors. How can I take it away from her?"
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the power of her objection. "They had already spent a week this way on Conduit Street, and Lady Mideltown couldn't be unhappy that they gave such close relatives the same number of days."
Esther paused for a moment and then said with renewed vigor
,
"My dear, I would ask her with all my heart if it was in my power. But I had just decided to ask the Miss Clayhorns to spend a few days with us. They are very good, good kind of girls; and I think they deserve the attention because their uncle did so very well of Edward. We can ask your sisters another year, you know, but the Miss Clayhorns may not be in town anymore. I'm sure you'll like them; in fact, you know, you like her a lot, and so does my mother; and they are such darlings with Harry!"
Mr. Hargrove was convinced. He saw the need to invite Miss Clayhorn immediately, and his conscience was calmed by the decision to invite his sisters for another year; at the same time, however, cleverly suspected that another year would make the invitation superfluous by bringing Eleanore as Colonel Bridgerton's wife and Marianne as HER visitor to the city.
Esther, happy about her escape and proud of the quick-wittedness she had been given, wrote to Lucy the next morning to ask her company and that of her sister for a few days on Harley Street as soon as Lady Mideltown could do without her. That was enough to make Lucy really and halfway happy. Mrs. Hargrove actually seemed to be working for herself; all cherish their hopes and promote all their views! Such an opportunity to be with Edward and his family was most essential for their interest and such an invitation was most satisfying for their feelings! It was an advantage that could neither be acknowledged too gratefully nor used too quickly; and the visit to Lady Mideltown, who previously had no exact boundaries, was immediately discovered that it should always end in two days.
When the note was shown to Eleanore what had happened within ten minutes of her arrival, she gave her for the first time a certain share of Lucy's expectations; for such a sign of unusual kindness, given to such a brief acquaintance, seemed to explain that the benevolence towards her arose from something more than mere wickedness against herself; and could be made to do anything Lucy wanted by time and address. Her flattery had already dampened Lady Mideltown's pride and made an entrance to the nearby heart of Mrs. John Hargrove; and these were effects that revealed the likelihood of greater.
Miss Clayhorn's move to Harley Street, and everything Eleanore achieved there from her influence, reinforced her expectations of the event. Sir John, who visited them more than once, brought home such reports of the favor they found themselves in, which must be generally striking. Mrs. Hargrove had never in her life been as satisfied with young women as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by an emigrant; called Lucy by her first name; and didn't know if she should ever break up with them.
Chapter 189
As they continued, Elizabeth watched with some concern the first appearance of Pemberley Woods; and when they finally stopped at the hut, their mood was in a high flutter.
The park was very large and contained a great variety of soil. They entered it at one of its deepest points and drove for some time through a beautiful forest that stretched for long distances.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for a conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable point and point of view. They gradually climbed up half a mile and then found themselves at the top of a considerable hill where the forest stopped and Pemberley House immediately caught the eye, which is on the opposite side of a valley into which the road leads with some abruptness wound. It was a large, pretty stone building that stood well on a sloping terrain and was surrounded by a ridge of high wooded hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance swelled into a larger one, but without artificial appearance. Its shores were neither formally nor incorrectly decorated. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an unpleasant taste. They were all warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt like she was the mistress of Pemberley could be something!
They climbed down the hill, crossed the bridge and drove to the door; and while she was investigating the closer aspect of the house, all her concern about meeting its owner returned. She was afraid that the maid was wrong. When they applied for a visit, they were allowed into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder that she was where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking older woman, much less fine and polite than she ever thought she would find. They followed her into the dining room. It was a large, well-proportioned room, nicely decorated. Elizabeth, having overlooked it a little, went to a window to enjoy its view. The forest-crowned hill they had descended, which became more and more abrupt from a distance, was a beautiful object. Any arrangement of the floor was good; and she looked with delight at the whole scenery, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the windings of the valley, as far as she could trace it. When they went to other rooms, these objects took different positions; but beauties could be seen from every window. The rooms were high and pretty, and their furniture corresponding to the assets of their owner; but Elizabeth saw with admiration of his taste that it was neither garish nor uselessly fine; with less splendor and more real elegance than the furniture of Rosings.
'And from this place,' she thought, 'I could have been the mistress! I might have been familiar with these rooms now! Instead of seeing them as strangers, I could have rejoiced in them as my own and welcomed my uncle and aunt as visitors. But no," – reflecting – "that can never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I shouldn't have invited them."
That was a happy memory – it saved them from something like regret.
She longed to ask the housekeeper if her master was really absent, but did not have the courage to do so. Eventually, however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away frightened, while Mrs. Reynolds answered in the affirmative, adding, "But we await him tomorrow with a large group of friends." How delighted Elisabeth was that her own journey had not been delayed by a day!
Her aunt called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the image of Mr. Waterhouse hanging over the mantelpiece alongside several other miniatures. Smiling, her aunt asked her how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her deceased master's administrator, who had been raised by him at his own expense. "He has now joined the army," she added; 'but I'm afraid he's become very wild.'
Mrs. Lockhart looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth couldn't return.
"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another miniature, "is my master —and very similar to him. It was drawn at the same time as the other – about eight years ago.'
"I have heard a lot about the good person of your lord," said Mrs. Lockhart, looking at the picture; "It's a pretty face. But Lizzy, you can tell us if it's like that or not."
Mrs. Reynold's respect for Elizabeth seemed to grow with this suggestion that she knew her master.
'Does this young lady know Mr. Drury?'
Elizabeth blushed and said, 'A little.'
"And don't you think he's a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?"
"Yes, very handsome."
'I'm sure I don't know such a pretty one; but at the top of the gallery you will see a more beautiful, larger picture of him than this one. This room was my late master's favorite room, and these miniatures are exactly as they were then. He liked her very much.'
This explained to Elizabeth why Mr. Waterhouse was among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then drew her attention to one of Miss Drury's, which was drawn when she was only eight years old.
"And is Miss Drury as handsome as her brother?" said Ms. Lockhart.
'Oh! yes – the prettiest young lady ever seen; and so complete! – She plays and sings all day long. In the next room, a new instrument has just come down for her – a gift from my master; she will come here with him tomorrow."
Mr. Lockhart, whose manners were very relaxed and pleasant, encouraged her to talk through his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either out of pride or affection, obviously took great pleasure in speaking of her master and sister.
"Is your master in Pemberley a lot during the year?"
"Not as much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say that he will spend half of his time here; and Miss Drury is always down in the summer months."
'Except,' Elizabeth thought, 'when she goes to Ramsgate.'
"If your master were to get married, you could see more of him."
'Yes; but I don't know when THAT will be. I don't know who's good enough for him.'
Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart smiled. Elizabeth couldn't help but say, 'I'm sure it benefits him a lot that you think this way.'
"I say nothing more than the truth, and anyone who knows him will say," the other replied. Elizabeth thought that would go quite far; and she listened with growing amazement as the housekeeper added, 'I haven't heard a bad word from him in my entire life, and I've known him since he was four years old.'
That was praise, the most extraordinary of all the others, that contradicted their ideas the most. That he was not a good-natured man had been their firmest opinion. Their sharpest attention was aroused; She longed to hear more and was grateful to her uncle for saying
,
"There are very few people you can say so much about. You are lucky to have such a master."
"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I couldn't meet a better one. But I have always observed that those who are good-natured as children are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the most good-natured, generous heated boy in the world.'
Elizabeth almost stared at her. "Can this be Mr. Drury?" she thought.
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Lockhart.
"Yes, Ma'am, he really was; and his son will be just like him— just as kind to the poor.'
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds couldn't interest her at any other point. She told the themes of the pictures, the size of the rooms and the price of the furniture, in vain, Mr. Lockhart, highly amused by the kind of family prejudices to which he attributed her excessive praise of her master, soon led back to the topic; and she lingered full of energy at his many merits as they climbed the great staircase together.
"He is the best landlord and the best gentleman," she said, "who has ever lived; not like the wild young men today who think only of themselves. There is none of his tenants or servants, but he will give him a good name. Some call him proud; but I'm sure I've never seen any of it. In my opinion, it's just because he doesn't rattle around like other young men.'
"In what a gracious light that puts him!" thought Elisabeth.
"This beautiful account of him," her aunt whispered as she walked, "doesn't quite agree with his behavior toward our poor friend."
'Maybe we could be deceived.'
"That's not very likely; our authority was too good.'
When they reached the spacious entrance hall above, they were led into a very pretty living room, recently furnished with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and they were told that it had only been done to bring joy to Miss Drury, who had taken a liking to the room during her last time in Pemberley.
"He's certainly a good brother," Elizabeth said as she walked up to one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Drury's joy when she was supposed to enter the room. "And that's always the case with him," she added. "Whatever can bring pleasure to his sister will surely be done in an instant. There's nothing he wouldn't do for them."
The picture gallery and two or three of the master bedrooms were all there was left to show. In the former there were many good paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing about art; and of those that were already visible below, she had willingly turned around to look at some drawings of Miss Drury with crayons, the themes of which were usually more interesting and also more understandable.
There were many family portraits in the gallery, but they could hardly capture the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth went in search of the only face whose features she would be aware of. Eventually, she held on to it – and she saw a striking resemblance to Drury-san, with such a smile on her face as she remembered seeing it sometimes when he looked at her. She stood in front of the picture for several minutes, in serious consideration, and turned back to it before leaving the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds told them that it had been taken in during his father's lifetime.
Elizabeth certainly had a gentler feeling about the original at that moment than she had ever felt at the height of her acquaintanceship. The praise bestowed upon him by Mrs. Reynolds was not insignificant. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, landowner, lord, she wondered how lucky many people were in his guardianship! – how much joy or pain he could give! – how much good or evil he had to do! Every idea put forward by the housekeeper was favorable to his character, and as she stood in front of the canvas on which he was depicted and focused his eyes on herself, she thought of his attention with a deeper sense of gratitude than she had ever grown up before; she remembered his warmth,
When the whole house, which was open to the general inspection, had been visited, they returned back downstairs and, after saying goodbye to the housekeeper, were handed over to the gardener, who picked them up at the plank door.
As they walked through the hall to the river, Elizabeth turned around again; her uncle and aunt also stopped, and while the former puzzled over the dating of the building, suddenly the owner himself stepped out of the street that led to the stables behind it.
They were only twenty meters apart, and his appearance was so sudden that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes met immediately, and the cheeks of both were covered with the deepest redness. He literally drove together and seemed to be immobile for a moment in surprise; but soon he recovered, went to the party and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of complete serenity, then at least in perfect politeness.
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping at his approach, he accepted his compliments with an insurmountable embarrassment. Had his first appearance or his resemblance to the image they had just examined not been enough to assure the other two that they were now seeing Mr. Drury, the gardener's surprised facial expression at the sight of his master would have immediately betrayed it. They stood a little offside as he talked to her niece, who, amazed and confused, hardly dared to lift her gaze to his face, and did not know what response she was responding to his civilian inquiries about her family. Amazed at the change in his behavior since their last separation, every sentence he uttered increased their embarrassment; and every thought of the inappropriateness that she was found there returned to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were among the most uncomfortable in their lives. He didn't seem much more relaxed either; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual serenity; and he repeated his inquiries about when she had left Longbourn and when she had remained so often and so hastily in Derbyshire that the absent-mindedness of his thoughts was clearly expressed.
Finally, every idea seemed to fail him; and after standing wordless for a few moments, he suddenly remembered again and said goodbye.
The others then joined her and expressed their admiration for his character; but Elizabeth didn't hear a word and followed them in silence, completely engrossed in her own feelings. She was overwhelmed by shame and anger. Their coming was the most unfortunate, the most ill-considered in the world! How strange that must seem to him! In what a shameful light it could not hit such a vain man! It might seem like she intentionally threw herself in his way again! Oh! why did it come? Or why did he come a day earlier than expected? If they had been only ten minutes earlier, they should have been deprived of its distinctive character; for it was clear that he had arrived at that moment – the moment he got off his horse or carriage. Again and again she blushed about the perversity of the meeting. And his behavior, so strikingly changed – what could that mean? That he should talk to her at all was amazing! – but to speak with such courtesy, to inquire about their family! Never in her life had she experienced his behavior so little dignified, never had he spoken so gently as in this unexpected encounter. What a contrast to his last address in Rosings Park when he handed her his letter! She didn't know what to think or how to explain it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk on the banks of the water, and each step brought a nobler subsidence or a finer extension of the forest they were approaching; but it took some time for Elizabeth to notice any of this; and although she mechanically responded to the repeated requests of her uncle and aunt and seemed to focus her eyes on such objects, as they pointed out, she did not distinguish any part of the scene. Their thoughts were all focused on this one spot of Pemberley House, wherever Mr. Drury had been at the time. She longed to know what was going through his mind at the moment – how he thought of her and whether she was still dear to him despite everything. Perhaps he had only been polite because he felt comfortable; but there had been THAT in his voice, which was not like lightness.
Eventually, however, they were aroused by the remarks of their companions about their mindlessness, and she felt the need to appear more like herself.
They entered the forest, said goodbye to the river for a while and climbed up some of the higher areas; than in places where the opening of the trees gave the eye strength to walk, many enchanting views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long row of forests that stretched over many, and occasionally a part of the stream. Mr. Lockhart expressed a desire to circle the entire park, but feared it might be a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told it was ten miles. That was the end of the matter; and they followed the usual tour; which, after some time in a descent between hanging forests, brought them back to the edge of the water and one of its narrowest places. They crossed it through a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a place that was less decorated than any other they had visited before; and the valley, here pulled together in a gorge that left only room for the stream and a narrow path in the middle of the rough coppice that bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore his twists and turns; but when they crossed the bridge and noticed their distance from the house, Mrs. Lockhart, who was not very good on foot, could not go any further and only thought of returning to the car as soon as possible. Their niece therefore had to submit, and they walked in the next direction to the house on the other side of the river; but they progressed slowly, because Mr. Lockhart, although rarely able to give in to the taste, loved to fish and was so busy watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water and talking to the man about it. that he made little progress. As I wander on in this slow way, you were surprised again, and Elizabeth's amazement was quite similar to what it had been first, when Mr. Drury approached them, and not far away. Since the path here was less protected than on the other side, they could see it before they met. Elizabeth, as amazed as she was, was at least better prepared for a conversation than before and decided to show up and speak calmly if he really intended to meet with them. In fact, for a few moments, she felt that he would probably take a different path. The idea lasted, while a bend in the way hid it from their view; When he turned by, he was right in front of them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his politeness; and to imitate his courtesy, when they met, she began to admire the beauty of the place; but she hadn't gotten beyond the words 'delightful' and 'enchanting' when some unhappy memories came up, and she imagined that praise from Pemberley could be misinterpreted by her. Her color changed, and she said nothing more.
Mrs. Lockhart was a little behind it; and when she paused, he asked her if she would give him the honor of introducing him to her friends. This was a courtesy boost for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile when he now sought the acquaintance of some of those people against whom his pride in his offer to himself had outraged. "What will be his surprise," she thought, "if he knows who they are? He now thinks they're fashion people."
However, the introduction was made immediately; and when she called her relationship with herself, she gave him a furtive look to see how he wore it, and was not without the expectation that he would leave as soon as possible from such nefarious companions. That he was SURPRISED by the connection was obvious; however, he maintained it with steadfastness and was far from walking away, turned his back on them and entered into a conversation with Mr. Lockhart. Elizabeth could only be pleased, could only triumph. It was comforting that he knew she had some relatives for whom there was no reason to turn red. She listened with the utmost attention to everything that was going on between them and rejoiced in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his tastes or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned to fishing; and she heard Mr. Drury invite him with the greatest courtesy to fish there as often as he wanted, while continuing in the neighborhood, at the same time offering to provide him with fishing equipment, and pointing out the places of the river where he was mostly called for sports. Mrs. Lockhart, walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a puzzled look. Elizabeth said nothing, but it satisfied her extraordinarily; the compliment must be entirely for them. Her amazement, however, was great, and she kept repeating, "Why is he so changed? What can it come from? It can't be for ME – it can't be for MY cause that his manners are so softened. My rebuke in Hunsford could not bring about such a change. It's impossible for him to still love me.'
After walking in this way for some time, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen in the back, after re-occupying their seats, after descending to the banks of the river for better inspection of a strange aquatic plant, a small change happened by chance. It had its origins in Mrs. Lockhart, who, exhausted from the morning movement, felt Elizabeth's arm was insufficient for her support and consequently preferred that of her husband. Drury-san took her place with her niece, and they moved on together. After a short silence, the lady spoke first. She wanted him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the house, and accordingly began noting that his arrival had come very unexpectedly – "because your housekeeper," she added, "told us that you would certainly not be here until tomorrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country.' He acknowledged the truth of everything and said that doing business with his administrator had caused him to step forward a few hours before the rest of the company he had traveled with. "You will join me tomorrow morning," he continued, "and among them are some who claim to have met you—Mr. Woodland and his sisters."
Elizabeth replied with only a slight bow. Their thoughts were immediately driven back to the time when Mr. Woodland's name was the last one mentioned between them; and, if she could judge by his complexion, HIS mind was not very differently occupied.
"There is another person in society," he continued after a pause, "who especially wishes to be known to you. Allow me, or am I asking too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay in Lambton?"
The surprise of such an application was indeed great; it was too big for her to know how she responded to it. She immediately felt that Miss Drury's desire to meet her must be her brother's work, and without looking any further, it was satisfying; it was gratifying to know that his resentment hadn't made him think really badly of her.
They now went on in silence, each of them deeply immersed in thought. Elizabeth did not feel well; that was impossible; but she was flattered and delighted. His desire to introduce her to his sister was a compliment of the highest kind. Soon they overtook the others, and when they reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart were half a quarter mile behind them.
Then he asked her to go into the house – but she explained that she was not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. Much could have been said at such a time, and silence was very unpleasant. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. She finally remembered that she was traveling, and they spoke with great perseverance of Matlock and Dove Dale. But time and her aunt passed slowly – and her patience and ideas were almost exhausted before the Tete-a-Tete was over. When Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart came up, they were all urged to go into the house and have a refreshment; but this was rejected, and they separated on both sides with the utmost courtesy. Mr. Drury handed the ladies over to the carriage; and as it drove off, Elizabeth saw him slowly walking towards the house.
Now the observations of her uncle and aunt began; and each of them declared him infinitely superior to everything they had expected. "He is absolutely well-behaved, polite and modest," said her uncle.
"There is something a little stately about him," her aunt replied, "but it is limited to his appearance and is not indecent. I can now say with the housekeeper that although some people call him proud, I haven't seen any of it.'
"I was never more surprised than by his behavior towards us. It was more than civilian; it was really attentive; and there was no need for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very insignificant.'
"Of course, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he's not as handsome as Waterhouse; or rather, he doesn't have the face of Waterhouse, because his facial features are perfectly good. But how did you come to tell me he was so uncomfortable?'
Elizabeth apologized as best she could; said she liked him more when they met in Kent than before and that she had never seen him as friendly as she did that morning.
"But maybe he's a little bizarre in his politeness," her uncle replied. 'Their great men are often; and that's why I'm not going to take him at his word, because he could change his mind another day and warn me about his premises.'
Elizabeth felt that they had completely misunderstood his character, but said nothing.
"From what we've seen of him," Mrs. Lockhart continued, "I really didn't think he could behave as cruelly by anyone as he did from poor Waterhouse. He has no malicious appearance. On the contrary, his mouth has something pleasant when he speaks. And in his face lies something dignified that would not give you a bad picture of his heart. But of course, the good lady who showed us his house gave it a flaming character! Sometimes I could hardly resist a loud laugh. But he is a liberal gentleman, I suppose, and THAT in the eyes of a servant embraces every virtue."
Elizabeth felt called to say something to Waterhouse to justify his behavior; and therefore gave them as carefully as possible to understand that, according to what they had heard from their relatives in Kent, his actions were capable of a completely different construction; and that his character was by no means as flawed, nor Waterhouses as amiable as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. To confirm this, she gave the details of all the financial transactions in which they were involved, without actually naming their authority, but as those on which one could rely.
Mrs. Lockhart was surprised and worried; but as they now approached the scene of their former pleasures, every imagination gave way to the allure of memory; and she was too busy showing her husband all the interesting spots in the area to think of anything else. As exhausted as she had been from the morning walk, she had hardly eaten dinner when she went back in search of her former acquaintance, and she spent the evening in the satisfaction of sexual intercourse that had been interrupted after many years.
The events of the day were too interesting to leave Elizabeth much attention for one of these new friends; and she could do nothing but think of Mr. Drury's courtesy, and most importantly, that he wanted her to meet his sister.
Chapter 190
Edmund had stated that it was esther's sole responsibility to decide whether or not her situation in relation to Dorset should be mentioned between them; and that if she did not lead the way, it should never be touched by him; but after a day or two of mutual restraint, he was prompted by his father to change his mind and try what his influence might do for his friend.
One day, a very early day, was actually set for the departure of the Dorset; and Sir Thomas thought it would be good to try again for the young man before leaving Mansfield, so that all his confessions and vows of unwavering affection could have as much hope as possible to sustain them.
Mr Thomas was most concerned about the perfection of Mr Dorset's character on this point. He wanted him to be a pattern of consistency; and imagined to me that the best way to do it would be not to try it for too long.
Edmund was not averse to being persuaded to participate in the business; he wanted to know Esther's feelings. She was used to asking him for advice in every difficulty, and he loved her too much to bear to refuse her trust now; he hoped to serve her, he thought he had to serve her; To whom else should she open her heart? If she didn't need advice, she probably needed the comfort of communication. Esther, alienated, quiet and reserved, was an unnatural condition; a condition he had to break through and from which he could easily learn to believe that she wanted him to break through.
"I will talk to her, Lord: I will take the first opportunity to talk to her alone," was the result of such thoughts as this; and when Sir Thomas learned that she was walking alone in the bushes at the time, he immediately joined her.
"I came to go with you, Esther," he said. "Should I?" She pulled her arm into his. "It's been a long time since we had a leisurely walk together."
She agreed with everything with an eye rather than words. Their mood was low.
"But, Esther," he added, "to have a comfortable walk requires more than just walking up and down that gravel. You need to talk to me. I know you have something on your mind. I know what you're thinking about. You can't think I'm uninformed. Should I hear about it from everyone but Esther herself?"
Esther, both agitated and depressed at the same time, replied, "When you hear about it from everyone, cousins, I can't have anything to say."
"Maybe not of facts; but of feelings, Esther. No one but you can tell me. But I don't want to press you. If it's not what you want yourself, I've done it. I thought it might be a relief."
"I'm afraid we think too differently to make it easier for me to talk about what I feel."
"Do you think we think differently? I have no idea about it. I dare say that if we compare our opinions, they would find themselves as similar as they used to be: to the point – I think Dorset's proposals are extremely beneficial and desirable if you could reciprocate his affection. I think it's very natural for your whole family to wish you could give it back; but since you can't, you've done exactly what you should be doing by rejecting him. Can there be any disagreement between us here?"
"Oh no! But I thought you blamed me. I thought you were against me. That's such a consolation!"
"You might have had that comfort earlier, Esther, if you had been looking for it. But how could you turn me against you? How could you imagine me being an advocate for a marriage without love? Had I been careless in such things at all, how could you imagine that I would be so careless where your luck was at stake?
"My uncle thought I was wrong, and I knew he had talked to you."
"As far as you've gone, Esther, I agree with you completely. I may be sorry, I may be surprised – though hardly so, because you didn't have time to attach yourself – but I think you're absolutely right. Can it allow a question? It is a shame for us if this is the case. You did not love him; nothing could have justified accepting it."
Esther hadn't been like this for days?? well felt.
"So far, your behavior has been impeccable, and those who wanted something different from you were quite wrong. But it doesn't end there. Dorsets is no ordinary bond; he persists in the hope of creating that respect that had not been created before. We know that this must be a work of time. But" (with a loving smile) "Let him finally succeed, Esther, let him finally succeed. You have shown yourself to be sincere and altruistic, grateful and soft-hearted; and then you will be the perfect model of a woman for whom I have always believed that you were born for."
"Oh! Never never never! he will never succeed with me." And she spoke with a warmth that amazed Edmund and blushed at the memory of himself when she saw his gaze and heard him answer: "Never! Esther! – so determined and positive! It's not like yourself, your rational self."
"I mean," she exclaimed, sadly correcting herself, "that I will never do that as far as the future is responsible; I think I will never return his respect."
"I have to hope for better. I am aware, more aware than Dorset may be, that the man who wants to make you love him (you have duly noted his intentions) must have very hard work, because there are all your early attachments and habits in the battle lineup; and before he can get your heart for his own use, he must free it from all the shackles of animate and inanimate things that have confirmed so many years of growth and that for the moment are considerably constricted by the mere thought of separation. I know that the fear of having to leave Mansfield will arm you against him for a while. I wish he hadn't been forced to tell you what he was trying. I wish he had known you as well as I did, Esther. Among us said, I think we should have won you. My theoretical and practical knowledge together could not have failed. He should have worked on my plans. However, I must hope that the time in which he (as I firmly believe) proves through his constant affection that he deserves you will give him his reward. I can't assume that you don't have the desire to love him – the natural desire of gratitude. You must have such a feeling. You must regret your own indifference."
"We're so completely dissimilar," Esther said, avoiding a direct response, "we're so very, very different in all our inclinations and ways that I think it's quite impossible that we could ever be reasonably happy together, even if I could be like him. Never have two people been so dissimilar. We have no common taste. We should be unhappy."
"You're wrong, Esther. The dissimilarity is not so strong. You are quite similar. They have a common taste. They have a common moral and literary taste. They have both warm hearts and benevolent feelings; And, Esther, whoever heard him read and saw you listening to Shakespeare the other night will consider you unsuitable as a companion? You forget yourself: there is a definite difference in your temperaments, I admit that. He is lively, you are serious; but all the better: his spirits will support yours. It's your tendency to be easily depressed and imagine difficulties that are greater than they are. His cheerfulness counteracts this. He sees no difficulties anywhere: and his kindness and cheerfulness will be a constant support for you. Your dissimilar being, Esther, does not speak in the slightest against the probability of your common happiness: do not imagine it. I myself am convinced that this is rather a favourable circumstance. I firmly believe that minds had better be different: I mean differently in the flow of spirits, in manners, in the tendency to too much or little company, in the tendency to talk or remain silent, to be serious or to be gay in silence. Some opposition here, I am firmly convinced, is friendly to marital happiness. Of course, I exclude extremes; and a very great similarity in all these points would be the most likely way to create an extreme. A gentle and continuous counter-movement is the best protection for manners and behavior." in the tendency to too much or little company, in the tendency to talk or remain silent, to be serious or cheerful. Some opposition here, I am firmly convinced, is friendly to marital happiness. Of course, I exclude extremes; and a very great similarity in all these points would be the most likely way to create an extreme. A gentle and continuous counter-movement is the best protection for manners and behavior." in the tendency to too much or little company, in the tendency to talk or remain silent, to be serious or cheerful. Some opposition here, I am firmly convinced, is friendly to marital happiness. Of course, I exclude extremes; and a very great similarity in all these points would be the most likely way to create an extreme. A gentle and continuous counter-movement is the best protection for manners and behavior."
Esther could well guess where his thoughts were now: Miss Dorset's power returned. He had happily spoken of the hour of his return home. His evasion from her was an end. He had only had dinner in the rectory the day before.
After giving him his happier thoughts for a few minutes, Esther returned to Mr. Dorset and said, "It's not just because of his character that I think he's completely unsuitable for me; but in this regard I find the difference between us too great, infinitely too great: his spirits often oppress me; but there is something about him that I reject even more. I have to say, cousin, that I can't approve of his character. I haven't thought well of him since the play. I then saw him behaving, as it seemed to me, so very indecent and callous – I'm allowed to talk about it now because it's all over – so inappropriate of poor Mr. Rushmore, who apparently didn't care how he exposed or hurt him, and paying attention to my cousin Maria, which – in short, at the time of the play – made an impression, who will never be wounded."
"My dear Esther," replied Edmund, who barely listened to her to the end, "let us, none of us, judge by what we have appeared in this time of general folly. The time of the piece is a time I don't remember fondly. Mary was wrong, Dorset was wrong, we were all wrong together; but no one is as wrong as I am. Compared to me, everyone else was impeccable. I played the fool with my eyes open."
"As a spectator," Esther said, "I may have seen more than you; and I think Mr. Rushmore was very jealous at times."
"Very likely. No wonder. Nothing could be more indecent than the whole business. I am shocked when I think that Mary might be able to do this; but if she could take on the role, we shouldn't be surprised about the rest."
"I was very wrong before the play if Julia didn't think he was paying attention to her."
"Julia! I've heard from someone that they're in love with Julia; but I could never see any of it. And, Esther, although I hope to live up to the good qualities of my sisters, I think it is very likely that they, one or both, will strive more to be admired by Dorset and show that desire a little more unprotected than it was completely prudent. I remember that they obviously liked his company; and with such encouragement, a man like Dorset, lively and perhaps a little thoughtless, could be made to do so – it couldn't be anything very flashy, because it's clear that he had no claims: his heart was reserved for you. And I have to say that his existence has raised him incomprehensibly for you, in my opinion. It gives him the highest honor; it shows his correct assessment of the blessing of domestic happiness and pure connectedness. It proves that he is untouched by his uncle. It proves to him, in short, everything I was used to trying to believe him and feared that he wouldn't."
"I am convinced that he is not thinking about serious issues as he should."
"Rather, say that he didn't think about serious issues at all, which I think is pretty much the case. How could it be otherwise, with such training and such a consultant? Among the disadvantages that both had, isn't it wonderful that they are the way they are? I am ready to acknowledge that Dorset's feelings have so far been too much his leaders. Fortunately, these feelings were generally good. They provide the rest; and he is an extremely happy man to bind himself to such a creature – to a woman who, firm as a rock in her own principles, has a gentle character that is so well suited to recommend her. He actually chose his partner with rare bliss. He will make you happy, Esther; I know he will make you happy; but you will do everything to him."
"I wouldn't get involved in such an accusation," Esther shouted with a fading accent; "in such a responsible office!"
"As usual, believe that you have not grown anything! Desire for everything too much for you! Well, although I may not be able to convince you of other feelings, you will be convinced of that, I trust in it. I confess, I am sincerely concerned that you could. I have no common interest in Dorset's well-being. In addition to your happiness, Esther, his first claim to me. They know I have no common interest in Dorset."
Esther was too well aware of this to say anything; and they walked together about fifty yards further in mutual silence and absent-mindedness. Edmund only started again –
"Her way of talking about it yesterday made me very happy, especially happy because I hadn't relied on her to see everything so easily. I knew she liked you very much; but still, I was afraid that she would not judge your value to her brother as he deserved, and regret that he had not preferred to commit herself to a woman of prestige or fortune. I was afraid of the bias of these worldly maxims, which she was too accustomed to hearing. But it was very different. She spoke of you, Esther, as it should be. She wants the connection as much as her uncle or I do. We talked about it for a long time. I should not have mentioned the subject, although I was very anxious to experience their feelings; but I hadn't been in the room for five minutes when she started to introduce it with all this openness of heart, and sweet idiosyncrasy of kind, this spirit and naivety that are so much a part of her. Mrs. Grant laughed at her because of her speed."
"So was Mrs. Grant in the room?"
"Yes, when I reached the house, I found the two sisters alone; and once we started, we weren't done with you, Esther, until Dorset and Dr. Grant came in."
"It's been over a week since I've seen Miss Dorset."
"Yes, she laments it; nor has it perhaps been the best. However, you will see her before she leaves. She is very angry with you, Esther; You need to be prepared for that. She calls herself very angry, but you can imagine her anger. It is the regret and disappointment of a sister who believes that her brother has a right to everything he may wish for at first. She is hurt as you would be for William; but she loves and appreciates you with all her heart."
"I knew she would be very angry with me."
"My dearest Esther," Edmund shouted, pressing her arm tighter to him, "don't let the idea of her anger worry you. It's anger that you talk about rather than feel. Her heart is made for love and kindness, not for resentment. I wish you could have overheard their praise; I wish you could have seen her face when she said you should become Henry's wife. And I observed that she always spoke of you as "Esther," which she was never used to; and it sounded of sisterly cordiality."
"And Mrs. Grant, she said, she spoke; Was she there all the time?"
"Yes, she agreed exactly with her sister. The surprise of your rejection, Esther, seems boundless. That you could reject a man like Henry Dorset seems to understand more than she can. I have said for you what I could; but in the good truth, as they put it - you must prove yourself as soon as possible by a different behavior than in reason; nothing else will satisfy them. But that teases you. I did. Don't turn away from me."
"I should have thought," Esther said after a pause in reflection and effort, "that every woman must have felt the possibility that a man would not be recognized, loved by someone of her gender, let him be forever so generally pleasant. Let him have all the perfections of the world, I think it should not be considered certain that a man must be acceptable to every woman he likes. But even if Mr. Dorset were to admit all the claims his sisters believe he has, how could I be prepared to meet him with a feeling that would be accountable to his own? He completely surprised me. I had no idea that his behavior towards me had any meaning; and certainly I shouldn't teach myself to like him just because he seemed to take very idle notice of me. In my situation, it would have been extremely vain to have expectations of Dorset-san. I am sure that his sisters, who judged him that way, must have thought so, provided that he had meant nothing. How should I be then – be in love with him as soon as he said he was with me? How should I have an attachment at his service once asked? His sisters should consider me as much as he does. The higher his earnings, the more inappropriate for me to have thought of him. And, and – we think very differently about the nature of women when they can imagine a woman who is so very soon able to reciprocate an affection as this seems to imply." should I be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How should I have an attachment at his service once asked? His sisters should consider me as much as he does. The higher his earnings, the more inappropriate for me to have thought of him. And, and – we think very differently about the nature of women when they can imagine a woman who is so very soon able to reciprocate an affection as this seems to imply." should I be in love with him the moment he said he was with me? How should I have an attachment at his service once asked? His sisters should consider me as much as he does. The higher his earnings, the more inappropriate for me to have thought of him. And, and – we think very differently about the nature of women when they can imagine a woman who will be able to reciprocate affection as very soon as it seems to imply."
"My dear, dear Esther, now I have the truth. I know this is the truth; and most worthy are such feelings. I had attributed them to you before. I thought I could understand you. You have now given your friend and Mrs. Grant exactly the explanation I dared to give you, and they were both happier, although your warm-hearted girlfriend was still a little overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of her affection for Henry. I told them that of all human creatures, you are the one over whom habit has the greatest power and novelty the least; and that the real circumstance of the novelty of Dorset's addresses was against him. That they were so new and so fresh was all to their detriment; that one could not bear anything that one was not used to; and much more for the same purpose to give them a knowledge of your character. Miss Dorset made us laugh with her cheering plans for her brother. She wanted to urge him to persevere in the hope of being loved in time and getting his addresses kindly received at the end of a happy marriage of about ten years."
Esther could only show with difficulty the smile that was asked for here. Their feelings were all in turmoil. She feared that she had done something wrong: said too much, exaggerated the caution she had thought necessary; by protecting itself from one evil and opening itself to another; and to have Miss Dorset's liveliness repeated at such a moment and on such a subject was a bitter upset.
Edmund saw fatigue and grief in her face and immediately decided to refrain from any further discussions; and not even mentioning the name Dorset again, unless it could be related to what she must be comfortable with. On this principle, he soon remarked: "You leave on Monday. So you will surely see your friend again tomorrow or on Sundays. They really go on Monday; and I would have been persuaded by a little something to stay in Lessingby until that day! I had almost promised it. What a difference it could have made! Those five or six more days in Lessingby may have been felt all my life."
"You were about to stay there?"
"Very. I was kindly harassed and almost agreed. If I had received any letter from Mansfield to tell me how you are all doing, I think I would certainly have confessed; but I didn't know anything about what had happened here for fourteen days and felt like I had been away long enough."
"Did you spend your time there pleasantly?"
"Yes; that is, it was the fault of my own mind if I didn't. They were all very pleasant. I doubt they find me that way. I took the discomfort with me, and I couldn't get rid of it until I was back in Mansfield."
"Miss Owens – they liked her, didn't they?"
"Yes very good. Pleasant, cheerful, unartificial girls. But I am spoiled Esther, for the common female society. Cheerful, unartificial girls are not enough for a man who is used to reasonable women. They are two different orders of being. She and Miss Dorset made me too nice."
Nevertheless, Esther was depressed and tired; he saw it in their eyes, it could not be talked away; and without trying any further, he led them directly into the house with the friendly authority of a privileged guardian.
Chapter 191
After this adventure, only a few days had passed when Harriet came to Emma one morning with a small package in her hand and, after she sat down and hesitated, began like this:
"Miss Lodge – if you have time – I want to tell you something – a kind of confession – and then it's over."
Emma was quite surprised; but asked them to speak. There was a seriousness in Harriet's way that, like her words, prepared her for something extraordinary.
"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my desire," she continued, "not to have any reservations with you on this matter. Since I am fortunately a fairly changed creature in one respect, it is very fitting that you have the satisfaction of knowing this. I don't want to say more than necessary – I'm too ashamed that I gave in like that, and I dare say you understand me."
"Yes," Emma said, ??" I hope so."
"How could I imagine myself for so long!..." called Harriet warmly. "It seems to be madness! I can't find anything out of the ordinary about him now. – I don't care if I meet him or not – except for the two I would rather not see – and I would actually go any way to avoid him – but I do not envy his wife in the slightest; I don't admire her, nor do I envy her, as I did: she's very lovely, I dare say, and all that, but I find her very nasty and unpleasant – I'll never forget her look the other night! – But, I assure you, Miss Lodge, I do not wish her any evil. – No, let her be happy together, it will not cause me another moment of pain: and to convince you that I have spoken the truth, I will now destroy – what I should have destroyed long ago – what I should never have kept – I know that very well (blushes as she speaks). – But now I will destroy everything – and it is my I would especially like to do it in your presence, so that you can see how reasonable I have become. Can't you guess what this package contains?" she said with a conscious look.
"Not the slightest thing in the world. – Has he ever given you anything?"
"No – I can't call them gifts; but they're things I really appreciated."
She held out the package to her, and Emma read the words "The Most Precious Treasures" above. Her curiosity was very aroused. Harriet unfolded the package and looked at it impatiently. In an abundance of silver paper was a pretty little box of Tunbridge merchandise that Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but apart from the cotton, Emma only saw a small piece of yard plaster.
"Well," Harriet said, "you have to remember."
"No, I really don't."
"Love me! I wouldn't have thought it possible that you could forget what happened in this room about farm plaster, one of the very last times we met in it! – It was only a few days before I had a sore throat – just before Mr. and Mrs. John Hill came – I think that same evening. – Don't you remember him cutting his finger with your new pocket knife and recommended patch? you wanted me to take care of him; and so I took mine out and cut off a piece from it; but it was way too big, and he cut it smaller and played with what was left for some time before returning it to me. And so, in my nonsense, I couldn't help but make a treasure out of it – so I put it away to never use it, and every now and then I saw it as a great reward."
"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, ?? held his hand in front of his face and jumped up, "You shame me more than I can bear. Remember that? Yes, now I remember everything; everything, except for your storage of this relic – I haven't known about it until now – but cutting off my finger and recommending the courtyard pavement and saying I don't have one with me! – Oh! my sins, my sins! – And I had enough in my pocket all the time! – One of my pointless tricks! – I deserve to be constantly red all my life. next – what else?"
"And did you really have any at hand yourself? I'm sure I never guessed it, you did it so naturally."
"And so you actually enclosed this piece of yard plaster with him!" said Emma, ?? who recovered from her state of shame and felt divided between amazement and amusement. And secretly, she added to herself, "Lord bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting a piece of court plaster that Frank Curcelle had dragged around in cotton wool! I was never up to that."
"Here," Harriet continued, turning back to her box, "here's something even more valuable, I mean, that was even more valuable, because that's what he once really heard, what the yard cleaner never did."
Emma was very excited to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an old pencil – the part without a mine.
"That was really his," Harriet said. – "Don't you remember one morning? – no, I dare say you don't know. But one morning - I know the day exactly forgotten - but maybe it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before that evening, he wanted to make a note in his wallet; it was about spruce beer. Mr. Hill had told him about brewing spruce beer, and he wanted to put it away; but when he took out his pencil, there was so little mine that he soon cut it away completely, and it didn't work, so you lent him another one, and it was on the table for free. But I kept an eye on it; and as soon as I dared, I caught up with it and didn't part with it from that moment on."
"I remember it," cried Emma; "I remember exactly. – Speaking of spruce beer. – Oh! yes – Mr. Hill and I both say we liked it, and Mr. Alton seems determined to learn to like it too. I remember it exactly. – Stop; Mr. Hill was standing right here, wasn't he? I have a hunch that he was standing right here."
"Ah! I do not know. I can't remember. – It's very strange, but I can't remember. Alton sat here, I remember a lot about where I am now." –
"Well, keep going."
"Oh! That's it. I have nothing more to show or tell you – except that I'm going to throw them both behind the fire now, and I want you to watch me do it."
"My poor, dear Harriet! and have you really found happiness in keeping these things?"
"Yes, fool as I was! – but I am now ashamed of it and wish I could forget them as easily as I can burn them. You know, it was very wrong of me to keep any memories after he got married. I knew it was – but I didn't have enough determination to part with them."
"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court patch? – I don't have a word to say about the piece of old pencil, but the court plaster could be useful."
"I'd rather burn him," Harriet replied. "It looks uncomfortable to me. I have to get rid of everything. – There it is, and it is an end, thanks to heaven! by Mr. Alton."
"And when," Emma thought, ??" will there be a beginning of Mr. Curcelle?"
Soon after, she had reason to believe that the beginning had already been made, and could not help but hope that the gypsy, although she had not done any divination, could be proven that she had made Harriet's sufficient explanation and quite unintentional. Emma didn't think about what made the information she received more valuable at the moment. She only said during a trivial conversation, "Well, Harriet, whenever you get married, I would advise you to do this and that" – and didn't think about it any further until she heard Harriet say after a minute's silence in a serious tone: "I will never get married."
Emma then looked up and immediately saw what it was like; and after a brief debate about whether or not it should go unnoticed, he
replied,
"Never get married! – This is a new resolution."
"However, it's one I'll never change."
After another brief hesitation: "I hope it doesn't go from – I hope it's not a compliment to Mr. Alton?"
"Sir. Alton indeed!" shouted Harriet indignantly. – "Oh! no" – and Emma could barely understand the words: "As superior as Mr. Alton!"
She then took a longer period of reflection. Shouldn't it continue? – should she let it go through and seem to suspect nothing? Perhaps Harriet would find her cold or angry if she did; or if she were completely silent, perhaps it would only lead Harriet to ask her to hear too much; and against such impartiality as it had been, such an open and frequent discussion of hopes and opportunities, she was determined. - She thought it would be wiser if she could say and know and know everything she wanted to say at once. Simple trading was always best. It had previously determined how far it would proceed with an application of this kind; and it would be safer for both of them to have quickly laid down the rational law of their own brains. - She was determined and spoke like this -
"Harriet, I will not give the appearance of doubting your importance. Your decision, or rather your expectation, never to get married, results from the idea that the person you may prefer would be too far superior in the situation to think of you. Isn't that the case?"
"Oh! Miss Lodge, believe me, I don't have the presumption to accept – I'm actually not that crazy. – But it is a pleasure for me to admire him from afar – and to think of his infinite superiority over the rest of the world, with the gratitude, wonder and reverence that are particularly peculiar to me."
"I'm not at all surprised by you, Harriet. The service he did to you was enough to warm your heart."
"Operation! Oh! it was such an unspeakable obligation! – The mere memory of it and everything I felt at that time – when I saw him coming – his noble gaze – and my misery before. Such a change! Such a change in an instant! From complete misery to perfect happiness!"
"It's very natural. It's natural, and it's honorable. – Yes, honorable, I think, to choose so good and so grateful. – But I can't promise that it will be a happy preference. I don't advise you to give in to that, Harriet. I do not undertake to return the goods under any circumstances. Think about what you're all about. Perhaps the smartest thing about you is to control your feelings while you can: at least, don't let yourself be carried far from it unless you're convinced he likes you. Pay attention to him. Let him guide you. I am giving you this warning now because I will never talk to you about this topic again. I am determined against any interference. From now on, I don't know anything about the matter. Never let a name come over our lips. We were very wrong before; we will be careful now. - He is your superior, no doubt, and there do indeed seem to be objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but still, Harriet, more wonderful things have happened, there have been games of greater inequality. But take care of yourself. I don't want you to be too confident; however it ends, rest assured that it is a sign of good taste that you will direct your thoughts to him, whom I will always appreciate."
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was firmly convinced that such attachment was not a bad thing for her friend. Its tendency would be to elevate and refine their minds – and it must protect them from the danger of humiliation.
Chapter 192
Folding back the shutters of the maid at eight o'clock the next day was the first sound that woke Catherine up; and she opened her eyes, wondering that they could ever have been closed on objects of happiness; their fire was already burning, and a bright morning had followed the storm of the night. Immediately, with the awareness of existence, her memory of the manuscript returned; and at the moment of the maid's departure, she jumped out of bed, eagerly collected every scattered leaf that had burst from the reel when she fell to the ground, and flew back to enjoy the luxury of her perusal on her pillow. She now saw clearly that she could not expect a manuscript of the same length for the role as the universality of what she had shied away from in books,
her greedy eye quickly slid over a page. It began with its import. Could it be possible, or did their senses not play them wrong? An inventory of linen in coarse and modern characters seemed like everything she had in front of her! If you could trust the sight, she held a washing license in her hand. She grabbed another paper and saw the same articles with little variation; a third, a fourth and a fifth presented nothing new. Shirts, stockings, ties and vests faced her. Two others, written by the same hand, marked a hardly more interesting edition in letters, hair powder, laces and knee waistband. And the larger leaf that had enclosed the rest seemed to be through its first convulsive line: "To wrap a fox mare" – a farrier's beak! Such was the collection of papers (perhaps, as she could assume at the time, due to the negligence of a servant in the place from which she had brought them), which had filled her with expectation and anxiety and robbed her of half of her night's rest! She felt humiliated in the dust. Couldn't the adventure of the chest have taught them wisdom? A corner of it, which caught her eye while lying down, seemed to rise above her in court. Nothing could be clearer now than the absurdity of their recent fantasies. To assume that in a space like this, so modern, so habitable, a manuscript could have gone undiscovered by many generations! all! Couldn't the adventure of the chest have taught them wisdom? A corner of it, which caught her eye while lying down, seemed to rise above her in court. Nothing could be clearer now than the absurdity of their recent fantasies. To assume that in a space like this, so modern, so habitable, a manuscript could have gone undiscovered by many generations! all! Couldn't the adventure of the chest have taught them wisdom? A corner of it, which caught her eye while lying down, seemed to rise above her in court. Nothing could be clearer now than the absurdity of their recent fantasies. To assume that in a space like this, so modern, so habitable, a manuscript could have gone undiscovered by many generations! all!
How could she impose such a thing on herself? Heaven knows that Henry Alsina should ever know her stupidity! And it was, to a large extent, his own work, because if the cabinet had not appeared so precisely to agree with his description of her adventures, she would never have felt the slightest curiosity about it. This was the only consolation that occurred. Impatient to get rid of these hateful proofs of her folly, those heinous papers scattered across the bed at the time, she immediately rose up, folded them as well as possible in the same form as before, and put them back in the same place in the closet. with a very heartfelt wish that no unfavorable accident could ever bring them forward again, even to shame them with themselves.
Why the locks should have been so difficult to open, however, was still remarkable, because she could now handle them with complete ease. There was certainly something mysterious about that, and she indulged in flattering hints for half a minute, until the possibility that the door had been unlocked first and she herself was her cap shot into her head and made her blush again.
She escaped as soon as she could, from a room where her behavior produced such unpleasant reflections, and hurriedly found her way to the breakfast room, as Miss Alsina had shown her the night before. Henry was alone in it; and his immediate hope that she would have been undisturbed by the storm, with a mischievous reference to the character of the building they inhabited, was quite depressing. For the world did not want her to suspect her weakness, and yet, not up to an absolute lie, she had to admit that the wind had kept her awake a little. "But we have an enchanting morning after that," she added, wishing to get rid of the topic; "and storms and insomnia are nothing when they're over. What beautiful hyacinths! I just learned to love a hyacinth."
"And how could you learn? By chance or dispute?"
"Your sister taught me; I can't say how. Mrs. All of them tried year after year to make me like them; but I never could until I saw her the other day on Milsom Street; Flowers are indifferent to me by nature."
"But now you love a hyacinth. So much better. You've gained a new source of joy, and it's good to have as many strokes of luck as possible. Also, a preference for flowers by your gender is always desirable to get you outside and entice you to exercise more often than you would otherwise. And although the love for a hyacinth may be more domestic, who can say that the feeling you once awakened will love a rose over time?"
"But I don't want such a quest to get me outside. For me, the pleasure of running and breathing fresh air is enough, and when the weather is nice, I am outside more than half of my time. Mom says I'm never inside."
"In any case, I am glad that you have learned to love a hyacinth. The mere habit of learning to love is the thing; and a docile character in a young lady is a great blessing. Does my sister have a pleasant way of teaching?"
Catherine was spared the embarrassment of trying an answer when the general stepped in, whose smiling compliments heralded a happy state of mind, but whose gentle touch of compassionate early rising did not promote her composure.
The elegance of the breakfastware came to Catherine's mind as they sat at the table; and fortunately it had been the choice of the general. He was delighted by their approval of his taste, confessed him to be neat and simple, thought it right to promote the manufacture of his country; and for its uncritical palate, the tea in turn was just as well flavored with the clay of Staffordshire as with that of Dresden or Save. But that was a pretty old set, bought two years ago. The production has been greatly improved since that time; he had seen some beautiful specimens the last time he was in town, and had he not been completely devoid of vanities of this kind, he might have been tempted to order a new set. However, he trusted that an opportunity would soon arise to choose one – if not for himself.
Shortly after breakfast, Henry left her for Woodston, where business required it, and would keep him for two or three days. They all came into the hall to see him get on his horse, and right after Catherine re-entered the breakfast room, she stepped up to a window hoping to catch another glimpse of his figure. "This is a pretty heavy requirement for your brother's bravery," the general remarked to Eleanor. "Woodston will only have a gloomy appearance today."
"Is it a beautiful place?" asked Katharina.
"What do you say, Eleanor? Give your opinion, because ladies can best judge the taste of ladies in terms of places and men. I think it would be recognized by the most impartial eye to have many recommendations. The house stands between beautiful meadows facing southeast, with an excellent vegetable garden in the same view; the walls that I built and equipped myself about ten years ago for the benefit of my son. It's a family, Miss Fenmore; Since the property in this place is mainly my property, you can believe I make sure it doesn't turn out to be a bad one. Hing Henry's income from this livelihood alone, he would not be poorly cared for. Perhaps it may seem strange that with only two younger children, I should think that some profession is necessary for him; and certainly there are moments when we could all wish that he broke away from all business ties. But although I don't necessarily make you young ladies converts, I'm sure your father, Miss Fenmore, would agree with me if he deems it expedient to give every young man a job. The money is nothing, it is not an object, but the occupation is the thing. Even Frederick, my eldest son, who will perhaps inherit a property as substantial as any private individual in the county, has his profession."
The imposing effect of this last argument corresponded to his wishes. The silence of the lady proved to be unanswerable.
The night before, something had been said about her being led across the house, and he now offered himself as her conductor; and although Catherine had hoped to explore it only in the company of his daughter, under no circumstances was it too much of a lucky offer in itself not to be gladly accepted; for she had been in the abbey for eighteen hours and had seen only a few of its rooms. The only leisurely pulled out net box was closed with joyful haste, and it was ready to serve him immediately. "And when they visited the house, he also promised himself the pleasure of accompanying them into the bushes and the garden." She bent her approval. "But maybe it would be more pleasant for them to make this their first item. The weather was favourable at the time, and at this time of year there was a great deal of uncertainty as to whether things would continue like this. What would she prefer? He was equally at her service. What, his daughter thought, would most likely meet the wishes of her beautiful friend? But he thought he could see it. Yes, he certainly read in Miss Fenmore's eyes the reasonable desire to take advantage of the present smiling weather. But when did she misjudge? The abbey would always be safe and dry. He gave in tacitly and would get his hat and devote himself to them in an instant." He left the room, and Catherine, with a disappointed, anxious face, began to speak of her reluctance to take her outside against his own inclination, with the mistaken intention of pleasing her; but she was held up somewhat confused by Miss Alsina's statement: "I think it will be smartest to take the morning while it is still so beautiful; and do not worry for my Father's sake; he always goes out around this time."
Catherine didn't know exactly how to understand this. Why was Miss Alsina embarrassed? Could there be reluctance on the part of the general to lead them over the abbey? The proposal was his own. And wasn't it strange that he always went for a walk so early? Neither her father nor Mr. Everyone did. It was certainly very provocative. She was quite impatient to see the house and had little interest in the plots. If Henry had actually been with them! But now she shouldn't know what was picturesque when she saw it. These were her thoughts, but she kept them to herself and put on her hood in patient dissatisfaction.
However, beyond her expectations, she was impressed by the splendor of the abbey when she first saw it from the lawn. The whole building enclosed a large courtyard; and two sides of the square, rich in Gothic ornaments, stood for admiration. The rest was completed by hills of old trees or lush plantations, and the steep wooded hills that rose behind it to provide shelter were beautiful even in the leafless month of March. Catherine had seen nothing like it; and her feelings of joy were so strong that, without waiting for a better authority, she boldly burst into amazement and praise. The general listened with approving gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimate of Northanger had waited unfixed until that hour.
Next, the kitchen garden should be admired, and it led it through a small part of the park.
The number of acres contained in this garden was so large that Catherine could not sound without dismay, as she was more than twice the size of Mr. Allen and her father, including the churchyard and orchard. The walls seemed countless, endlessly long; a village of greenhouses seemed to emerge among them, and an entire community seemed to work within the enclosure. The general felt flattered by her surprised looks, which told him almost as clearly as he soon forced her to tell him in words that she had never seen gardens equal to them before; and he then modestly admitted this, "without any ambition of this kind himself – without any worries about it – he considered them unrivalled in the kingdom. If he had a hobbyhorse, that was it. He loved a garden. Although careless enough in most things of food, he loved good fruit – or if not, then his friends and children. However, there was great soot to visit such a garden as his. The utmost care could not always secure the most valuable fruits. The pine winery had harvested only a hundred last year. Mr. Everyone, he assumed, must feel this inconvenience as much as he does."
"No, not at all. Mr. Allen didn't care about the garden and never went in."
With a triumphant smile of complacency, the general wished he could do the same, for he never entered his without being annoyed in one way or another that he was not fulfilling his plan.
"How did Mr. Allen's hereditary houses work?" describing the nature of his own when they entered them.
"Sir. Allen had only a small greenhouse, which Mrs. Everyone had at their disposal for their plants in the winter, and from time to time it burned in it."
"He is a happy man!" said the general with a look of very happy contempt.
After taking her into every department and leading her under every wall until she was tired of seeing and wondering from the heart, he finally let the girls take advantage of an outside door and then expressed his desire to examine the effect of some recent changes to the teahouse suggested that it would not be an unpleasant extension of their walk, if Miss Fenmore wasn't tired. "But where are you going, Eleanor? Why do you choose this cold, damp way to get there? Miss Fenmore gets wet. It's best to go across the park."
"This is such a popular way of mine," said Miss Alsina, "that I always think it's the best and next way. But maybe it's damp."
It was a narrow, winding path through a dense grove of old Scottish firs; and Catherine, struck by his gloomy sight and eager to enter it, could not be deterred from stepping forward even by the general's disapproval. He noticed their inclination, and after again insisting in vain on health, he was too polite to offer further resistance. However, he apologized for visiting them: "The sun's rays were not too cheerful for him, and he would meet them in a different way." He turned away; and Catherine was shocked when she realized how much her mood was relieved by the breakup. However, the shock, which was less real than the relief, offered him no harm; and she began to speak with slight cheerfulness of the delightful melancholy that such a grove instilled.
"I particularly like this place," said her companion sighing. "It was my mom's favorite walk."
Catherine had never heard Mrs. Alsina mentioned before in the family, and the interest aroused by this tender memory was directly evident in her altered expression and in the attentive pause she waited for something else.
"I used to walk here so many times with her!" Eleanor added; "although I never loved it back then, the way I've loved it ever since. At the time, I actually wondered about her choice. But their memory makes it popular now."
"And shouldn't it," Catherine thought, "to make her husband like it? But the general didn't want to enter it." Miss Alsina remained silent and dared to say: "Your death must have been a great suffering!"
"A big and increasing one," replied the other quietly. "I was only thirteen when it happened; and although I may have felt my loss as strongly as such a young person could feel, I didn't know, I couldn't, then I knew what a loss it was." She paused for a moment and then added with great certainty: "I don't have a sister, you know – and although Henry – although my brothers are very affectionate, and Henry is very much here, for which I am very grateful It is impossible for me not to be lonely often."
"Of course you have to miss him a lot."
"A mother would always have been there. A mother would have been a constant friend; their influence would have been greater than any other."
"Was she a very charming woman? Was she pretty? Was there a picture of her in the abbey? And why had she placed so much emphasis on this grove? Was it out of dejection?" – questions were now eagerly asked; the first three received a willing confirmation, the other two were ignored; and Catherine's interest in the late Mrs. Alsina grew with every question, answered or not. She felt convinced of her misfortune in the marriage. The general had certainly been an unfriendly husband. He didn't love her gait: could he have loved her because of that? And besides, as good as he was, there was something in his facial features that indicated that he hadn't behaved well towards her.
"Your picture, I suppose," blushing at the consummate art of her own question, "hangs in your father's room?"
"No; it was intended for the salon; but my father was dissatisfied with the painting, and for some time it had no place. Soon after her death, I made it my own and hung it in my bedroom, where I will be happy to show you; it's very similar." Here was another proof. A portrait – very similar – of a deceased woman who is not appreciated by the husband! He must have been terribly cruel to her!
Catherine no longer bothered to hide the nature of the feelings he had aroused despite all his attentions before; and what had previously been terror and aversion was now absolute aversion. Yes, dislike! His cruelty to such a charming woman made him hated by her. She had often read about such characters, characters that Mr. Everyone was used to calling it unnatural and exaggerated; but here was the proof of the opposite.
She had just finished this point when the end of the road brought her directly to the general; and despite all her virtuous indignation, she felt compelled again to go with him, listen to him, and even smile when he smiled. However, since she could no longer feel joy in the surrounding objects, she soon began to walk with dullness; the general noticed, and out of concern for her health, which seemed to reproach her for her opinion of him, she urged him to return to the house with his daughter. He would follow them in a quarter of an hour. Again they separated – but Eleanor was called back after half a minute to receive a stern accusation that she had not taken her girlfriend until his return to the abbey. This second example of his concern to delay what she so desperately wanted seemed very remarkable to Catherine.
Chapter 193
Mrs. Palmifer was doing so well after fourteen days that her mother no longer felt the need to devote all her time to her; and by settling for visiting her once or twice a day, she returned from that time to her own house and habits, in which she found the Miss Hargroves very willing to resume her former share.
About the third or fourth morning after being relocated to Berkeley Street, when Mrs. Jennings returned from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmifer, She entered the salon where Eleanore was sitting alone, with a face as hastily important as she was prepared to hear something wonderful; and by just giving her time to formulate this idea, she began to justify it directly by saying
,
"Lord! my dear Miss Hargrove! have you heard the news?"
"No, Ma'am. What's going on?"
Then he grinned and smiled and looked serious and seemed to know something, and finally he said in a whisper, "For fear that the young ladies in your care might receive some unpleasant news about the discomfort of their sister I think it is advisable to say that I believe that there is no great reason to worry; I hope Mrs. Hargrove will do very well.'"
"What! is Esther sick?"
"That's exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' I ask, 'Is Mrs. Hargrove sick?' So everything came out, and the most important thing about it, from what I can learn, seems to be this: Mr. Edward Gastonois, the very young man I used to joke about with you (but anyway, it turns out, I'm tremendously glad there was never anything in it), Mr. Edward Gastonois, it seems, got engaged to my cousin Lucy over this twelve month! – There is for you, my dear! And no creature that a knows syllable of the thing, except Nancy! – Would you have thought such a thing possible? – It's no great miracle that they like each other, but that things between them are pushed forward in this way, and no one suspects it! – THAT's strange! – I've never seen them together, or I'm sure I should have found out right away. and so this was kept a great secret out of fear of Mrs. Gastonois, and neither she nor her brother or sister suspected a word of the matter – until this morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no summoner, has knocked it all out. 'Lord!' she thinks to herself, 'they all love Lucy so much to be sure they won't have trouble with it;' and so she went away to your sister, who was all alone at her carpet work, unaware of what was to come – for she had just told your brother five minutes ago that she was commemorating, To propose between Edward and one or the other daughter of a lord, I forget who. You might think what a blow it was for all their vanity and pride. She immediately fell into violent hysteria, with such screams reaching your brother's ears as he sat downstairs in his own dressing room, thinking of writing a letter to his administrator in the countryside. So he flew straight up, and a terrible scene took place, because Lucy had come to them at that time and had little idea what was going on. Poor soul! I pity them. And I have to say, I think it was hardly used; for your sister scolded like any rage and soon drove her into a fainting spell. Nancy, she fell to her knees and wept bitterly; and your brother, he went around the room and said he didn't know what to do. Mrs. Hargrove explained that they should not stay in the house for a minute longer, and her brother was forced to kneel down as well to persuade her to let her stay until they packed her clothes. THEN she fell into hysteria again, and he was so afraid that he would send to Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this turmoil. The carriage was standing at the door, ready to pick up my poor cousins, and they were just getting in when he left; poor Lucy in such a state, he says, she can hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare that I have no patience with your sister; and I hope with all my heart that it will be a match despite her. Lord! What a disappointment poor Mr. Edward will have when he learns about it! That his love is used so contemptuously! for they say he loves them tremendously as best he can. I wouldn't be surprised if he was in the greatest passion! – and Mr. Donavan thinks the same way. He and I talked a lot about it; and best of all, he returned to Harley Street so he would be within reach when Mrs. Gastonois found out about it, because she was fetched as soon as my cousins left the house, because your sister was sure SHE too would become hysterical; and that's what she's allowed to do, which interests me. I have no pity for both. I have no idea that people make so much fuss about money and size. There is no reason why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Gastonois can afford to treat her son very well, and although Lucy herself has next to nothing, she knows better than anyone how to make the most of each thing; I dare say that if Mrs. Gastonois allowed him only five hundred a year, she would look just as good as anyone else at eight. Lord! how comfortable they could live in such a different house as yours – or slightly larger – with two maids and two men; and I believe I could help them to become a housemaid,
This is where Mrs. Jennings stopped, and since Eleanore had had enough time to gather her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer and make such observations that the subject should naturally produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of an extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had often hoped lately that this might be the case) had stopped imagining that she was attached to Edward; and happy about everything else, in Marianne's absence, she felt very comfortable being able to talk about the matter without embarrassment and, as she believed, to judge impartially the behavior of all those involved.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of the event really was; although she seriously tried to dispel the idea that it was possible to finally end differently than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs Gastonois would say and do, although there could be no doubt about his nature, she was eager to hear; and even more anxious to know how Edward would behave. She felt a lot of compassion for HIM; – very little for Lucy – and it took her some effort to procure this little; – none at all for the rest of society.
Since Mrs. Jennings could not talk about any other topic, Eleanore soon realized the need to prepare Marianne for the conversation. No time should be wasted disappointing her, introducing her to the real truth, and trying to get her to hear about it from others without revealing that she felt uneasy for her sister or a grudge against Edward.
Eleanore's office was a painful one. – She would remove what she really thought was her sister's greatest comfort – giving such details about Edward that she feared would ruin him forever in her good opinion – and getting Marianne to feel all her own disappointment again and again through a similarity in her situations that would seem strong to HER imagination. But as unwelcome as such a task must be, it had to be done, and Eleanore therefore hurried to carry it out.
She was far from dealing with her own feelings or portraying herself as very suffering, so that the self-control she had practiced since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement could give an indication of what was practical for Marianne. Their narrative was clear and simple; and although it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by intense excitement or impetuous sorrow. - THAT belonged more to the listener, because Marianne listened with horror and cried excessively. Eleanore should be the comforter of others in their own needs, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of their own serenity, and a very serious justification of Edward of any accusation, except unwiseness, was willingly offered.
But Marianne would not pay tribute to either of them for some time. Edward seemed to be a second Warwick; and if, as Eleanore did, she acknowledges that she genuinely loved him, she might feel less than herself! As for Lucy Clayhorn, she thought she was so completely unnameable, so absolutely incapable of tying a reasonable man that she could not be persuaded at first to believe any of Edward's previous affection for her and later forgive her. She wouldn't even admit it was natural; and Eleanore left her to be convinced that it was so, through what she could only convince, a better knowledge of humanity.
Their first communication was no further than the fact of the engagement and the duration of its existence. - Marianne's feelings had then collapsed and put an end to any regularity of details; and for some time, all that could be done was to alleviate their distress, alleviate their concerns, and fight their resentment. The first question on your part that led to further details was:
"How long have you known this, Eleanore? Did he write to you?"
"I've known for four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me confidentially about her engagement."
At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the amazement that her lips could not express. After a surprised break, she exclaimed:
"Four months! - Did you know about these four months?"
Eleanor confirmed it.
"What! – while you stand by me in all my misery, is that on your heart? – And I blamed you for being happy!" –
"It wasn't fitting that you should know how much I was the other way around!"
"Four months!" – Marianne shouted again. – "So quiet! – so cheerful! – how were you supported?" –
"By feeling that I was doing my duty. – My promise to Lucy obliged me to remain secret. I therefore owed it to her not to give any indication of the truth; and I didn't owe it to my family and friends to create in them a worry to me that might not be in my power to satisfy."
Marianne seemed to be very affected.
"I have very often wished to disappoint you and my mother," Eleanore added; "and once or twice I tried; - but without betraying my trust, I would never have been able to convince you."
"Four months! – and you loved him after all!" –
and everything that can be said about one's own happiness depends entirely on a certain person, it is not meant – it is not appropriate – it is impossible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman who is personally and understandingly superior to half her gender; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another was superior to YOU." —
"If you think so," Marianne said, "if the loss of the most valuable is so easily compensated by something else, then your determination, your self-control is perhaps a little less surprising. – They are brought into my understanding."
without hearing a circumstance that could make me less desire for the connection. – Nothing has proved him unworthy; nothing made him indifferent to me. — I have had to fight against the lovelessness of his sister and the impudence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of a bond without enjoying its benefits.— And all this at a time when, as you know only too well, it was not my only misfortune.— If you can trust me to always feel that – you can safely assume that I suffered NOW. The serenity with which I have now come to discuss the matter, the comfort I was willing to admit, are the effect of constant and painful effort; they did not arise by themselves; they didn't come up with it to calm me down first. – No, Marianne. – THEN,
Marianne was very restrained.—
"Oh! Eleanore," she shouted, "you made me hate me forever. – How barbaric I have been to you! seemed to suffer only for me! – Is this my gratitude? – Is this the only consideration I can give you?
The most tender caresses followed this confession. In her present state of mind, Eleanore had no difficulty in getting from her every promise she demanded; and at her request, Marianne undertook not to talk to anyone with the slightest semblance of bitterness about the affair; – To meet Lucy without betraying her the slightest growing dislike; – and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without diminishing their usual cordiality. – These were major concessions; – but where Marianne felt hurt, no reparation could be too much for her.
She fulfilled her promise to be discreet to the point of admiration. – She took care of everything Mrs. Jennings had to say on this subject, with an immutable face color, did not contradict her in anything, and she was heard saying three times: "Yes, Ma bin." – She listened to her praise for Lucy by moving only from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings spoke of Edward's affection, it only cost her a spasm in her throat. – Such progress towards heroism in her sister made Eleanore feel up to everything.
The next morning brought another attempt when her brother visited her, who came with a serious face to talk about the terrible matter and bring them news from his wife.
"I suppose you heard," he said with great solemnity as soon as he took his seat, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday."
They all looked their approval; it seemed too terrible a moment to talk to.
just because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; because otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to us, while your dear friend looked after her daughter there. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish with all my heart,' says poor Esther in her loving way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of her.'"
Here he stopped to say thank you; When he was done, he continued.
"What poor Mrs. Gastonois suffered when Esther first taught her is indescribable. While she had planned a most suitable connection for him with the truest affection, it was assumed that he could be secretly engaged to another person all the time! - such a suspicion could never have occurred to her! If she suspected any bias elsewhere, it couldn't be in THIS neighborhood. "There, of course," she said, "I would have believed myself."' She was quite in agony. However, we consulted on what to do, and eventually she decided to send to Edward. He came. But I'm sorry to tell you what followed. Anything Mrs. Gastonois could say about getting him to end the engagement, also supported, as you can imagine, through my arguments and Esther's pleas, was useless. Affection, everything was disregarded. I have never thought Edward was so stubborn, so callous. His mother explained to him her liberal intentions in the event of his marriage to Miss Morton; told him she would give him the Norfolk estate, which brings in a good thousand a year without property tax; even offered when things became desperate to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support. I have never thought Edward was so stubborn, so callous. His mother explained to him her liberal intentions in the event of his marriage to Miss Morton; told him she would give him the Norfolk estate, which brings in a good thousand a year without property tax; even offered when things became desperate to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support. I have never thought Edward was so stubborn, so callous. His mother explained to him her liberal intentions in the event of his marriage to Miss Morton; told him she would give him the Norfolk estate, which brings in a good thousand a year without property tax; even offered when things became desperate to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support. in case of his marriage to Miss Morton; told him she would give him the Norfolk estate, which brings in a good thousand a year without property tax; even offered when things became desperate to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support. in case of his marriage to Miss Morton; told him she would give him the Norfolk estate, which brings in a good thousand a year without property tax; even offered when things became desperate to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support. to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support. to make it twelve hundred; and in contrast, if he still remained in this low connection, he was presented with the certain poverty that must be witnessed in the match. His own two thousand pounds, they protested, should be his all; she would never see him again; and she would be so far from providing him with the slightest help that she would do everything in her power to prevent him from preventing him from entering a profession with the prospect of better support.
Here, in an ecstasy of indignation, Marianne clapped her hands and shouted, "Gracious God!
"May you wonder, Marianne," her brother replied, "about the stubbornness that could resist such arguments. Their exclamation is very natural."
Marianne wanted to reciprocate, but she remembered her promises and refrained from doing so.
"But all this," he continued, "was pushed in vain. Edward said very little; but what he said was in the most decisive way. Nothing should make him give up his engagement. He would stand by it, cost him what it wanted."
"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, who could no longer remain silent, "he behaved like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Hargrove-san, but if he had acted differently, I would have thought he was a." Urchin. I'm a little worried about the business, as well as about yourself, because Lucy Clayhorn is my cousin, and I don't think there's a better girl in the world, nor one who deserves a good husband more.
John Hargrove was very surprised; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wanted to offend anyone, especially someone lucky. He therefore replied without any resentment:
"I would in no way speak disrespectfully about any of your relatives, madam. Miss Lucy Clayhorn is, dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in this case the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under the care of her uncle, the son of a particularly wealthy woman like Mrs. Gastonois, is perhaps a little extraordinary overall, in short, I do not want to think about the behavior of anyone Mrs. Jennings, whom you appreciate very much, we all wish her much joy, and Mrs. Gastonois has behaved like this all the time, as any conscientious, good mother would assume in similar circumstances liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I'm afraid it's going to be a bad one."
Marianne sighed her similar concern; and Eleanore's heart struggled for Edward's feelings as he defied his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him.
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?"
"I'm sorry to say, Ma'am, in an extremely unfortunate break: – Edward is forever released from his mother's resignation. He left her house yesterday, but where he went or if he is still in town, I don't know; because of course WE can't ask."
"Poor young man! - and what shall become of him?"
"What, in fact, Ma'am! It is a melancholic consideration. Born for the prospect of such prosperity! I can't think of a more deplorable situation. The interest of two thousand pounds - how can a man live on it? - and when Add to this the memory that without his own stupidity he would have received two thousand five hundred a year within three months (because Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds). That's all I can imagine wretched condition. We all need to feel with him, all the more so because it is completely beyond our power to help him."
"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I'm sure he would be very welcome to stay and eat in my house, and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not appropriate that he now lives at his own expense, in hostels and taverns."
Eleanore's heart thanked her for this kindness to Edward, although she couldn't resist smiling at the shape of it.
"If he had done just as well on his own," said John Hargrove, "as all his friends were inclined by him, he might now be in his right situation and he would have lacked nothing. But as it is, no one needs to be able to help him. And something else is preparing against him, which must be worse than anything – his mother, with a very natural spirit, has decided to settle this estate immediately through Robert, who under reasonable conditions could have belonged to Edward. I left her with her lawyer this morning to talk about the matter."
"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "this is YOUR revenge. Everyone has their own way.
Marianne got up and walked around the room.
"Can anything be more annoying to a man's mind," John continued, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate that could have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel sincerely with him."
A few more minutes spent in the same type of effusion ended his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he truly believed that there was no material danger in Esther's illness, and that they did not need to be very disturbed because of it, he walked away; the departure of the three ladies, who are unanimous in their feelings at the present occasion, as far as at least the behaviour of Mrs Gastonois, that of Hargrove and Edward was concerned.
Marianne's indignation erupted as soon as he left the room; and since her ferocity made Eleanore's restraint impossible and Mrs. Jennings unnecessary, everyone joined in a very lively criticism of the Party.
Chapter 194
Elizabeth had agreed that Mr. Drury would bring his sister to visit pemberley the day after her arrival; and was therefore determined not to be out of sight of the inn all morning. But their conclusion was wrong; because the very morning after their arrival in Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking around with some of their new friends and were just returning to the inn to dress for dinner with the same family when the sound of a carriage pulled them to a window and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curriculum driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognized the livree, sensed what it meant, and told her relatives quite a bit of her surprise by introducing them to the expected honor. Her uncle and aunt were all amazed; and the embarrassment of her kind as she spoke, combined with the circumstances themselves and many of the circumstances of the previous day, opened up a new idea about the business to them. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way to explain such attentions from such a site than to assume a preference for their niece. As these newborn notions passed in their minds, the anxiety of Elizabeth's feelings increased at every moment. She was amazed at her own bewilderment; but among other reasons of unrest, she feared that the brother's partisanship should have said too much in her favor; and, more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her. and many of the circumstances of the previous day opened up a new idea about the business to them. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way to explain such attentions from such a site than to assume a preference for their niece. As these newborn notions passed in their minds, the anxiety of Elizabeth's feelings increased at every moment. She was amazed at her own bewilderment; but among other reasons of unrest, she feared that the brother's partisanship should have said too much in her favor; and, more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her. and many of the circumstances of the previous day opened up a new idea about the business to them. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way to explain such attentions from such a site than to assume a preference for their niece. As these newborn notions passed in their minds, the anxiety of Elizabeth's feelings increased at every moment. She was amazed at her own bewilderment; but among other reasons of unrest, she feared that the brother's partisanship should have said too much in her favor; and more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her. but they felt that there was no other way to explain such attentions from such a side than by assuming a preference for their niece. As these newborn notions passed in their minds, the anxiety of Elizabeth's feelings increased at every moment. She was amazed at her own bewilderment; but among other reasons of unrest, she feared that the brother's partisanship should have said too much in her favor; and more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her. but they felt that there was no other way to explain such attentions from such a side than by assuming a preference for their niece. As these newborn notions passed in their minds, the anxiety of Elizabeth's feelings increased at every moment. She was amazed at her own bewilderment; but among other reasons of unrest, she feared that the brother's partisanship should have said too much in her favor; and, more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her. she feared that the brother's partisanship had said too much in her favor; and more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her. she feared that the brother's partisanship had said too much in her favor; and, more anxious than usual to please, she naturally suspected that any ability to please would fail her.
She withdrew from the window for fear of being seen; and as she walked up and down the room, trying to calm down, she saw such questioningly surprised looks from her uncle and aunt that made things worse.
Miss Drury and her brother appeared, and this impressive performance took place. Elizabeth was astonished to discover that her new acquaintance was at least as embarrassed as she was. Ever since she had been in Lambton, she had heard that Miss Drury was extraordinarily proud; but the observation of very few minutes convinced her that she was only extraordinarily shy. It was hard for her to get even a single word from her that went beyond a monosyllabic word.
Miss Drury was tall and taller than Elizabeth; and although she was barely older than sixteen, her figure was shaped and her appearance feminine and graceful. She was less beautiful than her brother; but her face showed reason and good humor, and her manners were perfectly humble and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her an equally attentive and unbiased observer as Mr. Drury had always been, was very relieved to recognize such different feelings.
They hadn't been together long when Mr. Drury told her that Woodland would also come to serve them; and she barely had time to express her satisfaction and prepare for such a visitor when Woodland's quick steps on the stairs could be heard and he entered the room in no time. All Elizabeth's anger against him had long since evaporated; but if she had still felt some, she would hardly have been able to assert herself against the unadulterated cordiality with which he expressed himself at her reunion. He kindly inquired, albeit generally, about her family and saw and spoke with the same good-humored ease he had always done.
For Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart, he was hardly a less interesting personality than for themselves. They had long wished to see him. The whole society before them did indeed attract lively attention. The suspicion that had just arisen with Mr. Drury and her niece directed their observation at anyone with a serious, if cautious, examination; and they soon drew from this research the full conviction that at least one of them knew what it meant to love. About the feelings of the lady they remained a little in doubt; but that the Lord overflowed with admiration was obvious enough.
Elizabeth, for her part, had a lot to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own and make herself comfortable for everyone; and in the latter, where she was most afraid of failure, she was the surest of success, for those to whom she wanted to give pleasure were convinced of her favor. Woodland was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Drury was determined to be satisfied.
When she saw Woodland, of course, her thoughts flew to her sister; and, oh! how much she longed to know if one of his was being guided in a similar way. Sometimes she could imagine that he spoke less than on previous occasions, and once or twice she rejoiced at the idea that while he was looking at her, he was trying to find a similarity. But while this may have been conceited, she couldn't be fooled about his behavior toward Miss Drury, who had been set up as Jane's rival. No glance appeared on either side that expressed particular appreciation. Nothing happened between them that could justify his sister's hopes. On this point, she was soon satisfied; and two or three small circumstances occurred before they separated, which in their anxious interpretation indicated a memory of Jane who was not without tenderness, and the desire to say more, which could lead to their mention if he had dared to do so. He remarked to her in a moment when the others were talking to each other, and in a tone that had something of real regret, that it has been "a very long time since he had the pleasure of seeing her;" and before she could respond, he added, "It's been over eight months. We haven't seen each other since November 26 when we've all danced together at Netherfield."
Elizabeth was happy to find his memory so accurately; and he later took the opportunity to ask her, when she was ignored by the others, if ALL were her sisters in Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the previous remark; but there was a look and a kind that gave them meaning.
It wasn't often that she turned her gaze to Mr. Drury himself; but whenever she caught a glance, she saw an expression of general satisfaction, and in all that he said, she heard an accent so far removed from the arrogance or contempt of his companions that she was convinced that the improvement of the manners she had seen yesterday, however temporary his existence, had survived at least one day. When she so sought to meet him and competed for the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse would have been a shame a few months ago – when she saw him so politely, not only against herself, but against the relationships he had openly despised and remembered her last lively scene at Hunsford Parsonage – the difference, the change was so big and beat her so ?? insistently in the sense that she could hardly hide her amazement. Never before, not even in the company of his dear friends in Netherfield or his dignified relatives in Rosings, had she seen him so eager to please, so free from self-control or indomitable restraint as now, when the success could not result in any meaning of his efforts, and if even the acquaintance of those to whom his attention was directed, would attract the ridicule and criticism of the ladies of both Netherfield and Rosings.
Their visitors stayed with them for over half an hour; and when they got up to leave, Mr. Drury asked his sister to join him to express her desire to see Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart and Miss Mitchell for dinner in Pemberley before they left the country. Miss Drury, though with a reluctance that marked her little in the habit of issuing invitations, obeyed willingly. Mrs. Lockhart looked at her niece, eager to know how SHE, who was most concerned by the invitation, felt ready to accept it, but Elizabeth had turned her head away. However, assuming that this deliberate avoidance expressed a temporary embarrassment rather than an aversion to the proposal, and recognizing in her society-loving husband a complete willingness, she dared to commit herself to her visit and the day after the next one was scheduled.
Woodland expressed his great joy at the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, as he still had a lot to say to her and a lot of research to do after all her friends in Hertfordshire. Elizabeth, who took all this as a desire to hear her speak from her sister, was delighted, and for this reason, as well as some others, when her visitors left her, she found herself able to contemplate the last half hour with some satisfaction, although, as it passed, the joy of it had been small. Eager to be alone, and afraid of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she only stayed with them long enough to hear her benevolent opinion of Woodland, and then hurried away to dress.
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart's curiosity; it was not their desire to force their communication. It was obvious that she knew Drury-san much better than they could have imagined before; it was obvious that he was very much in love with her. They saw a lot of interesting things, but nothing that justified an investigation.
From Mr Drury it was now a matter of concern to think well; and as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to be found. They could not remain untouched by his courtesy; and if they had drawn his character from their own feelings and the account of his servant, without any reference to any other account, the hertfordshire county to which he was known would not have recognized him for Mr. Drury. However, there was now an interest in believing the housekeeper; and they soon realized that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old and whose own behavior betrayed prestige should not be prematurely rejected. Also, nothing had appeared in the intelligence of her Lambton friends, which could significantly reduce her weight. They had nothing to reproach him for but pride; He probably had pride, and if not, it would certainly be assumed by the inhabitants of a small market town that the family did not visit. However, it was acknowledged that he was a liberal man and did a lot of good among the poor.
Regarding Waterhouse, travelers soon realized that he wasn't much appreciated there; for although the main concerns about his patron's son were not fully understood, it was a well-known fact that when he left Derbyshire he had left many debts that Mr Drury later settled.
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were more that night than the last one at Pemberley's; and the evening, although it seemed long, was not long enough to determine their feelings for ONE in this villa; and she lay awake for a full two hours, trying to recognize her. She certainly didn't hate him. No; the hatred had long since evaporated, and for almost as long she had been ashamed to have ever felt an aversion to him, you could call it that. The respect created by the conviction of his precious qualities, although at first reluctantly admitted, had for some time ceased to be against their feelings; and it was now heightened into a slightly friendlier nature, by the testimony that was so high in its favor and produced its disposition in such a gracious light that had produced yesterday. But above all, about respect and appreciation, in her was a motive of goodwill that could not be overlooked. It was gratitude; Gratitude, not only for having loved her once, but that I still love her well enough to forgive all the irritability and sharpness of her way of rejecting him and all the unjust accusations that accompany her rejection. The one she was convinced would avoid as his greatest enemy seemed to be the most eager to preserve the acquaintance at this chance meeting, without any unsubtle display or any peculiarity of behavior, where only her two selves were worried, caught up with the good opinion of her friends and wanted to make it known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride arouses not only amazement, but also gratitude – for it must be attributed to love, to ardent love; and as such, his impression on them was encouraging, since it was by no means unpleasant, although it could not be precisely defined. She respected, she appreciated, she was grateful to him, she felt a genuine interest in his well-being; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that this well-being would depend on her, and how far it would be for the happiness of both if she still possessed the power that her imagination told her to use, to bring her the renewal of his addresses.
In the evening it had been agreed between the aunt and the niece that such a remarkable courtesy as that of Miss Drury, to visit her on the day of her arrival in Pemberley, because she had only reached it for a late breakfast, it should be imitated by an effort of courtesy on her side, although it could not be achieved; and consequently that it would be highly expedient to operate them the next morning in Pemberley. So you should go. Elizabeth was delighted; However, when she wondered why, she had very little to answer.
Mr. Lockhart left her shortly after breakfast. The fishing plan had been renewed the day before and it was a positive commitment to meet some of the gentlemen in Pemberley before noon.
Chapter 195
Edmund now believed he was completely familiar with everything Esther could say or suggest about her feelings, and he was satisfied. It had been, as he had previously assumed, too hasty action on Dorset's side, and time had to be given to familiarize her with the thought first and then make it pleasant. She must be used to the fact that he is in love with her, and then a return of affection may not be far away.
He shared this opinion with his father as a result of the conversation; and recommended that nothing more be said to her: no further attempts to influence or convince her; but that everything should be left to Dorset's diligence and the natural works of her own mind.
Sir Thomas promised that it should be so. He could consider Edmund's account of Esther's disposition to be just; he assumed that she had all these feelings, but he had to consider it very unfortunate that she had it; for less willing than his son to trust in the future, he could not help but fear that she might not have persuaded herself to receive his addresses adequately before the young man was inclined to do so, when so much time and habit had been necessary for her to pay for it was over. However, there was no choice but to calmly submit and hope for the best.
The promised visit of "her friend," as Edmund called Miss Dorset, was a formidable threat to Esther, and she lived in constant fear of it. As a sister, so partisan and so angry and so little conscientious in what she said, and in a different light so triumphant and sure, she was an object of painful anxiety in every way. Their displeasure, penetration and happiness were all terrible; and the reliance on others being present when they met was Esther's only support in looking forward to it. She moved as little away from Lady Schmidt as possible, stayed away from the East Room and did not take a lonely walk in the bushes to avoid any sudden attack.
She succeeded. She was safe in her aunt's breakfast room when Miss Dorset actually came; When the first misery was over and Miss Dorset looked and spoke with much less special expression than she had expected, Esther began to hope that there was nothing worse to endure than half an hour of moderate excitement. But here she hoped too much; Miss Dorset was not the slave of opportunity. She was determined to see Esther alone, so pretty soon said to her in a low voice, "I need to speak to you somewhere for a few minutes"; Words that Esther felt everywhere in herself, in all her pulse beats and all her nerves. Denial was impossible. On the contrary, their habit of willing submission made them stand up almost instantaneously and move out of space. She did it with miserable feelings, but it was inevitable.
As soon as they were in the hall, all self-control was over on Miss Dorset's side. She immediately shook her head to Esther with mischievous but loving reproach and took her hand, hardly seemed to be able to help her start right away. However, she said nothing but: "Sad, sad girl! I don't know when I'll be done scolding you," and had enough discretion to pick up the rest until they could be sure they had four walls to themselves. Esther, of course, went upstairs and led her guest into the apartment, which was now always comfortable to use; however, she opened the door with a painful heart and the feeling that she had a more disturbing scene in front of her than this place had ever seen her before. But the evil that was ready to befall them was at least delayed by the sudden change in Miss Dorset's ideas;
"Ha!" she shouted with instant animation, "Am I back here? The East Room! I've only been to this room once before"; and after stopping to look around and seemingly retrace everything that had happened at the time, she added, "Before, only once. Do you remember that? I came to rehearse. Your cousin also came; and we had a rehearsal. They were our audience and souffleur. A delightful sample. I will never forget it. Here we were, just in this part of the room: here was your cousin, here was me, here were the chairs. Oh! why will such things ever pass away?"
Luckily for her companion, she didn't want an answer. Her mind was completely immersed in itself. She was in a reverie of sweet memories.
"The scene we rehearsed was so remarkable! The topic is so very – very – what can I say? He should describe and recommend marriage to me. I think I see him now trying to be as reserved and composed as Anhalt should be, during the two long speeches. "When two compassionate hearts meet in the state of marriage, marriage can be called a happy life." I suppose no time can ever exhaust the impression I have of his appearance and voice when he said those words. It was strange, very strange, that we should play such a scene! If I had the strength to remember any week of my life, it should be this week – this acting week. Say what you want, Esther, it should be; for I never knew such an exquisite happiness in another. His strong spirit to bow! Oh! it was indescribably sweet. But unfortunately, this evening destroyed everything. That evening your most unwelcome uncle came. Poor Sir Thomas, who was happy to see you? But, Esther, don't think I would talk disrespectfully about Sir Thomas now, although I certainly hated him for many weeks. No, I'm doing it justice now. He is exactly what the head of such a family should be. No, in sober sadness I think I love you all now." And after saying that, she turned away for a moment to recover with a tenderness and awareness that Esther had never seen with her before and that she now thought was all too fitting. "I've had a small seizure since I got into this room, as you might notice," she finally said with a playful smile, "but now it's over; So let's sit down and make ourselves comfortable; for to scold you, Esther, which I have come to do with full intention, I do not have the heart for it when it matters." And embracing her tenderly: "Good, gentle Esther! when I think that this was the last time I've seen you since I don't know how long, I feel completely incapable of doing anything other than loving you."
Esther was affected. She had not foreseen any of this, and her feelings could rarely withstand the melancholic influence of the word "last." She cried as if she had loved Miss Dorset more than she could; and Miss Dorset, softened even more by the sight of such emotion, hung on to her with affection and said, "I am reluctant to leave you. Wherever I go, I will not see anyone who is even half as gracious. Who says we won't be sisters? I know we will. I feel that we are born to be connected; and these tears convince me that you feel it too, dear Esther."
Esther pulled herself up, answered only partially and said, "But you only go from one circle of friends to another. You go to a very special friend."
"Yes, very right. Mrs. Fraser has been my close friend for years. But I don't have the slightest inclination to get close to her. I can only think of the friends I leave: my excellent sister, you and the Schmidts in general. You all have so much more heart among you than is found all over the world. They all give me the feeling of being able to trust and trust you, of which we know nothing in common traffic. I wish I had agreed with Mrs. Fraser not to go to her until after Easter, a much better time to visit, but now I can't postpone her anymore. And when I'm done with her, I have to go to her sister, Lady Stornaway, because she was more my best friend of the two, but I haven't cared much about her in those three years."
After this speech, the two girls sat there silently for many minutes, each thoughtful: Esther meditated on the different kinds of friendships in the world, Mary on a little less philosophical tendency. She spoke again first.
"How perfectly I remember my decision to look for you upstairs and made my way to the East Room without having any idea where it was! How well do I remember what I thought when I walked by, and how I looked inside and saw you sitting here at this table at work; and then your cousin's amazement when he opened the door to see me here! However, your uncle will come back the same evening! There has never been anything like this before."
Another brief bout of thoughtlessness followed when she shook him off and used it to attack her companion.
"Why, Esther, you are absolutely in reverie. Hopefully I'm thinking of someone who always thinks of you. Oh! that I could put you in our circle in the city for a short time so that you understand how your power over Henry is thought there! Oh! the envy and heart burning of dozens and dozens; the amazement, the incredulity that you will feel when you hear what you have done! Because as far as secrecy is concerned, Henry is quite the hero of an old romance and boasts of his chains. You should come to London to know how to assess your conquest. If you would see how he is being courted and how I am being courted for his sake! Well, I am well aware that I will not be half as welcome to Mrs. Fraser because of his situation with you. If she learns the truth, she will most likely want me back in Northamptonshire; for there is a daughter of Mr. Fraser, of a first wife who she desperately wants to marry and who should take Henry. Oh! She tried so hard for him. Innocent and calm as you sit here, you can't imagine what a stir you're going to get, from the curiosity to see you, from the endless questions I have to answer! Poor Margaret Fraser will forever bully me about your eyes and your teeth, and how you make your hair and who makes your shoes. I wish Margaret was married for the sake of my poor friend, because I consider the Frasers to be something like this?? unhappy like most other married people. And yet, at the time, it was a highly desirable game for Janet. We were all thrilled. She could not help but accept him, for he was rich, and she had nothing; but he turns out to be in a bad mood and demanding, and wants a young woman, a beautiful young woman of twenty-five, who is as consistent as he is. And my friend doesn't lead him well; she doesn't seem to know how to make the most of it. There is a spirit of irritability that, to say nothing, is certainly very poorly behaved. In her house, I will respectfully recall the marital customs of Mansfield Parsonage. Even Dr. Grant expresses full confidence in my sister and a certain consideration for her judgment, which makes you feel like you're there; but I won't see any of that with the Frasers. I will be in Mansfield forever, Esther. My own sister as a wife, Sir Thomas Schmidt as a husband, are my measure of perfection. Poor Janet was sadly received, and yet there was nothing offensive on her side: she did not run ruthlessly into the match; there was no lack of foresight. She took three days to reflect on his suggestions, and during these three days she asked all the people associated with her for advice whose opinion was worthwhile, referring in particular to my deceased dear aunt, whose knowledge of the world gave her very general and deserved judgment She was admired by all the young people of her acquaintance, and she was decidedly for Mr. Fraser. This seems as if nothing is a security for marital comfort. I don't have so much to say to my friend Flora, who let a very nice young man sit in the blues because of this terrible Lord Stornaway, who was something like ?? has a lot of mind, Esther, like Mr. Rushmore, but looks much worse, and with a rogue character. I had my doubts at the time whether she was right, because he doesn't even seem like a gentleman, and now I'm sure she was wrong. Goodbye, Flora Ross died for Henry in the first winter when she came out. But if I tried to tell you about all the women I know are in love with him, I would never have done it. It is you, only you, insensitive Esther, who can think of him with something like indifference. But are you as insensitive as you confess? No, no, as I see, you are not."
In fact, at that moment there was such a deep redness on Esther's face that it could justify strong suspicion with a predisposed mind.
"Excellent creature! I'm not going to tease you. Everything should take its course. But, dear Esther, you have to admit that you were not so absolutely unprepared that the question was asked how your cousin imagines it. It is not possible, but that you must have had some thoughts on this topic, some guesses about what could be. You must have seen that he tried to please you with all the attention that was in his power. Was he not devoted to you at the ball? And then, in front of the ball, the necklace! Oh! They received it as it was meant. You were as conscious as your heart could wish. I remember perfectly."
"So you mean your brother knew about the chain beforehand? Oh! Miss Dorset, that wasn't fair."
"Knew about it! It was entirely his own work, his own thought. I'm ashamed to say it never occurred to me, but I was pleased to follow his suggestion for both of you."
"I don't want to say," Esther replied, "that I wasn't half frightened at the time, because something in your gaze frightened me, but not at first; I wasn't suspicious at first either – in fact, in fact, I was. It's so true that I'm sitting here. And if I had had a clue about it, nothing would have motivated me to accept the chain. As for your brother's behavior, I was certainly aware of one peculiarity: I had been aware of this for some time, maybe two or three weeks; but then I thought it was meaningless: I just put it down in his own way and was as far from suspecting as I wished he had any serious thoughts about me. I, Miss Dorset, was not an inattentive observer of what happened between him and part of this family in the summer and autumn. I was calm, but I wasn't blind.
"Ah! I can't deny it. He was a sad flirt from time to time and cared very little about the devastation he could wreak in the affection of young ladies. I have often scolded him for this, but it is his only fault; and it must be said that very few young ladies have any affections worth caring for. And then, Esther, the glory of fixing someone so many have shot at; to have it in the power to pay off the debts of one's own sex! Oh! I am sure it is not in the nature of women to reject such a triumph."
Esther shook her head. "I can't think well of a man playing with a woman's feelings; and it can often have suffered much more than a viewer can judge."
"I'm not defending him. I leave him entirely to your grace, and if he has caught you in Everingham, I don't care how much you teach him. But this is what I want to say, that his mistake, the tendency to make girls fall a little in love with him, is not half as dangerous to a woman's happiness as the tendency to fall in love with himself, which he had never fallen for. And I sincerely and truly believe that he is bound to you in a way that he has never had before with a woman; that he loves you with all his heart and will love you for as long as possible. If a man has ever loved a woman forever, Henry will, I believe, do it for you."
Esther couldn't resist a faint smile, but had nothing to say.
"I can't imagine that Henry could ever have been happier," Mary continued, "than when he managed to get your brother's commission."
She had given Esther's feelings a sure blow here.
"Oh! Yes. How very, very nice of him."
"I know he must have put in a lot of effort because I know the parties he had to move. The admiral hates anger and spurns it to ask for favors; and there are so many demands of young men that need to be pursued in the same way that a friendship and energy that is not very determined can easily be set aside. What a happy creature William must be! I wish we could see him."
Poor Esther's mind was thrown into the most embarrassing of all variants. The memory of what had been done for William was always the strongest disruptive factor in any decision against Mr. Dorset; and she sat there?? and thought deeply about it until Mary, who had first watched her complacently and then thought about something else, suddenly caught her attention by saying, "I would love to sit here all day and talk to you, but we must not forget the ladies below, and so goodbye, my dear, my gracious, my excellent Esther, because although we will nominally separate in the breakfast room, I have to say goodbye to you here. And I say goodbye, long for a happy reunion, and trust that we will meet again at a reunion under circumstances that can open our hearts to each other without a remnant or shadow of restraint."
A very, very friendly hug and a certain restlessness accompanied these words.
"I will see your cousin in town soon; he speaks of being there tolerably soon; and Sir Thomas, dare I say, in the course of spring; and your oldest cousin and the Rushmores and Julia, I'm sure I'll meet them again and again, and everyone but you. I have to ask you for two favors, Esther: One is your correspondence. You have to write to me. And the other thing is that you will visit Mrs. Grant often and make amends for me being gone."
At least for the first of these favors, Esther would have preferred not to be asked; but it was impossible for her to refuse correspondence; it was not even possible for her not to respond more willingly than her own judgment allowed. There was no resistance to so much obvious affection. Her propensity was especially designed to appreciate tender treatment, and since she had learned so little about it before, she was all the more overwhelmed by Miss Dorsets. She was also thankful for making her Tete-a-Tete so much less painful than her fears had predicted.
It was over, and she had gotten away with no reproach and no discovery. Her secret was still her own; and while that was the case, she thought she could put up with almost anything.
In the evening there was a farewell. Henry Dorset came and sat with them for some time; and her mood was not in the strongest condition before, her heart softened towards him for a while because he really seemed to feel. Unlike usual, he hardly said anything. He was obviously oppressed, and Esther had to grieve for him, although she hoped never to see him again until he was the husband of another woman.
When it came to saying goodbye, he would take her hand, he would not be denied; however, he said nothing, or nothing she heard, and when he left the room, she was rather pleased that such a sign of friendship had passed.
The next morning, the Dorsets were gone.
Chapter 196
In this state of plans, hopes and toleration, June Hartfield opened up. For Highbury in general, it did not bring about any significant change. The Altons still spoke of a visit to the Sucklings and the use of their Barouche landau; and Jane Saxon was still with her grandmother; and since the Campbells' return from Ireland was again delayed and August was set instead of midsummer, she would probably stay there for another two months, provided she at least managed to defeat Mrs. Alton's activity in her service and save herself from being pushed into a charming situation against her will.
Mr. Hill, who had aversioned Frank Curcelle early on for some reason he knew best, became increasingly unsympathetic to him. He began to suspect him of a double game in his pursuit of Emma. That Emma was his object seemed undeniable. Everything explained it; his own attentions, his father's insinuations, the cautious silence of his mother-in-law; it was all in harmony; Words, behavior, discretion and indiscretion told the same story. But while so many dedicated him to Emma and Emma handed him over to Harriet herself, Mr. Hill began to suspect that he was inclined to play with Jane Saxon. He could not understand it; but there were signs of intelligence between them – at least he believed it – signs of admiration on his side, which, after noticing them once, he could not persuade himself to think completely meaningless, but perhaps he wanted to escape Emma's imaginary errors. She was not present when the suspicion first arose. He dined with the Randalls and Jane family at Alton's; and he had seen a look, more than a single glance, at Miss Saxon, who, from the admirer of Miss Lodge, seemed a bit out of place. When he was back in their company, he couldn't help but remember what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations that, unless it was like Cowper and his fire at dusk, from the admirer of Miss Lodge, seemed a bit out of place. When he was back in their company, he couldn't help but remember what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations that, unless it was like Cowper and his fire at dusk, from the admirer of Miss Lodge, seemed a bit out of place. When he was back in their company, he couldn't help but remember what he had seen; nor could he avoid observations, which, unless it were like Cowper and his fire at dusk,
"I create what I have seen"
earned him even stronger suspicions that there was something of private sympathy, even private understanding, between Frank Curcelle and Jane.
As is so often the case, he had come up one day after dinner to spend his evening in Hartfield. Emma and Harriet wanted to walk; he joined them; and when they returned, they came across a larger group which, like themselves, considered it wisest to do their exercises early, as the weather threatened with rain; Mr. and Mrs. Winstone and their son, Miss Bates and her niece, who had met by chance. They all unite; and when Emma reached the gates of Hartfield, knowing that this was exactly the kind of visit her father would welcome, she urged everyone to go inside and have tea with him. The Randalls party immediately agreed; and after a rather long speech by Miss Bates, which only a few listened to, she also found it possible to accept the most binding invitation of the dear Miss Lodge.
As they turned into the grounds, Mr. Perry passed by on horseback. The gentlemen spoke of his horse.
"By the way," Frank Curcelle said to Mrs. Winstone, "what happened to Mr. Perry's plan to set up his carriage?"
Mrs. Winstone looked surprised and said, "I didn't know he ever had such a plan."
"No, I got it from you. You wrote to me about it three months ago."
"Me! impossible!"
"You really have. I remember perfectly. You mentioned it as something that should certainly be very soon. Mrs. Perry had told someone and was very happy about it. It was thanks to her conviction, as she thought it would hurt him a lot if he was outside in bad weather. You need to remember that now?"
"In my word, I've never heard of it before."
"Never! really, never! – Bless me! how could that be? – Then I must have dreamed it – but I was completely convinced – Miss Smith, you leave as if you were tired. They won't regret finding themselves at home."
"What is it? What is it?" cried Mr. Winstone, "about Perry and a carriage? Will Perry build his carriage, Frank? I'm glad he can afford it. You got it from him, didn't you?"
"No, sir," his son replied with a laugh, "I don't seem to have gotten it from anyone. – Very strange! I was really convinced that Mrs. Winstone mentioned it many weeks ago in one of her letters to Enscombe. with all these details – but as she explains, she has never heard a syllable of it, of course it must have been a dream. I'm a big dreamer. I dream of every corpse in Highbury when I'm gone – and when I've gone through my special friends, I start dreaming about Mr. and Mrs. Perry."
"It's strange," his father remarked, "though, that you had such a regular cohesive dream of people you probably shouldn't think of in Enscombe. Perry sets up his carriage! and his wife persuades him to do so, out of concern for his health – exactly what will happen, I have no doubt about it, at some point; just a little premature. What a hint of probability is sometimes in the dream! And with others, what a bunch of absurdities! Well, Frank, your dream certainly shows that Highbury is in your mind when you are absent. Emma?? you're a big dreamer, I think?"
Emma was out of earshot. She had rushed ahead of her guests to prepare her father for her appearance, and was out of reach for Mr. Winstone's wink.
"Well, to admit the truth," shouted Miss Bates, who had tried in vain for the last two minutes to be heard, "when I have to speak on this subject, I can't deny that Mr. Frank Curcelle – I don't want to say I don't want to say that he didn't dream it – I'm sure I sometimes have the strangest dreams in the world – but when I'm asked about it, I have to admit that there was such an idea last spring; because Mrs. Perry herself mentioned it to my mother and the Coles. we knew about it as well as we did – but it was quite a secret that no one else knew, and only thought about about three days. Mrs. Perry was very worried that he should have a carriage and came to my mother one morning in a good mood because she thought she had won. Jane, don't you remember grandma? Will you tell us about it when we get home? I forgot where we had gone – most likely to Randalls; yes, I think it was for Randalls. Mrs. Perry always loved my mother —I actually don't know who it isn't—and she had mentioned it confidentially to her; she had no objection to her telling us, of course, but it shouldn't go beyond that: and from that day until today, I haven't mentioned it to any human soul I know. At the same time, I won't answer positively to the fact that I've never dropped a hint because I know that sometimes I jump something out before I realize it. I am a speaker, you know; I am more of a speaker; and every now and then I missed something I shouldn't. I'm not like Jane; I wish I was. I will stand up for the fact that she has never betrayed the slightest thing in the world. Where is she? – Oh! right behind it. Remember Mrs. Perry's coming perfectly.
They entered the hall. Mr. Hill's gaze preceded that of Miss Bates in a look at Jane. From Frank Curcelle's face, where he thought he saw the confusion suppressed or laughed away, he had involuntarily turned to her; but she was actually behind schedule and too busy with her scarf. Mr. Winstone had come in. The other two gentlemen waited at the door to let it pass. Mr. Hill suspected Frank Curcelle's determination to catch her eye – he seemed to be watching her attentively – but in vain, if so – Jane walked between them into the hallway and looked at neither of them.
The dream has to be endured, and Mr. Hill has to sit down with the others around the big modern round table that Emma had introduced to Hartfield and that no one but Emma could have set up and persuaded her father to use it. instead of the little Pembroke, where two of his daily meals had been crowded for forty years. The tea passed pleasantly, and no one seemed to be in a hurry to move.
"Miss Lodge," Frank Curcelle said, after examining a table behind him that he could reach while sitting, "did your nephews take away their alphabets — their box of letters? It used to be here. Where is it? This is a kind of boring-looking evening that should be treated as winter rather than summer. One morning we were very amused by these letters. I want to confuse you again."
Emma was satisfied with the thought; and when they made the box, the table was quickly littered with alphabets that no one seemed to like to use as much as their two selfs. They quickly formed words for each other or for anyone else who would be confused. The calm of the game made it particularly suitable for Mr. Lodge, who was often troubled by the livelier nature that Mr. Winstone had occasionally introduced, and who was now happily busy lamenting with tender melancholy about the departure of the "poor little boys," or by lovingly pointing out how beautifulLy Emma had written it, when he picked up a lost letter near him.
Frank Curcelle put a word in front of Miss Saxon. She took a glimpse around the table and devoted herself to it. Frank was next to Emma, ?? Jane across from them – and Mr. Hill so that he could see them all; and his goal was to see as much as possible, with as little obvious observation. The word was discovered and pushed aside with a faint smile. If she was to be immediately mixed with the others and buried in front of her eyes, she should have looked at the table instead of just looking over, for it was not mixed; and Harriet, eager for every new word and couldn't find one out, picked it up right away and got to work. She sat next to Mr. Hill and turned to him for help. The word was mistake; and when Harriet announced it jubilantly, a redness could be seen on Jane's cheek, which gave the whole thing a meaning that would otherwise not be obvious. Lord. Hill associated it with the dream; but how all this could be was beyond his comprehension. How could the delicacy, the discretion of his favorite have fallen asleep so much! He feared that there would have to be decisive participation. Insincerity and duplicity seemed to confront him at every turn. These letters were only the vehicle for gallantry and cunning. It was a no-brainer, chosen to hide a deeper game by Frank Curcelle.
With great indignation, he continued to watch him; with great concern and mistrust to observe his two blinded companions. He saw a short word prepared for Emma and given to her with a clever and reserved look. He saw that Emma had made it soon, and found it highly entertaining, although she thought it was right to blame it; for she said, "Nonsense! to shame!" Next, he heard Frank Curcelle say to Jane with a glance, "I'm going to give it to her – should I?" – and when he heard Emma clearly confront him with eagerly laughing warmth. "No, no, you are not allowed to do that; in fact, you won't."
However, it has been done. This gallant young man, who seemed to love without feeling and seemed to recommend himself without indulgence, handed the word directly to Miss Saxon and begged her with a special degree of courtesy to study it. Mr. Hill's excessive curiosity to know what that word might be made him use every possible moment to turn his eye on it, and it didn't take long for him to see that it was Dixon. Jane Saxon's perception seemed to accompany his; their understanding certainly corresponded more to the hidden meaning, the superior intelligence of these five letters arranged in this way. She was obviously dissatisfied; looked up and looked watched, blushed deeper than he had ever perceived them, and just said, "I didn't know proper names were allowed," even pushed the letters away with an angry spirit, and looked determined not to deal with any other word that could be offered. Her face was turned away from those who had carried out the attack and turned to her aunt.
"Yes, very true, my dear," shouted the latter, although Jane had not spoken a word – "I just wanted to say the same thing. It's time for us to really leave. The evening is approaching and Grandma will look for us. My dear sir, you are too accommodating. We really have to wish you a good night."
Jane's vigilance in moving proved that she was as ready as her aunt had anticipated. She was immediately up and wanted to leave the table; but so many moved that she could not escape; and Mr. Hill believed he saw another collection of letters that were anxiously pushed to her and resolutely swept away unchecked by her. She later searched for her scarf – Frank Curcelle also searched – it dawned, and the room was in confusion; and how they separated, Mr. Hill could not say.
He remained in Hartfield after all the rest, his thoughts full of what he had seen; so crowded that when the candles came to support his observations, he – yes, he certainly had to, as a friend – a worried friend – give Emma a hint, ask her a question. He couldn't see her in such a dangerous situation without trying to save her. It was his duty.
"Please, Emma," he said, "may I ask what was the great amusement, the poignant sting of the last word given to you and Miss Saxon? I've seen the word and I'm curious to know how it can be so entertaining for one and so unsettling for the other.
Emma was very confused. She could not bear to give him the true explanation; for although her suspicions had by no means been eliminated, she was really ashamed that she had ever expressed it.
"Oh!" she shouted in obvious embarrassment, "it doesn't mean anything; a mere joke among us."
"The joke," he replied earnestly, "seems to be limited to you and Mr. Curcelle."
He had hoped she would speak again, but she didn't. She would rather deal with something than talk. Doubtfully, he sat there for a while. A variety of evils went through his head. Mixing – fruitless mixing. Emma's confusion and acknowledged intimacy seemed to declare her affection committed. Nevertheless, he would speak. He owed it to her to risk anything that could be associated with unwelcome interference rather than her well-being; to encounter anything, rather than the memory of neglect in such a thing.
"My dear Emma," he finally said with serious kindness, "do you think you fully understand the degree of acquaintance between the Lord and the lady we spoke of?"
"Between Mr. Frank Curcelle and Miss Saxon? Oh! yes, absolutely. – Why do you doubt it?"
"At no time did you have reason to believe that he admired her or that she admired him?"
"Never!" she shouted with the most obvious zeal – "Never, even in the twentieth part of a moment, such an idea came to me. And how could it get into your head?"
"I've been imagining lately that I've seen symptoms of bonding between them — certain expressive looks that I didn't think should be public."
"Oh! They amuse me excessively. I'm happy to note that you can let your imagination run wild – but it won't be enough – I'm very sorry to review you in your first essay – but it won't be enough in fact. There is no admiration between them, I assure you; and the apparitions that have caught you have arisen from some peculiar circumstances – feelings rather of a completely different kind – it is impossible to explain it exactly: – there is a lot of nonsense in it – but the part that is communicative, which is meaning, is that they are as far removed from any attachment or admiration for each other as there can be only two beings in the world. That is, I suppose it is so on their side, and I can vouch for it to be on their side. I will answer for the indifference of the Lord."
She spoke with a confidence that staggered, with a satisfaction that silenced Mr. Hill. She was in a cheerful mood and would have prolonged the conversation because she wanted to hear the details of his suspicions, every look described and the whole where and how of a circumstance that entertained her very much: but his cheerfulness did not suit hers. He found that he could not be useful, and his feelings were too irritable to speak. Lest he be tempted to an absolute fever by the fire that Mr. Lodge's tender habits required almost every night throughout the year, he soon said goodbye hastily and went home to the coolness and solitude of Donwell Abbey.
Chapter 197
Mrs. Jennings warmly praised Edward's behavior, but only Eleanore and Marianne understood his true value. THEY only knew how little he had to seduce him into disobedience, and how little comfort he could find beyond the awareness of doing the right thing in the loss of friends and fortune. Eleanore boasted of his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his transgressions out of compassion for his punishment. But although the trust between them was brought back to the right level by this public discovery, it was not an issue that none of them liked to dwell on when they were alone. Eleanore avoided it in principle, as she tended to fixate even more on her thoughts through Marianne's too warm, too positive assurances, that belief in Edward's continued affection for herself, which she would rather eliminate;
She felt all the power of this comparison; but not, as her sister had hoped to urge her to make an effort now; she felt it with all the pain of constant self-reproach, regretted bitterly that she had never tried hard before; but it brought only the torture of repentance, without the hope of improvement. Her mind was so weakened that she still thought the present effort was impossible, and that's why she only discouraged her even more.
A day or two later, they heard nothing new about matters in Harley Street or Bartlett's Buildings. But although they already knew so much about the matter that Mrs. Jennings would have had enough to do with spreading this knowledge further, she had planned from the beginning to pay her a comfort and question visit to cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the obstacle of more visitors than usual had prevented them from going to them within this time.
The third day after their knowledge of the details was such a beautiful, so beautiful Sunday that it drew many to Kensington Gardens, even though it was only the second week of March. Mrs. Jennings and Eleanore were among them; but Marianne, who knew the Warwicks were back in town and was constantly afraid to meet them, preferred to stay at home rather than venture into such a public place.
A trusted acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them shortly after they entered the gardens, and Eleanore did not regret that by continuing with them and fully engaging in Mrs. Jenning's conversation, she herself was left to silent reflection. She saw nothing of the Warwicks, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anyone who might happen to be of interest to her, whether serious or gay. But eventually she was approached by surprise by Miss Clayhorn, who, although she looked quite shy, expressed her great satisfaction at meeting her, and after being encouraged by the special kindness of Mrs. Jennings, she left her own group for a short time to join in. Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Eleanore,
"Get everything out of her, my dear. She will tell you everything if you ask. You see, I can't leave Mrs. Clarke alone."
However, it was fortunate for the curiosity of Mrs. Jennings and Eleanore that she told everything WITHOUT being asked; because otherwise nothing would have been
learned "I'm so glad to meet you," said Miss Clayhorn, taking her by the arm with confidence – "because I wanted to see you of all people." And then she lowered her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard everything about it.
"Not at all, I think, with you."
"This is a good thing. And Lady Mideltown, is SHE angry?"
"I can't think it's possible that it should be."
"I'm tremendously happy about it. My gosh! I had such a time out of it! I've never seen Lucy so angry in my life, something else for me as long as she lived, but now she's come all to herself, and we're as good friends as ever. Look, she put this bow on my hat and put the pen in it last night. YOU will laugh at me too. But why shouldn't I wear pink bows? I don't care if it's the Doctor's favorite color. For my part, I'm sure I should never have known that he liked it better than everyone else's color if he hadn't said it. My cousins tormented me so much! I sometimes explain that I don't know where to look in front of them.
She had digressed on a subject on which Eleanore had nothing to say, and therefore soon considered it expedient to find her way back to the first.
"Well, but Miss Hargrove," she said triumphantly, "people can say what they want when Mr. Gastonois declares that he doesn't want Lucy, because I can't tell you anything like that; Natural reports that should be disseminated abroad. Whatever Lucy himself may think about it, you know, it wasn't up to other people to put it down for sure."
"I've never heard anything like this that was hinted at before, I assure you," Eleanore said.
But this morning he came just as we came home from the church; and then it all came out how he had been sent to Harley Street for Wednesday and had talked to his mother and everyone else, and how he had explained to all of them that he loved no one but Lucy and no one but Lucy he had. And how worried was he about what had happened that as soon as he left his mother's house, he got on his horse and rode somewhere in the countryside; and how he had been in an inn all Thursday and Friday, intentionally to get through it. And after thinking about it again and again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now that he had no fortune and nothing at all, it would be very unkind to hold her to the engagement, because it must be her loss, because he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope for anything else; and if he was to go to orders, since he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a parish, and how should they live from it? - He could not bear to think that she would not be better, and so he asked: if she had the least desire to put an end to the matter and leave the shift to him. I heard him say all this as clearly as possible. And it was entirely for HER sake and for HER account that he said a word about being absent, not his own. I swear he never lost a syllable of being tired of her or wanting to marry Miss Morton or anything like that. But of course Lucy wouldn't listen to such speeches; so she told him directly (with a lot about sweet and love, you know, and all that - oh la! you can't repeat such things, you know) – she told him directly, she didn't have the slightest desire for the world to be gone, because she could live with him from a little thing, and however little he would have it, she should be very happy to have everything, you know, or something like that. Then he was tremendously happy and talked for some time about what they should do, and they agreed that he should take orders directly and they had to wait with the wedding until he earned his living. And at that very moment I couldn't hear anything anymore, because my cousin called from below to tell me that Mrs. Richardson had come in her carriage and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt her to ask Lucy if she wanted to leave, but she didn't feel like leaving Edward; So I just ran up the stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came out with the Richardsons.
"I don't understand what you mean by interrupting them," Eleanore said; "You were all in the same room together, weren't you?"
"No, in fact not us. La! Miss Hargrove, do you think people love each other when someone else is over? Oh, what a pity! – To be sure, you need to know better. no, they were locked in the salon together, and all I heard was listening at the door."
"How!" cried Eleonore; "Did you repeat to me what you yourself only experienced by listening at the door? I'm sorry I didn't know before; because I certainly would not have tolerated you to give me details about a conversation that you should not have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly towards your sister?"
"Oh, la! There's nothing to it. I just stood at the door and heard what I could do. And I'm sure Lucy would have done the same thing of me, a year or two ago, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together that she never hid in a closet or behind a fireplace board to hear what we were saying.
Eleanore tried to speak of something else; but Miss Clayhorn couldn't be stopped for more than a few minutes from what kept her busy the most.
"Edward is talking about going to Oxford soon," she said; "but now he lives in No. –, Pall Mall. What an evil woman his mother is, isn't she? And your brother and sister were not very friendly! However, I will not oppose them, and of course they sent us home in their own car, which was more than I expected, and I, for my part, was quite frightened because I was afraid your sister might ask us about the housewives she had given us the day or two before; but nothing was said about it, and I was careful to keep mine out of sight. Edward has some shops in Oxford, he says; so he has to go there for a while; and after that, as soon as he can find a bishop, he will be consecrated. I wonder what parish he will get! - You my goodness! (giggling as she spoke) I know what my cousins will say when they hear about it. They will tell me to write to the Doctor to get Edward the care of his new livelihood. I know they will; but I'm sure I wouldn't do something like that around the world. - 'La!' I will say directly, "I wonder how you can come up with something like this? I'm actually writing to the doctor!'"
"Well," said Eleanore, "it is a consolation to be prepared for the worst.
Miss Clayhorn wanted to answer on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made it even more necessary.
"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I have much more to tell you, but I can no longer stay away from them. I assure you, they are very distinguished people. and they keep their own carriage.I don't have time to talk to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but please tell her, I am very happy to hear that she is not angry with us, and Lady Mideltown the same thing, and in case anything should happen to take you and your sister with her, and mrs. Jennings wants to have company, we will certainly be very happy to come and stay with her as long as she wants. I suspect Lady Mideltown won't ask us this fight anymore. Goodbye; I'm sorry, Miss Marianne wasn't here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you haven't put on your spotted muslin!
That was their farewell concern; for after that she only had time to give Mrs. Jennings her farewell compliments before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Eleanore was left in possession of knowledge that could nourish her ability to think for some time, although she had learned very little more than what had already been foreseen and planned in her own mind. Edward's marriage to Lucy was so firmly established, and the timing of her occurrence remained as absolutely uncertain as she had expected; – everything depended precisely according to their expectation on him receiving this preference, of which the present did not seem the slightest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but since Eleanore wanted to disseminate as little as possible information that had been obtained so unfairly in the first place, she limited herself to the brief repetition of such simple details, as she was sure that Lucy would choose to have known it for the sake of her own consequences. The continuation of their commitment and the means that could be taken to promote its purpose were their only communication; and this produced the following natural remark from Mrs. Jennings.
"Wait until he makes a living! – yes, we all know how THAT will end: – they will wait twelve months, and if they find that nothing good comes out of it, they will demand a guarantee of fifty pounds a year including interest from his two thousand pounds, and whatever Mr. Clayhorn and Mr. Pratt can give her – then they will have a child every year! and God help them! how poor they will be! – I need to see what I can give them for furnishing their home. Two maids and two men, indeed! – as I talked about it the other day. – No, no, they need to get a strong girl with all abilities.
The next morning, Eleanore brought a letter from Lucy personally by two-penny mail. It was as follows:
"Bartlett's Building, March.
although I seriously urged him to do so out of prudence, as I thought it was my duty, and would have separated me forever on the spot if he had agreed to it; but he said it should never be, he did not heed the anger of his mother, while he might have my affection; our prospects are not very rosy, but we have to wait and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend it to anyone who has his livelihood to give away, I am very sure that you will not forget us, and also the dear Mrs. Jennings, trust that she will say Sir John a good word for us, or Mr. Palmifer or any friend who could help us. – Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for her good, so I don't say anything; I hope Mrs. Jennings doesn't find it too difficult to call us. if she came here in the morning, it would be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her. – My newspaper reminds me to close; and I ask you to keep her and Sir John and Lady Mideltown and the dear children, if you happen to see them, in grateful and respectful memory, and Miss Marianne in love.
"I am, &c."
As soon as Eleanore finished it, she carried out what she thought was the author's actual draft by handing it over to Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many satisfied and praising comments.
"Very good indeed! – how pretty she writes! – yes, that was quite right to release him if he wanted to. That was just like Lucy. – Poor soul! I wish I could make a living for him wholeheartedly.- She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a kind-hearted girl as always.- Very good at my word. This sentence is very nicely twisted. Yes, yes, I will visit them, safe enough. How attentive she is to think of every body! Thank you, my dear, for showing it to me. It's such a pretty letter as I've never seen before, and it pays tribute to Lucy's head and heart."
Chapter 198
As convinced elizabeth was now that Miss Woodland's aversion to her had arisen from jealousy, she could not resist feeling how unwelcome her appearance in Pemberley must have been for her, and was curious to know how much courtesy this lady's acquaintance would now be renewed.
When they reached the house, they were led through the hall into the salon, the north side of which made it delightful for the summer. Its windows opened to the ground and provided an extremely refreshing view of the tall wooded hills behind the house and the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts scattered across the lawn in between.
In this house they were received by Miss Drury, who sat there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana's reception was very polite, but associated with all the embarrassment that, although it emerged from shyness and fear of injustice, could easily give those who felt inferior the belief that she was proud and reserved. However, Mrs. Lockhart and her niece did her justice and felt sorry for her.
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Woodland noticed them only by a kink; and when they had taken their seats, a pause followed for a few moments, as awkward as such pauses must always be. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a posh, pleasant-looking woman whose effort to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be truly more well-behaved than the others; and between her and Mrs. Lockhart, with the occasional help of Elizabeth, the conversation continued. Miss Drury looked like she wanted courage enough to join; and sometimes dared to make a short sentence when there was the slightest risk of being heard.
Elizabeth soon saw that she herself was under close surveillance by Miss Woodland and that she couldn't speak a word, especially with Miss Drury, without catching her attention. This observation would not have prevented them from talking to the latter if they had not sat at an unfavourable distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the need to say a lot. Their own thoughts occupied them. She expected at any moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the landlord might be among them; and whether she wanted it most or feared it, she could hardly determine. After sitting there for a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Woodland's voice, Elizabeth was awakened by her when she received a cold question about the condition of her family. She replied with equal indifference and brevity:
the next variation offered by her visit was created by the entry of servants with cold meat, cakes and a variety of all the finest fruits of the season; but this only happened after Mrs. Annesley had thrown many meaningful looks and smiles at Miss Drury to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole of society – for although they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines and peaches soon gathered them around the table.
While she was so engaged, Elizabeth had a nice opportunity to decide whether she feared or desired the appearance of Mr. Drury the most, through the feelings that prevailed when he entered the room; and then, even though she had only a moment before she had believed that her desires would prevail, she began to regret that he had come.
He had been with Mr. Lockhart for some time, who was engaged to two or three other gentlemen from the riverside house, and hadn't left until he learned that the ladies of the family wanted to visit Georgiana that morning. No sooner had he appeared when Elizabeth had wisely decided to be completely loose and undisguised; a decision all the more necessary, but perhaps not all the easier to hold, because she saw that the suspicion of the whole society was aroused against her, and that there was hardly an eye that did not observe his behavior when he came in the room. In no facial expression was attentive thirst for knowledge as pronounced as in Miss Woodlands, despite the smile that spread her face whenever she spoke to one of his objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attention to Mr. Drury was far from over. Miss Drury went to much harder to talk when her brother appeared, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and she to get to know each other and passed on every attempt at conversation on both sides as much as possible. Miss Woodland saw it all the same way; and, in the unwiseness of anger, seized the first opportunity to say, with mocking politeness,
"Please, Miss Eliza, will the – county militia not be removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss for YOUR family."
In Drury's presence, she did not dare to mention Waterhouse's name; but Elizabeth immediately understood that he was at the top of her mind; and the various memories associated with him worried her for a moment; but energetically exhausting to fend off the vicious attack, she now answered the question in a tolerably distanced tone. As she spoke, an involuntary look showed her Drury with reddened face color, who seriously looked at her and his sister, who was overwhelmed by confusion and unable to lift her eyes. Had Miss Woodland known the pain she was inflicting on her beloved friend at the time, she would undoubtedly have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to upset Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man she believed was disgusting with him, in order to get her to betray a sensibility that Drury believes could hurt her. and perhaps to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities that connected part of their family to this corps. Not a single syllable had ever reached her from Miss Drury's deliberate escape. It had not been revealed to anyone where secrecy was possible, except Elizabeth; and before all of Woodland's connections, her brother was particularly anxious to hide it, from the very desire Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him that they would later become her property. He had certainly made such a plan, and without intending to interfere with his efforts to separate him from Miss Mitchell, it is likely that he could contribute anything to his lively concern for his friend's well-being. Not a single syllable had ever reached her from Miss Drury's deliberate escape. It had not been revealed to anyone where secrecy was possible, except Elizabeth; and before all of Woodland's connections, her brother was particularly anxious to hide it, from the very desire Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him that they would later become her property. He had certainly made such a plan, and without intending to interfere with his efforts to separate him from Miss Mitchell, it is likely that he could contribute anything to his lively concern for his friend's well-being. Not a single syllable had ever reached her from Miss Drury's deliberate escape. It had not been revealed to anyone where secrecy was possible, except Elizabeth; and before all of Woodland's connections, her brother was particularly anxious to hide it, from the very desire Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him that they would later become her property. He had certainly made such a plan, and without intending to interfere with his efforts to separate him from Miss Mitchell, it is likely that he could contribute anything to his lively concern for his friend's well-being. of the wish elizabeth had ascribed to him a long time ago that they would become her own afterwards. He had certainly made such a plan, and without intending to interfere with his efforts to separate him from Miss Mitchell, it is likely that he could contribute anything to his lively concern for his friend's well-being. of the wish elizabeth had ascribed to him a long time ago that they would become her own afterwards. He had certainly made such a plan, and without intending to interfere with his efforts to separate him from Miss Mitchell, it is likely that he could contribute anything to his lively concern for his friend's well-being.
Elizabeth's collected behavior, however, soon calmed his emotions; and when Miss Woodland, upset and disappointed, did not dare to approach Waterhouse, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak. Her brother, whose gaze she feared to meet, hardly remembered her interest in the matter, and the very circumstance, which was intended to distract his thoughts from Elizabeth, seemed to have directed her more and more cheerfully at her.
Your visit did not last long after the question and answer mentioned above; and while Mr. Drury accompanied her to her carriage, Miss Woodland vented her feelings by criticizing Elizabeth's person, behavior, and clothing. But Georgiana didn't want to join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to secure her favor; his judgment could not be wrong. And he had talked about Elizabeth in such a way that he left Georgiana without the power to find her other than kind and kind. When Drury returned to the salon, Miss Woodland couldn't help but repeat to him part of what she had said to his sister.
"How sick Miss Eliza Mitchell looks this morning, Mr. Drury," she shouted; " I've never seen anyone in my life who has changed like her since the winter. It is so brown and coarsely grown! Lois and I agreed that we shouldn't have met her again.'
As little as Mr. Drury may have liked such a speech, he contented himself with the cool answer that he perceived no change other than that it was quite tanned, not a miraculous consequence of the trip. in summer.
"For my part," she replied, "I must confess that I could never see anything beautiful in her. Her face is too narrow; her complexion has no shine; and their facial features are not beautiful at all. Her nose wants character – nothing is marked in her lines. Your teeth are tolerable, but not uncommon; and as for their eyes, which were sometimes called so beautiful, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shady appearance, which I don't like at all; and in their air there is an overall self-sufficiency without fashion that is unbearable.'
As convinced as Miss Woodland was that Drury admired Elizabeth, this was not the best way to recommend herself; but angry people are not always wise; and when she finally saw him look a little upset, she had all the success she expected. However, he remained resolutely silent, and out of determination to get him to speak, she continued:
"I remember when we first knew her in Hertfordshire how amazed we all were when we realized she was a respected beauty; and I especially remember your saying one evening after they had dinner in Netherfield: "SHE is a beauty! But after that, she seemed to get better than you, and I think you once thought she was pretty."
"Yes," replied Drury, who could no longer hold back, "but THAT was only when I first saw her, because it has been many months since I considered her one of the prettiest women of my acquaintance."
Then he left, and Miss Woodland was content to have forced him to say what hurt no one but herself.
On their return, Mrs. Lockhart and Elizabeth talked about everything that had happened during their visit, except for what had particularly interested them both. The appearance and behavior of everyone who had seen them were discussed, except for the person who had demanded their attention the most. They spoke of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit – of everything but him; nevertheless, Elizabeth longed to know what Mrs. Lockhart thought of him, and Mrs. Lockhart would have been delighted if her niece had started the subject.
Chapter 199
After long being nourished by hopes of an early visit from Mr. and Mrs. Suckling, the Highbury world had to endure the humiliation of hearing that they could not possibly come before the fall. No such import of novelties could currently enrich their intellectual reserves. In the daily exchange of news, they have to confine themselves again to the other topics with which the coming of the Sucklings had been associated for a while, such as the last reports of Mrs. Curcelle, whose health seemed to provide a different message every day, and the situation of Mrs. Winstone, whose happiness could hopefully be increased by the arrival of a child as much as that of all her neighbors by his approach.
Mrs Alton was very disappointed. It was the delay of much joy and parade. Their ideas and recommendations all have to wait, and every planned party is still just talked about. That's what she thought at first; – but a little consideration convinced her that not everything had to be postponed. Why wouldn't they leave for Box Hill even though the Sucklings didn't come? In autumn, they could go there with them again. It was agreed that they should go to Box Hill. That such a party would exist had long been widely known, it had even given rise to the idea of another. Emma had never been to Box Hill; she wanted to see what everyone thought was worth seeing, and she and Mr. Winstone had agreed to pick a nice morning and go there. Two or three other chosen ones were to be admitted to join them,
this was so well understood between them that Emma could not help but be surprised and a little dissatisfied when she heard from Mr. Winstone that he had suggested Mrs. Alton, since her brother and sister had abandoned her, two parties should unite and go together; and since Mrs. Alton had very readily agreed to this, it should be so if she had nothing against it. Since her objection was nothing more than her very great aversion to Mrs. Alton, of which Mr. Winstone must already be fully aware, it was not worthwhile to bring it up again: – it did not go to him without a rebuke, which would also cause pain to his wife; and she was therefore forced to agree to an order that she would have done very much to avoid; an arrangement that would probably even expose her to humiliation, from Mrs. Alton's party! Every feeling was offended; and the indulgence of their outward submission left a heavy backlog due to secret rigor in their reflections on the unmanageable benevolence of Mr. Winstone's temperament.
"I am glad that you approve of my deed," he said very comfortably. "But I thought you would. Such schemes are nothing without numbers. You can't have too big a party. A big party secures its own amusement. And she's a good-natured woman, after all. You couldn't leave them out."
Emma did not deny any of this out loud and did not agree to any of it in private.
It was now mid-June and nice weather; and Mrs. Alton became impatient to call the day and come to an agreement with Mr. Winstone regarding pigeon pies and cold lamb when a lame carriage horse plunged everything into sad uncertainty. It could take weeks, maybe even a few days, for the horse to be usable; but no preparations could be made, and it was all melancholic stagnation. Mrs. Alton's means were not sufficient for such an attack.
"Isn't that very annoying, Hill?" she shouted. – "And such a weather to explore! – These delays and disappointments are quite despicable. What should we do? — The year will pass at this pace and nothing will be done. I assure you that last year before that time we had a delightful discovery party from Maple Grove to Kings Winstone."
"You'd better go to Donwell," Mr. Hill replied. "This is also possible without horses. Come and eat my strawberries. They mature quickly."
If Mr. Hill didn't start out in earnest, he had to do so, because his proposal was received with delight; and the "Oh! I want it of all things," was no clearer in words than in manner. Donwell was famous for his strawberry beds, which seemed to be a request for the invitation: but no request was necessary; Cabbage beds would have been enough to seduce the lady who just wanted to go somewhere. She promised to come back again and again – much more often than he doubted – and was extremely pleased with such a proof of intimacy, such an outstanding compliment as she intended.
"You can rely on me," she said. "I will definitely come. Name your day, and I will come. Allow me to bring Jane Saxon?"
"I can't name a day," he said, "until I've talked to some others I'd like to meet."
"Oh! leave all this to me. Just give me carte blanche. – I'm Lady Patroness, you know. It is my party. I will bring friends."
"I hope you bring Alton with you," he said, "but I'm not going to bother you to issue further invitations."
"Oh! now you look very smart. But remember – you don't need to be afraid to delegate power to me. I am not a young lady on her preference. Married women, you know, can be admitted without hesitation. It is my party. Leave it all to me. I will invite your guests."
"No," he replied calmly, "there is only one married woman in the world who I can ever allow to invite guests to Donwell that she likes, and that one is "
woman." Winstone, I suppose," Mrs. Alton interrupted quite offended.
"No – Mrs. Hill; – and until it exists, I will handle such matters myself."
"Ah! you're a strange creature!" she exclaimed, content not to have favored anyone. – "You are a humorist and you can say what you want. Quite a humorist. Well, I'm going to bring Jane – Jane and her aunt. – I'll leave the rest to you. I don't mind meeting the Hartfield family at all. No scruples. I know you're attached to them."
"You will certainly meet them if I can assert myself; and I will visit Miss Bates on the way home."
"This is quite unnecessary; I see Jane every day: - but as you like. It's going to be a morning program, you know, Hill; very simple thing. I will wear a big hood and hang one of my little baskets on my arm. Here – probably this basket with a pink bow. Nothing can be easier, you see. And Jane will have another one. There should be no form or parade – a kind of gypsy festival. We are to walk in your gardens and pick the strawberries ourselves and sit under trees; – and whatever else you want to deliver, it should all be outdoors – a table set in the shade, you know. Everything as natural and simple as possible. Isn't that your idea?"
"Not quite. My idea of the simple and natural will be to distribute the table in the dining room. In my opinion, the essence and simplicity of the gentlemen and ladies with their servants and furniture can best be observed at meals in enclosed spaces. If you are tired of eating strawberries in the garden, there should be cold cuts in the house."
"Well, whatever you want; just don't have a great set-out. And by the way, can I or my housekeeper be of any use to you with our opinion? – Please be sincere, Hill. If you want me to talk to Mrs. Hodges or inspect anything...«
"I don't have the slightest desire for it, thank you."
"Well, but if there are any difficulties, my housekeeper is very smart."
"I will stand up for the fact that mine considers herself fully wise, and would disdain any physical help."
"I wish we had a donkey. The thing would be that we all come up with donkeys, Jane, Miss Bates and me – and my caro sposo walking by. I absolutely have to talk to him about buying a donkey. In a country life, I consider it a kind of necessity; because no matter how many resources a woman has, she can't always be locked up at home – and very long walks, you know – there's dust in the summer and dirt in the winter."
"You won't find either, between Donwell and Highbury. Donwell Lane is never dusty and now it is completely dry. However, come on a donkey if you prefer. You can borrow Mrs. Coles. I want everything to be as good as possible to your taste."
"I am convinced of that. Verily, I will do you justice, my good friend. Under this peculiar kind of dry, blunt kind, I know you have the warmest heart. As I say Mr. E., you are a thorough humorist. – Yes, believe me, Hill, I am well aware of your attention in this whole plan. You found just the right thing to please me."
Mr. Hill had another reason to avoid a table in the shade. He wanted to persuade Mr. Lodge and Emma to join the party; and he knew that it would inevitably make him sick if one of them sat down outside to eat. Mr. Lodge must not be seduced into his misery under the flimsy pretext of a morning car ride and an hour or two in Donwell.
He was invited in good faith. No lurking horrors should accuse him of his easy credulity. He agreed. He hadn't been to Donwell in two years. "On a very nice morning, he and Emma and Harriet could run very well; and he could sit still with Mrs. Winstone while the dear girls walked through the gardens. He did not assume that they could now be wet in the middle of the day. He would love to see the old house again and is very happy to meet Mr. and Mrs. Alton and all the others of his neighbors. – He could see no objection at all to his, Emma's and Harriet's departure There is a very nice morning. He thought it was very good of Mr. Hill to invite her – very friendly and reasonable – much smarter than eating out. – He didn't like eating out."
Mr. Hill was happy in the most readily agreeing of all. The invitation was so well received everywhere that it seemed as if they all, like Mrs. Alton, took the plan as a special compliment to themselves. and Mr. Winstone promised, without being asked, to get Frank to join them if possible; a proof of approval and gratitude that could have been dispensed with. Hill then had to say that he should be glad to see him; and Mr. Winstone pledged not to waste any time in writing and not to spare any arguments to get him to come.
Meanwhile, the lame horse recovered so quickly that the party after Box Hill was again under happy consideration; and finally Donwell was set for a day, and box hill for the following, - the weather that seems just right.
Under a bright midday sun, almost midsummer, Mr. Lodge was safely transported in his carriage, with a window downstairs, to attend this outdoor party; and in one of the most comfortable rooms of the abbey, specially prepared for him by fire throughout the morning, he was happily accommodated, quite relaxed, ready to talk with pleasure about what had been achieved and to advise everyone to come and sit down and not heat up. Winstone, who had apparently deliberately gone there to get tired and sat with him all the time, remained his patient listener and sympathizer when everyone else was invited or persuaded.
It had been so long since Emma had been in the abbey that as soon as she was satisfied with her father's comfort, she happily left him and looked around; eager to refresh and correct their memory, with closer observation, a better understanding of a house and terrain that must always be so interesting for her and her whole family.
immaculate in blood and understanding. – John Hill had some character flaws; but Bella had connected unconditionally. She hadn't given them men, names or places to blush. These were pleasant feelings, and she walked around and gave in to them until it was necessary to do the same as the others and gather around the strawberry beds. – The whole society was gathered, with the exception of Frank Curcelle, who was expected from Richmond at any moment; and Mrs. Alton, in all her happiness apparatus, her big hood and her basket, was very willing to go ahead in collecting, accepting or talking – strawberries, and only strawberries, could now be thought or spoken. –" The best fruit in England – everyone's favourite – always healthy. – These are the finest beds and finest varieties.
So the conversation was for half an hour – interrupted only once by Mrs. Winstone, who came out in her concern for her son-in-law to ask if he had come – and she was a little restless. – She was a little afraid of his horse.
Quite shady places were found; and now Emma had to listen to what Mrs. Alton and Jane Saxon were talking about. – A situation, a highly desirable situation, was in question. Mrs. Alton had received the news that morning and was delighted. It wasn't Mrs. Suckling's, it wasn't Mrs. Bragge's, but it was behind them in bliss and brilliance: it was with a cousin of Mrs. Bragge, an acquaintance of Mrs. Suckling, a lady Hain known in Maple. Delightful, charming, superior, first circles, balls, lines, rows, everything – and Mrs. Alton was eager to close the offer immediately. – On her side was all warmth, energy and triumph – and she decidedly refused to take her friend's negative, although Miss Saxon continued to assure her that she would not get involved in anything at this time, repeating the same motives she had heard to push before. - Nevertheless, Mrs. Alton insisted on being authorized. to write a consent by tomorrow's post. – How Jane could bear this at all, Emma was amazing. – She looked angry, she spoke sharply – and finally proposed a removal with an unusual decision to act.—"Shouldn't they leave? Wouldn't Mr. Hill show them the gardens – all the gardens? – She wanted to see the full extent." – Her friend's tenacity seemed unbearable to her. – "Shouldn't they go? Wouldn't Mr. Hill show them the gardens – all the gardens? – She wanted to see the full extent." – Her friend's tenacity seemed unbearable to her. – "Shouldn't they go? Wouldn't Mr. Hill show them the gardens – all the gardens? – She wanted to see the full extent." – Her friend's tenacity seemed unbearable to her.
It was hot; and after walking across the gardens scattered and scattered for some time, barely three together, they followed each other imperceptibly into the delicious shade of a wide short avenue of lime trees that stretched beyond the garden at the same distance from the river, the end of the pleasure garden seemed. – It led to nothing; nothing but a view at the end over a low stone wall with high columns, which in their construction should give the appearance of an access to the unprecedented house. However, as questionable as the taste of such a degree may be, it was in itself an enchanting walk and the view that completed it was extremely pretty. - The considerable slope, at the foot of which almost the abbey stood, gradually became steep in shape beyond its grounds;
It was a sweet sight – sweet to the eye and the mind. English greenery, English culture, English cosiness, seen under a bright sun without being oppressive.
On this walk, Emma and Mr. Winstone found everyone else gathered; and to this view she immediately noticed Mr. Hill and Harriet, who were different from the others and walked calmly. Mr. Hill and Harriet! – It was a strange Tete-a-Tete; but she was glad to see it. There had been a time when he despised her as a companion and turned away from her with little ceremony. Now they seemed to be in pleasant conversation. There had also been a time when Emma would have regretted seeing Harriet in such a convenient location for Abbey Mill Farm; but now she didn't fear it. It could be safely viewed with all its appendages of prosperity and beauty, its rich pastures, the spreading herds, the flowering orchard and the light column of smoke that rose. – She joined them on the wall and found them more occupied with speeches than with looking around. He gave Harriet information about agricultural practices, etc., and Emma received a smile that seemed to say, "These are my own concerns. I have the right to talk about such topics without being suspected of introducing Robert Martin." – She did not suspect him. It was too old a story. Robert Martin had probably stopped thinking about Harriet. – They made a few rounds together along the way. – The shadow was very refreshing, and Emma found it the most pleasant part of the day.
The next move led to the house; they must all go in and eat; – and they were all sitting and busy, and Frank Curcelle still didn't come. Mrs. Winstone looked and searched in vain. His father would not feel uncomfortable and laughed at their fears; but she could not be cured of the wish that he would separate from his black mare. He had expressed himself about his coming with more than ordinary certainty. "His aunt was doing so much better that he had no doubt about going over to them." – Mrs. Curcelle's condition, however, as many readily recalled, was subject to such sudden fluctuations that could disappoint her nephew in the most reasonable dependence – and Mrs. Winstone was finally convinced to believe or say that it must have been over any attack by Mrs. Curcelle, who prevented him from coming. Emma looked at Harriet while the point was being considered;
The cold meal was over, and society was to go out again to see what had not yet been seen, the fish ponds of the old abbey; maybe get to the clover, which should start cutting tomorrow, or definitely have the pleasure of getting hot and getting cool again. Lodge, who had already made his little round in the highest part of the gardens, where even he did not imagine moisture from the river, no longer moved; and his daughter decided to stay with him so that Mrs. Winstone could be persuaded by her husband to do the exercise and variety that her spirits seemed to need.
Mr. Hill had done everything in his power for Mr. Lodge's entertainment. Books with engravings, drawers with medals, cameos, corals, shells, and every other family collection in his closets had been prepared for his old friend to drive away the morning; and the kindness had answered perfectly. Mr. Lodge had been extraordinarily amused. Mrs. Winstone had shown them all to him, and now he would show them all to Emma – happy to have no resemblance to a child other than completely tasteless for what he saw, for he was slow, steady, and methodical. – However, before this second visit began, Emma went into the hall to look freely at the entrance and floor plan of the house for a few moments – and was barely there when Jane Saxon appeared, quickly coming out of the garden and with an escaped look. – I didn't expect to meet Miss Lodge so soon, there was a scare at first; but Miss Lodge was exactly the person she was looking for.
"Do you want to be so kind," she said, "if I go missing, to say I went home? – I'm leaving at this moment. – My aunt doesn't know what time it is, how long we've been absent – but I'm sure we'll be needed, and I'm determined to leave right away. – I didn't tell anyone about it. It would only cause trouble and sorrow. Some went to the ponds, others to the lime walk. Until they all arrive, I will not be missed; and if they do, will you have the goodness to say I'm gone?"
"Certainly, if you wish; – but you're not going to go to Highbury alone?"
"Yes – what should hurt me? – I go fast. I will be home in twenty minutes."
"But it's too far, that's really it, to go all alone. Let my father's servant go with you. - Let me order the carriage. It can be round in five minutes."
"Thank you, thank you – but definitely not. – I'd rather leave. – And that I am afraid to go alone! – Me, who I have to guard others so soon!"
She spoke with great excitement; and Emma replied very sensitively, "That can't be a reason for you to put yourself in danger now. I have to order the carriage. Even the heat would be dangerous. – You're already tired."
"I am," she replied, "I am tired; but it's not the kind of fatigue – fast walking will refresh me. – Miss Lodge, we all know sometimes what it means to be tired. My, I confess, are exhausted. The greatest kindness you can show me is to let me do my will and only say I'm gone when needed."
Emma didn't have another word against it. She saw everything; and responding to her feelings encouraged her to leave the house immediately, and certainly woke away with the zeal of a friend. Her farewell look was grateful – and her farewell words: "Oh! Miss Lodge, the comfort of sometimes being alone!" – seemed to burst from an overloaded heart and describe something of the constant perseverance she herself had to practice toward some of those she loved most.
"Such a home, indeed! such a aunt!" said Emma, ?? when she returned to the hall. "I'm sorry for you. And the more sensitivity you betray to their righteous horrors, the more I will like you."
Jane had not been away for a quarter of an hour, and they had only managed some views of St. Mark's Square in Venice when Frank Curcelle entered the room. Emma hadn't thought of him, she had forgotten to think of him – but she was very happy to see him. Mrs. Winstone would feel comfortable. The black mare was impeccable; they were right, who had named Mrs. Curcelle as the cause. He had been held up by a temporary increase in her illness; a nervous seizure that had lasted a few hours – and he had given up any thought of coming until very late – and had he known how hot he was going to ride and how late he had to be with all his haste, he thought he should not have come at all. The heat was excessive; he had never suffered anything like this before – almost wishing he had stayed at home – nothing killed him as much as heat – he could endure any degree of cold,
"You'll soon be cooler when you sit still," Emma said.
"As soon as I'm cooler, I go back. I could very badly be spared – but my coming was so important! They will all leave soon, I suppose; the whole party breaks up. I met one when I came – madness in this weather! – absolute madness!"
Emma listened, looked, and soon realized that Frank Curcelle's condition could best be described with the expressive phrase "being humorless." Some people were always angry when they were hot. Such could be his constitution; and knowing that eating and drinking were often the cure for such side ailments, she recommended that he take some refreshment; in the dining room he would find plenty of everything – and she pointed humanly at the door.
"No – he shouldn't eat. He was not hungry; it would only make him hotter." After two minutes, however, he gave in in his favor; and murmured something of spruce beer and walked away. Emma turned all her attention back to her father and secretly
said,
"I'm glad I stopped falling in love with him. I don't want to like a man who is so soon unsettled by a hot morning. Harriet's sweet, carefree temperament won't mind."
He had been away long enough to have eaten very comfortably, and came back all the better – quite cool – and with good manners like himself able to pull a chair to them and take an interest in their occupation; and regret in a reasonable way that he comes so late. He wasn't in the best mood, but seemed to be trying to improve it; and finally he got himself to talk nonsense very pleasantly. You looked at views in Switzerland.
"As soon as my aunt gets well, I will go abroad," he said. "I will never be easy until I see some of these places. You'll eventually have my sketches to look at – or my tour to read – or my poem. I'm going to do something to expose myself."
"That may be – but not through sketches in Switzerland. You will never go to Switzerland. Your uncle and aunt will never allow you to leave England."
"They can be made to leave too. A warm climate can be prescribed to her. I have more than half the expectation that we will all go abroad. I assure you, I have. I am firmly convinced this morning that I will soon be abroad. I should travel. I'm tired of doing nothing. I want a change. I'm serious, Miss Lodge, whatever your piercing eyes like – I'm tired of England – and would give it up tomorrow if I could."
"You are tired of prosperity and enjoyment. Can't you come up with a few hardships and settle for staying?"
"I am tired of prosperity and enjoyment! They are quite wrong. I don't consider myself wealthy or spoiled. I am thwarted in everything material. I don't consider myself a happy person at all."
"But you're not quite as miserable as you were when you came. Go and eat and drink a little more, and you'll be fine. Another slice of cold cuts, another sip of Madeira and water make you almost at eye level with the rest of us."
"No – I'm not going to move. I will sit next to you. You are my best remedy."
"We're going to Box Hill tomorrow – you'll join us. It's not Switzerland, but it will be something for a young man who is so eager for change. You stay and go with us?"
"No, certainly not; I will go home in the coolness of the evening."
"But you can come back tomorrow morning in the cool."
"No – it won't be worth it. When I come, I will be evil."
"Then please stay in Richmond."
"But when I do that, I get even more angry. I can't stand it without thinking of all of you."
"These are difficulties that you have to solve yourself. Choose your own degree of transverse inclination. I will not harass you anymore."
The rest of society now returned, and all were soon gathered. For some, there was great joy at the sight of Frank Curcelle; others took it very calmly; but there was a very general anxiety and excitement about Miss Saxon's disappearance, which was explained. That it was time for everyone to leave, decided the topic; and with a brief final agreement for the next day's plan, they said goodbye. Frank Curcelle's small inclination to self-exclusion increased so much that his last words to Emma were:
"Well; - if you want me to stay and join the party, I will."
She smiled her approval; and nothing less than a subpoena from Richmond was to bring him back before the next evening.
Chapter 200
An hour passed before the general came in, he spent on the part of his young guest in not very benevolent consideration for his character. "This prolonged absence, these lonely hikes did not speak of a calm mind or a conscience without reproach." Finally he appeared; and whatever the gloominess of his meditations may have been, he could still smile with them. Miss Alsina, who partly understood her friend's curiosity to see the house, soon brought up the subject again; and her father, who, contrary to Catherine's expectations, had no excuse for another delay, apart from stopping for five minutes to order refreshments in the room on her return, was finally ready to escort her.
They set off; and with sublime air, a dignified step that caught the eye but could not shake the doubts of the well-read Catherine, he led the way through the hall, through the common salon and a useless anteroom into a room that is magnificent in both size and furniture - the actual salon used only in society of importance. It was very classy – very great – very charming! – was all Catherine had to say, for her indiscriminate eye barely perceived the color of the satin; and all the little things of praise, all the praise that had much meaning, was delivered by the general: the preciousness or elegance of the furnishings of each room could not mean anything to her; she did not care about furniture that was more modern than the fifteenth century. When the general had satisfied his own curiosity, in a close examination of all the known ornaments, they entered the library, an apartment, in their own way, of equal splendor, which exhibited a collection of books that a humble man might have looked at with pride. Catherine heard, admired and wondered with more real emotion than before – collecting everything she could from this store of knowledge by going through the titles of half a shelf and was ready to move on. But apartment suites do not sprout from their wishes. As large as the building was, she had already visited most of it; However, when she was told that the six or seven rooms she had now seen surrounded three sides of the courtyard with the addition of the kitchen, she could hardly believe it or overcome the suspicion that many chambers were hidden. However, it was a certain relief that they were to return to the shared spaces by walking through some less important ones and looking into the courtyard, which connected the different sides with occasional passages, not quite straightforward; and she was further reassured in her progress by being told that she entered a former cloister, was pointed out traces of cells, and observed several doors that were neither opened nor explained to her – by finding herself one after the other in a billiards – rooms and in the general's private apartment, without understanding her connection or being able to turn right, when she left them; and finally, by walking through a dark little room, possessing Henry's authority, and being sprinkled with his garbage of books, guns, and coats. and she was further reassured in her progress by being told that she entered a former cloister, was pointed out traces of cells, and observed several doors that were neither opened nor explained to her – by finding herself one after the other in a billiards – rooms and in the general's private apartment, without understanding her connection or being able to turn right, when she left them; and finally, by walking through a dark little room, possessing Henry's authority, and being sprinkled with his garbage of books, guns, and coats. and she was further reassured in her progress by being told that she entered a former cloister, was pointed out traces of cells, and observed several doors that were neither opened nor explained to her – by finding herself one after the other in a billiards – rooms and in the general's private apartment, without understanding her connection or being able to turn right, when she left them; and finally, by walking through a dark little room, possessing Henry's authority, and being sprinkled with his garbage of books, guns, and coats. without understanding their connection or being able to turn to the right when she left them; and finally, by walking through a dark little room, possessing Henry's authority, and being sprinkled with his garbage of books, guns, and coats. without understanding their connection or being able to turn to the right when she left them; and finally, by walking through a dark little room, possessing Henry's authority, and being sprinkled with his garbage of books, guns, and coats.
From the dining room, which, although already seen and always seen at five o'clock, the general could not do without the pleasure of going up and down to give Miss Fenmore more detailed information about what she was neither doubted nor worried about, they went through quick communication to the kitchen – the old kitchen of the monastery, rich in the massive walls and smoke of earlier days and in the ovens and hot cabinets of the present. The improving hand of the general had not roamed around here: every modern invention to facilitate the work of the cooks had been adopted in this, their spacious theater; and when the genius of others had failed, his own had often produced the desired perfection. His foundations of this place alone could have made him one of the benefactors of the monastery at any time.
With the walls of the kitchen, the whole antiquity of the abbey ended; the fourth side of the quadrangle was removed by the commander's father because of its decaying condition and the current one was built in its place. Everything venerable ended here. The new building was not only new, but also declared itself to be; intended only for offices and enclosed at the back by stable yards, no uniformity of architecture had been considered necessary. Catherine could have raced over the hand that had swept away what must have gone beyond the value of everyone else for the purposes of mere household economics; and if the humiliation of a walk through such fallen scenes had been willingly spared, the general would have allowed it; but if he had vanity, it was in the arrangement of his offices; and since he was convinced that for a ghost like Miss Fenmore a sight of the accommodations and amenities that alleviated the efforts of her subordinates, must always be satisfying, he should not apologize for having continued them. They took a small overview of all of them; and Catherine was impressed beyond her expectations by her diversity and convenience. The purposes for which some formless pantries and a desolate scullery were considered sufficient in Fullerton were continued here in appropriate departments, comfortable and spacious. She noticed the number of servants who appeared on a permanent basis no less than the number of her offices. Wherever they went, a make-up girl stopped and made a kink, or a servant in the harness crept away. But this was an abbey! How unspeakably different in these domestic institutions from those she had read about – from abbeys and castles where, although certainly larger than Northanger, all the dirty work of the house was to be done by at most two pairs of female hands. How they could survive all this, Mrs. Everyone is often amazed; and when Catherine saw what was necessary here, she herself began to be amazed.
They returned to the hall so that the main staircase could be climbed and the beauty of their wood and richly carved ornaments could be highlighted. After reaching the top, they turned in the opposite direction from the gallery where their room was located, and briefly entered one on the same plan, but superior in length and width. It was led here successively into three large dormitories with its most complete and handsome dressing rooms; everything that money and taste could do to give comfort and elegance to apartments had been given to them; and since they had only been established in the last five years, they were perfect in everything that would be generally pleasant, and lacking in everything that could bring joy to Catherine. When they visited the last one, the General, after briefly mentioning some of the respected personalities who had at times honored her, she turned to Catherine with a smiling face, daring to hope that some of her first tenants could be "our friends from Fullerton" from now on. She felt the unexpected compliment and deeply regretted the impossibility of thinking well of a man who was so kind to himself and so full of courtesy to her whole family.
The gallery ended with gullwing doors that Miss Alsina had torn open and passed through in advance and seemed to be about to do the same at the first door on the left in another long area of the gallery, when the general, came forward, called her back hastily and, as Catherine thought, quite angrily and asked if she was leaving? – And what else was there to see? – Hadn't Miss Fenmore already seen everything that might be worth her attention? Didn't she think that her friend would be happy about a refreshment after so much exercise? Miss Alsina resigned immediately, and the heavy doors were closed in front of the embarrassed Catherine, who, after seeing a narrower passage, more numerous openings and signs of a spiral staircase with a brief glance behind her, finally believed that inside she was within reach of something worthy of her attention; and felt, as she reluctantly walked back in the gallery, that she would rather be allowed to examine this end of the house than see all the splendor of all the rest. The general's apparent desire to prevent such an investigation was an additional incentive. Something was certainly to be hidden; her imagination, although she had recently defected once or twice, could not mislead her here; and what that something was seemed to be revealed by a short sentence by Miss Alsina as they followed the general down at a distance: "I wanted to lead you to my mother's room—the room where she died—" were all her words; but as few as they were, they brought Catherine pages full of information. It was no wonder that the general shied away from the sight of such objects that this room had to contain;
The next time she was alone with Eleanor, she dared to express her desire to see it as well as all the rest of this side of the house; and Eleanor promised to accompany them there whenever they had a favorable hour. Catherine understood them: the general had to be watched from home before this room could be entered. "It remains as it was, I suppose?" she said in a tone of feeling.
"Yes, quite."
"And how long ago may it have been since your mother died?"
"She's been dead for nine years." And nine years, Catherine knew, was a trifle compared to what usually passed after the death of an injured woman before her room was put in order.
"You must have been with her until the end?"
"No," said Miss Alsina with a sigh; "Unfortunately, I was from home. Her illness was sudden and short; and before I arrived, it was all over."
Catherine's blood ran cold from the terrible hints that naturally emanated from these words. Can it be possible? Could Henry's father – ? And yet, how many examples were there that justified even the blackest suspicion! And when she saw him in the evening, while working with her friend and walking slowly up and down the salon for an hour in quiet thoughtfulness, with her eyes down and her forehead pulled together, she felt safe from any possibility of doing him wrong. It was the air and attitude of a Montoni! What could more clearly express the gloomy work of a mind that is not completely dead to any sense of humanity, in its anxious retrospective of past scenes of guilt? Unhappy man! And the fear of her mood repeatedly turned her eyes to his figure to attract Miss Alsina's attention. "My father," she whispered, "often walks around the room like this; it's nothing unusual."
"All the worse!" thought Katharina; Such an outdated exercise suited the strange untimeliness of his morning walks and did not bode well.
After an evening whose little variety and apparent length made her particularly aware of the importance of Henry among them, she was very happy to be dismissed; although it was a look of the general, not destined for her observation, who sent his daughter to the bell. However, when the butler lit his master's candle, he was forbidden to do so. The latter would not retire. "I still have a lot of pamphlets to finish," he told Catherine, "before I can close my eyes, and maybe spend hours pondering the affairs of the nation after you fall asleep. Can any of us be better employed? My eyes will be blind for the good of others, and your eyes will prepare for future calamity by rest."
But neither the alleged deal nor the great compliment could dissuade Catherine from thinking that a completely different item must cause such a serious delay in proper calm. Hours after the family was in bed, being stopped by stupid leaflets was not very likely. There had to be a deeper reason: something had to be done that could only be done while the household was asleep; and the likelihood that Mrs. Alsina was still alive, imprisoned for unknown reasons, and receiving a nightly supply of coarse food from her husband's merciless hands, was the conclusion that necessarily followed. As shocking as the idea was, it was at least better than an unjustifiably accelerated death, since in the natural course of things it was far from being dismissed. The suddenness of her alleged illness, the absence of her daughter and probably her other children, at the time - all favored the acceptance of her imprisonment. Its origin – perhaps jealousy or wanton cruelty – has yet to be unraveled.
While she was revolving around these things, it suddenly felt as if it was not unlikely that she might have been near the detention center of this unfortunate woman that morning – perhaps just a few steps from the cell where she spent her days; for which part of the abbey could be better suited for this purpose than the one that still bore the traces of the division of the monastery? In the high arcade paved with stones, which she had already entered with peculiar reverence, she remembered well the doors, of which the general had not told anything. Where could these doors not lead? In order to substantiate the plausibility of this presumption, she also thought that the forbidden gallery in which the apartments of the unfortunate Mrs. Alsina were located, as sure as her memory could guide her, precisely above this presumed series of cells, and the staircase at the side of those apartments from which she had caught a glimpse and which were secretly connected to these cells, would have favored her husband's barbaric actions. Down this staircase she may have been transported in a state of well-prepared unconsciousness!
Catherine was sometimes frightened by the audacity of her own assumptions and sometimes hoped or feared that she had gone too far; but they were supported by such phenomena that made their release impossible.
Since the side of the square in which she suspected she was playing the guilty scene was, in her opinion, exactly opposite her own, she thought that on careful consideration some rays of light from the general's lamp could shine through the lower windows as he went to his wife's prison; and twice, before going to bed, she gently stole herself from her room to the appropriate window in the gallery to see if it appeared; but outside everything was dark, and it must be too early. The various rising sounds convinced them that the servants still had to be on top. Until midnight, she thought, it would be in vain to watch; but then, when the clock had struck twelve and everything was calm, she would sneak out, though not entirely horrified by the darkness, and look again. The clock struck twelve – and Catherine had slept for half an hour.
Chapter 201
While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were eagerly advancing their happiness in Laura Place, Anne renewed an acquaintance of a very different kind.
She had visited her former governess and heard from her that there was an old schoolmate in Bath who claimed her attention in two ways: former kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs. Smith, had shown her kindness in one of those periods of her life when she had been most valuable. Anne had gone to school unhappily, had mourned the loss of a mother she had loved very much, felt her separation from home and suffered, as a fourteen-year-old girl of strong sensitivity and not good mood must suffer at such a time; and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still for lack of close relatives and a steady home, stayed in school for another year and had been useful and good to her in a way that had greatly alleviated her misery and could never be remembered with indifference.
Miss Hamilton had left school, married shortly afterwards, is said to have married a wealthy man, and that was all Anne had known about her, until now, when her governess' account took her situation in a more decisive but very different direction.
She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his death, about two years ago, he had left his affairs terribly complicated. She had struggled with difficulties of all kinds, and she had also been afflicted by a severe rheumatic fever, which she had crippled after finally settling in her legs. She had therefore come to Bath and now lived in an accommodation near the hot baths, lived very modestly, could not even afford the comforts of a maid and was of course almost excluded from society.
Her mutual friend replied for the satisfaction that a visit from Miss Hightower would give Mrs. Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time to leave. She didn't mention anything she had heard or intended to do at home. It would not arouse any real interest there. She only consulted Lady Russell, who studied her feelings thoroughly, and was very happy to be able to take her near Mrs. Smith's apartment in Westgate Buildings, as Anne intended.
The visit was completed, the acquaintance was restored, the interest in each other more than rekindled. The first ten minutes had their awkwardness and emotions. Twelve years had passed since they had separated, and each presented a slightly different person than the other had imagined. Twelve years had transformed Anne from the flowering, silent, unformed girl of fifteen into the elegant little woman of twenty-seven years, with every beauty except flowering and with manners that were as consciously correct as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had transformed the handsome, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the splendour of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, frail, helpless widow who accepted the visit of her former protégé as a favor; but everything uncomfortable in the congregation soon evaporated,
Anne found in Mrs. Smith the common sense and pleasant manners she had almost relied on, and a tendency to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectations. Neither the distractions of the past – and she had lived a great deal in the world – nor the limitations of the present, neither illness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her mind.
On a second visit, she spoke with great openness, and Anne's amazement grew. She could hardly imagine a bleaker situation than Mrs. Smith's. She had liked her husband very much: she had buried him. She was used to prosperity: he was gone. She had no child to reconnect her with life and happiness, no relatives to help settle tricky matters, no health that made everything else bearable. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parkour and a dark bedroom behind it, with no ability to move from one to the other without help, which only a servant in the house could afford, and she never left the house except to be transported to the warm bath. Despite all this, Anne had reason to believe that she only had moments of dullness and depression, hours of activity and pleasure. How could it be? She observed, observed, reflected, and finally realized that this was not just a case of bravery or resignation. A submissive mind may be patient, a strong understanding would provide solution, but there was more here; here was this elasticity of the mind, this tendency to be comforted, this power to easily turn from evil to good and to find an occupation that led them out of themselves, which came solely from nature. It was heaven's most exquisite gift; and Anne considered her friend to be one of those cases where, by a gracious appointment, she seems destined to balance almost all other needs. A submissive mind may be patient, a strong understanding would provide solution, but there was more here; here was this elasticity of the mind, this tendency to be comforted, this power to easily turn from evil to good and to find an occupation that led them out of themselves, which came solely from nature. It was heaven's most exquisite gift; and Anne considered her friend to be one of those cases where, by a gracious appointment, she seems destined to balance almost all other needs. A submissive mind may be patient, a strong understanding would provide solution, but there was more here; here was this elasticity of the mind, this tendency to be comforted, this power to easily turn from evil to good and to find an occupation that led them out of themselves, which came solely from nature. It was heaven's most exquisite gift; and Anne considered her friend to be one of those cases where, by a gracious appointment, she seems destined to balance almost all other needs.
Mrs. Smith told her that there had been a time when she almost ran out of strength. She could no longer call herself an invalid compared to her condition when she first reached Bath. Then she had indeed been a pitiful object; for she had caught a cold on the journey and had barely taken possession of her apartment when she was again tied to the bed and suffered from severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers, with the absolute need to have a regular nurse, and finances that are especially unsuitable at this moment to cover extraordinary expenses. However, she had survived it and could really say that it had done her good. It had increased her well-being by making her feel in good hands. She had seen too much of the world to expect sudden or altruistic affection anywhere, but her illness had proven to her that her landlady had a character to be preserved and that she would not use sick; and she was especially lucky with her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, who was a nurse by profession and who always had a home in this house when she was unemployed, happened to be just in time to care for her. "And she," said Mrs. Smith, "except that she cares for me most admirably, has really proven to be an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands, she taught me how to knit, which was a great pleasure, and she put me in bed way to make those little sewing boxes, pincushions and card holders that I am always so busy with and that provide me with the means to do a little good to one or two very poor families in this area, a great acquaintance, professionally, of course, among those who can afford it, and she owns my goods. She always takes the right time to apply. You know, everyone's heart is open when they have recently been relieved of severe pain or regain the blessing of health, and Sister Rooke understands exactly when to speak. She is a smart, intelligent, reasonable woman. Yours is a line to see human nature; and she has a pool of common sense and observation that makes her infinitely superior as a companion to thousands of those who have received only "the best education in the world" and know nothing worth caring about. Call it gossip, if you will, but if Sister Rooke has half an hour of leisure to give me gifts, she certainly has something to tell that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes you want to know your species better. People like to hear what's going on to keep up to date with the latest ways of being petty and silly. For me, who live so much alone, their conversation, I assure you, is a pleasure."
Anne, far from wanting to nag about the pleasure, replied, "I can easily believe it. Women of this class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent, it may well be worthwhile to listen to them to testify habit! And not only in his follies are they well-read, because they occasionally see it in all circumstances that can be most interesting or moving. What examples of fervent, altruistic, self-denying attachment must happen before them, of heroism, of bravery, of patience, of resignation: of all conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us the most. A hospital room can often provide the value of volumes."
"Yes," Mrs. Smith said doubtfully, "sometimes perhaps, although I fear that his lessons are not often in the sublime style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial, but in general it is his weakness and not his strength that comes to light in a hospital room: one hears of selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and bravery. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaks softly and trembling) "there are so many who forget to think seriously until it is almost too late."
Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he should have been, and the wife had been led to that part of humanity that made her think worse of the world than she hoped she deserved. With Mrs. Smith, however, it was only a temporary feeling; she shook it off and soon added in a different tone,
"I don't suppose the situation my friend Mrs. Rooke is currently in will interest or edify me very much. She cares only for Mrs. Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a merely pretty, stupid, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course I won't have anything to report but lace and plaster, but I want to make my profit out of Mrs. Wallis, she has a lot of money, and I plan to buy all the high-priced things I have in her hand now. Anne
had visited her friend several times before the existence of such a person in Camden Place became known. Finally it became necessary to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs. Clay returned from Laura Place one morning with a sudden invitation from Lady Galloway for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged to spend that evening in the Westgate buildings. She didn't feel sorry for the apology. They were only in demand, she was sure, because Lady Galloway, since she was held at home by a bad cold, was happy to take advantage of the relationship that so ?? had been imposed; and she refused on her own account with great zeal - "She was engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolmate." They weren't particularly interested in anything related to Anne; but still enough questions were asked to make us understand what this old schoolmate was; and Elizabeth was contemptuous, and Mr. Walter was strict.
"Westgate building!" he said, "and who will Miss Anne Hightower visit in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs. Smith. A widow, Mrs. Smith; and who was her husband? One of five thousand Mr. Smiths whose names can be found everywhere Your attraction? That she is old and sickly. In my word, Miss Anne Hightower, you have the most extraordinary taste! Everything that repels other people, low company, poor rooms, bad air, disgusting associations invite you. But surely this old lady can postpone until tomorrow: she is not so close to her end, I suppose, but so that she can hope to see another day. How old is she? Forty?"
"No, sir, she is not thirty-one; but I don't think I can postpone my engagement because for some time it will be the only evening that will suit her and me at the same time. She goes to the warm bath morning and for the rest of the week, you know, we're engaged."
"But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?" asked Elisabeth.
"She sees nothing to blame in this," Anne replied; "on the contrary, she approves of it and generally took me when I visited Mrs. Smith."
"The Westgate buildings must have been quite surprised when a carriage pulled up near their pavement," Sir Walter noted. "Sir Henry Russell's widow has no honour in highlighting her weapons, but it is still a pretty equipage, and no doubt she is known for promoting a Miss Hightower. A widow, Mrs. Smith, who lives in Westgate Buildings! A poor widow who is barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs. Smith, an everyday Mrs. Smith, of all names in the world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Hightower and to be preferred by her to her own family connections between the nobility of England and Ireland! Mrs Smith! What a name!"
Mrs. Clay, who had been present at all this, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said a lot and would have liked to say a little to defend her friend's not very different claims, but her mind personal respect for her father prevented her from doing so. She did not answer. She left it to him to remember that Mrs. Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little livelihood and no dignified surname.
Anne kept her appointment; the others kept hers, and of course the next morning she heard that they had had a wonderful evening. She was the only one of the group who was absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been entirely in the service of their ladyhood themselves, but had even been happy to be hired by her to collect others, and had bothered to invite both Lady Russell and Mr. Hightower; and Mr. Hightower had made it her mission to leave Colonel Wallis early, and Lady Russell had freshly arranged all her evening appointments to be able to serve her. Anne had the whole story of everything such an evening had to offer, of Lady Russell. For her, it must be the greatest interest that there has been a lot of talk about it between her friend and Mr. Hightower; In it, desired, regretted, and at the same time honored that I stayed away from such a matter. Her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolmate, sick and reduced, seemed to have delighted Mr. Hightower very much. He considered her to be a most extraordinary young woman; in her temperament, her manners, her spirit a model of female excellence. He was even able to meet Lady Russell to discuss her merits; and Anne could not be given so much to understand by her friend, could not be so highly valued by a reasonable man, without many of those pleasant sensations that her friend wanted to evoke. He was even able to meet Lady Russell to discuss her merits; and Anne could not be given so much to understand by her friend, could not be so highly valued by a reasonable man, without many of those pleasant sensations that her friend wanted to evoke. He was even able to meet Lady Russell to discuss her merits; and Anne could not be given so much to understand by her friend, could not be so highly valued by a reasonable man, without many of those pleasant sensations that her friend wanted to evoke.
Lady Russell was now completely decisive in her opinion of Mr. Hightower. She was convinced of his intention to win Anne in time, as well as that he deserved it, and began to calculate the number of weeks that would free him from all the remaining shackles of widowhood and give him the freedom to do his best for forces of pleasure. She would not talk to Anne with half the certainty she felt on this subject, she would hardly dare more than hints about what could come afterwards, about a possible bond on his side, about the desirability of the alliance, provided that such a bond was given genuine and returned. Anne heard them and made no violent exclamations; she just smiled, blushed and shook her head gently.
"As you know, I am not a matchmaker," Lady Russell said, "I am all too aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations, and if you were inclined to accept it, I think there would be every possibility that you could be happy together. Everyone has to think of it as a highly suitable connection, but I think it could be a very happy one."
"Mr. Hightower is an extremely pleasant man, and I appreciate him very much in many ways," Anne said. But we shouldn't fit."
Lady Russell let this go through and said only in response: "I admit to you to be able to look at you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Hightower, to look forward and to see how you take the place of your dear mother and all follow her rights and all her popularity as well as all her virtues would be the highest possible satisfaction to me. and if I could allow myself to see you as she was, able and name and home, presiding and blessing in the same place, and superior to her only by higher appreciation!
Anne was forced to turn away, get up, go to a distant table and bend there in feigned preoccupation and try to suppress the feelings that this image aroused. For a few moments, her imagination and heart were enchanted. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; to have first revived the precious name "Lady Hightower" in himself; To be restored to Kellynch, to call it her home again, her home forever, was a spell she couldn't resist right away. Lady Russell did not say another word, ready to leave the matter to itself; and if he believed that, Mr. Hightower could have spoken for himself with decency at that moment! – she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr. Hightower speaking for himself upset Anne again. The charm of Kellynch and "Lady Hightower" all disappeared. She could never accept him. And it wasn't just that their feelings were still disgusting to every man but one; its judgment was rendered against Mr Hightower after serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case.
Although they had known each other for a month now, she couldn't be satisfied that she really knew his character. That he was a reasonable man, a pleasant man, that he spoke well, expressed good opinions, seemed to judge correctly and was a man of principles, that was all clear enough. He certainly knew what was right, nor could she commit herself to an obviously transgressed moral imperative; but still, she would have been afraid to answer for his behavior. She distrusted the past, if not the present. The names of former employees, which occasionally fell, the allusions to previous practices and occupations gave rise to a suspicion that was not favorable to what he had been. She saw that there had been bad habits; that Sunday travel had been a common thing; that there had been a time in his life (and probably not a short one) when he was at least careless in all serious matters; and although he might think quite differently now, who could stand up for the true feelings of a smart, cautious man who has grown old enough to appreciate a beautiful character? How could it ever be determined that his mind was truly cleansed?
Mr. Hightower was rational, discreet, elegant, but he was not open. There was never an outburst of emotion, no warmth of indignation or joy at the evil or good of others. For Anne, this was a decided imperfection. Their early impressions were incurable. She appreciated the open, open-hearted, zealous character more than anyone else. Warmth and enthusiasm still captivated them. She felt that she could rely much more on the sincerity of those who sometimes looked careless or hasty or said something than on those whose presence of mind never changed, whose tongues never slipped.
Mr. Hightower was generally too sociable. As different as the minds were in their father's house, they all liked him. He endured too well, stood too well with every body. He had spoken to her with a certain frankness from Mrs. Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs. Clay was up to and to despise her; and yet Mrs. Clay found him as pleasant as any human being.
Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, because she saw nothing that could arouse suspicion. She couldn't imagine a man he was supposed to be more accurately than Mr. Hightower; She also never had a sweeter feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved Anne at Kellynch Church the following fall.
Chapter 202
The Miss Hargroves have been in town for just over two months now, and Marianne's impatience to leave grew day by day. She sighed for the air, the freedom, the tranquility of the country; and imagined that if every place could give her relief, Barton had to do it. Eleanore was hardly less concerned about her distance than she was, and only so much less keen that it was carried out immediately, as she was aware of the difficulties of such a long journey that Marianne could not be made to admit. However, she began to think seriously about her execution, and had already mentioned her wishes to her friendly hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her goodwill when a plan was proposed, but which kept her from home for a few more weeks, Eleanore overall seemed much more suitable than everyone else. The Palmifers were scheduled to move to Cleveland at the end of March for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings and her two friends received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to accompany them. That alone would not have been enough for Miss Hargrove's tenderness – but it was enforced by Mr. Palmifer himself with so much real courtesy, combined with the very big change in his manners towards them, since her sister had been known to be unhappy, led her to gladly accept it.
However, when she told Marianne what she had done, her first answer was not very promising.
"Cleveland!" she shouted with great excitement. "No, I can't go to Cleveland." —
"You forget," Eleanore said gently, "that his location is not ... that it's not in the neighbourhood..."
"But it's in Somersetshire. – I can't go to Somersetshire.
Eleanore did not want to argue about whether it was appropriate to overcome such feelings; – she only tried to counteract them by working on others; – therefore presented it as a measure that would determine the timing of her return to that dear mother, whom she loved so much, to see in a more appropriate, comfortable way than any other plan could, and perhaps without much delay. From Cleveland, which was just a few miles from Bristol, the distance to Barton was no more than a day, albeit a long day trip; and the servant of their mother could easily come there to serve them downwards; and since there couldn't be an opportunity to stay in Cleveland for more than a week, they could now be home in just over three weeks. Since Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, she must triumph with little difficulty,
Mrs. Jennings was far from tired of her guests that she very seriously urged them to return with her from Cleveland. Eleanore was grateful for the attention, but she could not change her plan; and the consent of her mother, which was willingly obtained, became everything regarding her return so ?? arranged as far as possible; – and Marianne found a certain relief in drawing up a list of the hours that would separate her from Barton.
"Ah! Colonel, I don't know what you and I should do without Miss Hargrove's" – was Mrs. Jennings' address to him when he first visited her after her departure was certain – "for they are determined to go home from the Palmifers; – and how abandoned we will be when I come back! – Lord!
Perhaps Mrs. Jennings hoped to provoke him through this powerful sketch of her future boredom to this offer that could give him a way out; – and if so, she soon had good reason to believe that her goal had been won; for when Eleanore stepped up to the window to quickly take the measures of a print she wanted to copy for her friend, he followed her with a particularly meaningful look and talked to her there for a few minutes. Also the effect of his speech on the lady could not escape her observation, because although she was too honorable to listen, and even her place so that she could not hear it, had moved near the fortepiano on which Marianne was playing, she could not help but see that Eleanore changed her color, accompanied by excitement, and was too focused on what he said to pursue their occupation. - Even further to confirm her hopes, during the break in which Marianne changed from one lesson to the next, some words of the Colonel inevitably penetrated her ear, in which he seemed to be an excuse for the wickedness of his house. So the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes, without understanding a syllable, when another happy stopover in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: - Even further, to confirm her hopes, in the break, in which Marianne changed from one hour to the next, inevitably some words of the colonel penetrated her ear, in which he seemed to apologize for the wickedness of his house. So the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes, without understanding a syllable, when another happy stopover in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: - Even further, to confirm her hopes, in the break, in which Marianne changed from one hour to the next, inevitably some words of the colonel penetrated her ear, in which he seemed to apologize for the wickedness of his house. So the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable, when another happy stopover in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: as she switched from one lesson to the next, some words from the colonel inevitably penetrated her ear, in which he seemed to apologize for the wickedness of his house. So the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable, when another happy stopover in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: as she switched from one lesson to the next, some words from the colonel inevitably penetrated her ear, in which he seemed to apologize for the wickedness of his house. So the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable when another happy stopover in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable when another happy stopover in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: the matter was beyond doubt. She was actually surprised that he thought it was necessary; but suppose it's the right etiquette. What Eleanore said in response, she could not distinguish, but judged after the movement of her lips that she did not think that there was any essential objection – and Mrs. Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable when another happy stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable when another happy stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel: Jennings praised her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked for a few more minutes without understanding a syllable when another happy stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the calm voice of the colonel:
"I'm afraid it can't happen very soon."
Amazed and shocked at being as open as a speech, she was almost ready to shout, "Lord! What should stop her?" – but suppressing her desire, she limited herself to this silent ejaculation.
"This is very strange! - surely he doesn't have to wait to get older."
However, this delay on the Colonel's side did not seem to offend or shame his beautiful companion in the slightest, for when they dissolved the conference soon after and went different ways, Mrs. Jennings heard Eleanore say very clearly, and with a voice showing her what she said,
"I will always feel very committed to you."
Mrs. Jennings rejoiced in her gratitude and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel would be able to say goodbye to them, which he immediately did with extreme cold-bloodedness, and left without giving her an answer! – She had not thought that her old boyfriend could have made such an indifferent admirer.
What had really happened between them was in that direction.
"I have heard," he said with great compassion, "of the injustice done to your friend, Mr. Gastonois, by his family; because if I understand the matter correctly, he was completely rejected by them because of his perseverance in his commitment to a very meritorious young woman. – Have I been properly informed? – Is it so? –"
Eleanore told him that it was so.
it may be nonsensical to doubt; I just wish it was more valuable. — It is a rectory, but a small one; I believe the late incumbent earned no more than 200 L a year, and while it certainly could be improved, I'm afraid not so much that he could give him a very comfortable income. But as it is, my joy in presenting it to him will be very great. Please assure him."
Eleanore's astonishment at this assignment could hardly have been greater if the colonel had really offered her his hand. The favor, which she had considered hopeless for Edward just two days ago, was already planned to enable him to marry; – and she of all people was determined to lend them! Their feelings were as Mrs. Jennings had attributed a very different reason – but whatever smaller feelings, less pure, less pleasant, could participate in this emotion, their appreciation for the general benevolence and their gratitude for the special friendship that led Colonel Bridgerton together to this act, were strongly felt and warmly expressed. She thanked him from the bottom of her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with the praise she knew they deserved; and promised to take on the assignment if it were really his wish to postpone such a pleasant office to another. But at the same time, she couldn't resist the thought that no one could do it as well as he could. In short, it was an office from which, since she did not want to impose the pain of an obligation on Edward from her, she herself would have been very happy to have been spared – but Colonel Bridgerton, for equally subtle reasons, also seemed so eager to do so that it was given by her means that she would in no way continue to resist. She believed that Edward was still in town, and luckily she had heard his speech from Miss Clayhorn. She could therefore undertake to inform him of this in the course of the day. After this was clarified,
"The smallness of the house," she said, "I can't imagine any inconvenience for her, because it will be in proportion to her family and income."
Whereby the Colonel was surprised when she realized that SHE considered the marriage of Mr. Gastonois as a sure consequence of the presentation; because he didn't think it was possible that Delaford Living could provide such an income as anyone in his lifestyle would dare to commit to – and he said so.
"This little rectory CAN do no more to Mr. Gastonois than make him comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot allow him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more comprehensive an unforeseen opportunity should it have in my power to continue to serve him, I must think of him quite differently than I do now, if I am not willing to be as useful to him then as I sincerely wished, I could be now I actually do now, seems to do nothing at all, as it can bring him so little to his main goal, his only goal of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good – at least I'm afraid it won't take up space very soon.—"
That was the sentence that, when misunderstood, really hurt Mrs. Jennings' tender feelings; but according to this narrative of what really happened between Colonel Bridgerton and Eleanore while standing at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter as a farewell may in general seem no less excited and no less correctly formulated than if it had arisen from a marriage proposal.
Chapter 203
Elizabeth had been quite disappointed when she did not find a letter from Jane on her first arrival in Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed anew every morning that had been spent there; but on the third, her whining was over, and her sister justified herself by receiving two letters from her at once, one of which noted that they had been missed elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised by this, as Jane had written the direction remarkably poorly.
They had just prepared their way when the letters arrived; and her uncle and aunt, who let her enjoy in peace, set off alone. The one missed must first be considered; it was written five days ago. The beginning included a report on all their small parties and appointments with such news as the country offered; but the second half, dated a day later and written in obvious excitement, gave more important insights. It was in this sense:
"Since I wrote the above, dearest Lizzy, something of a highly unexpected and serious nature has happened; but I'm afraid you're worried – rest assured that we're all doing well. What I have to say relates to poor Linda. Last night, when we had all gone to bed, at twelve o'clock an express from Colonel Forster came to inform us that she had left for Scotland with one of his officers; to possess the truth with Waterhouse! Imagine our surprise. However, kitty doesn't find it so unexpected. I am very sorry. So careless a match on both sides! But I'm willing to hope for the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Reckless and indiscreet, I can easily believe him, but this step (and let's rejoice in it) is nothing evil at heart. His choice is at least altruistic, because he must know that my father cannot give her anything. Our poor mother is sad. My father tolerates it better. How grateful I am that we never let them know what was said against him; we have to forget it ourselves. They had, as is suspected, Saturday evening around twelve off, but were only missing yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed us within ten miles. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Linda left a few lines for his wife to inform her of her intention. I have to close because I can't be long away from my poor mother. I'm afraid you won't be able to understand it, but I hardly know what I wrote.' as I suspected, but were only missed yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed us within ten miles. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Linda left a few lines for his wife to inform her of her intention. I have to close because I can't be long away from my poor mother. I'm afraid you won't be able to understand it, but I hardly know what I wrote.' as I suspected, but were only missed yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed us within ten miles. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Linda left a few lines for his wife to inform her of her intention. I have to close because I can't be long away from my poor mother. I'm afraid you won't be able to understand it, but I hardly know what I wrote.'
Without giving herself time to think and hardly knowing what she felt, Elizabeth, after finishing this letter, immediately grabbed the other and opened it with extreme impatience and read as follows: It had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
"In the meantime, my dearest sister, you have received my urgent letter; I wish this was more understandable, but although I'm not limited in time, my head is so confused that I can't answer whether it's coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and they can't be postponed. As careless as the marriage between Mr. Waterhouse and our poor Linda may have been, we now want to be sure that it took place, because there are too many reasons to fear that they did not go to Scotland. Colonel Forster arrived yesterday, after leaving Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Although Linda's short letter to Mrs. F. made them understand that they would go to Gretna Green, Denny dropped something expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there or marry Linda at all. which was repeated by Colonel F., who, immediately alerted, set off from B. to follow her route. He pursued her easily to Clapham, but no further; for when they entered this place, they got into a carriage and released the carriage that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after that is that they were seen continuing along London Street. I don't know what to think. After colonel F. had done all the conceivable research on this side of London, he came to Hertfordshire and anxiously renewed it at all the barriers and in the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without success - such people had not yet been seen in transit. With the kindest concern, he came to Longbourn and shared his fears with us in a way that is most due to his heart. I am sincerely saddened by him and Mrs. F., but no one can blame them. Our need, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I can't think so badly of him. Many circumstances could make it more suitable for them to marry privately in the city than to pursue their first plan; and even if He could form such a plan against a young woman with Linda's connections, which is unlikely, can I assume that she is so lost in everything? Impossible! Unfortunately, however, I have to say that Colonel F. is not willing to rely on their marriage; he shook his head as I expressed my hopes and said he feared W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really sick and keeps her room. If she could make an effort, it would be better; but that is not to be expected. And as for my father, I've never seen him so affected in my life. Poor Kitty is angry because she has concealed her bond; but since it was a matter of trust, one can not be surprised. I'm really glad, dearest Lizzy, that you've been spared some of these embarrassing scenes; but now that the first shock is over, shall I confess that I long for your return? However, I'm not so selfish as to push for it when it's uncomfortable. Adieu! I'm going back to my pen to do what I just told you, that I wouldn't do it; but the circumstances are such that I can't help but seriously ask all of you to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well that I am not afraid to ask for it, although I have something more to ask for from the former. My father immediately goes to London with Colonel Forster to try to discover them. I certainly don't know what he's up to; but his excessive distress does not allow him to pursue any action in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster must be back in Brighton tomorrow night. My uncle's advice and help would be everything in the world in this and that need; he will immediately understand what I need to feel, and I will rely on his goodness.'
'Oh! where, where is my uncle?' Elizabeth cried and shot from her seat as she finished the letter, eager to follow him without losing a moment of such precious time; but when she reached the door, it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Drury appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him drive him together, and before he could get himself to speak again, she, in whose thoughts any idea of Linda's situation was suppressed, hastily exclaimed: "I beg your pardon, but I have to leave you. I have to find Mr. Lockhart at this moment, in a matter that cannot be postponed; I don't have a moment to lose."
'Good God! what's going on?' he shouted with more emotion than politeness; then he remembered, "I will not stop you for a minute; but leave me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart. They are not doing well enough; you can't go yourself.'
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little she would gain if she tried to pursue her. Therefore, she called the servant back and commissioned him, albeit in such a breathless accent that made her almost incomprehensible, to immediately bring his master and mistress home.
When he left the room, she sat down, unable to support herself, and looked so pathetically ill that it was impossible for Drury to leave her or abstain, in a tone of gentleness and compassion to say, "Let me call your maid." Is there nothing you can take to get relief right now? A glass of wine; Should I get you one? You are very sick."
"No, thank you," she replied, trying to gather herself." There's nothing going on with me. I'm doing quite well; I'm just worried about some terrible news I just received from Longbourn.'
She burst into tears as she alluded to it and couldn't say a word for a few minutes. Drury, in abject tension, could only say vaguely about his concern and watch it in compassionate silence. Finally she spoke again. "I just received a letter from Jane with such terrible news. It cannot be hidden from anyone. My younger sister left all her friends – burned out; has thrown itself into the power of – from Mr. Waterhouse. They left Brighton together. YOU know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no relationships, nothing to tempt him to do so – she's lost forever."
Drury was fixed in amazement. "Considering," she added in an even more excited voice, "that I could have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. If I had explained only a part of it – a part of what I learned, my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But now it's all too late."
"I'm really saddened," Drury exclaimed. saddened – shocked. But is it safe – absolutely safe?'
'Oh yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday evening and were followed almost to London, but no further; They certainly didn't go to Scotland.'
'And what has been done, what has been tried to regain them?'
"My father went to London, and Jane wrote to ask my uncle for immediate help; and we will hopefully leave in half an hour. But nothing can be done – I know very well that nothing can be done. How to work on such a man? How can they be discovered in the first place? I don't have the slightest hope. It's terrible in every way!'
Drury shook his head in silent approval.
"When MY eyes were opened to his true character – Oh! If I had known what I should do, what I dared to do! But I didn't know – I was afraid of doing too much. Pathetic, pathetic mistake!'
Drury did not answer. He hardly seemed to hear her and walked up and down the room in serious meditation, his brows contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon noticed it and understood it immediately. Their strength decreased; everything MUST sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of deepest shame. She could neither wonder nor condemn herself, but the belief in his self-overcoming brought her no comfort in her bosom, did not grant her relief of her distress. On the contrary, it was calculated precisely to make her understand her own desires; and never had she felt so honestly that she could have loved him as now, when all love must be in vain.
But the self, although intrusive, she could not claim. Linda – the humiliation, the misery she brought upon them all, soon devoured every private worry; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and after a break of several minutes, she was given a sense of her situation only through the voice of her companion, who, in a way that expressed compassion but also restraint, said: "I am afraid you were I have long wished for my absence, nor do I have anything to apologize for my stay, but real, albeit a futile concern. Would you like to be told or done to heaven anything from my side that comforts such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes that may intentionally ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I'm afraid,
'Oh yes. Be kind enough to apologize to Miss Drury for us. Tell us that urgent business will call us home immediately. Hide the unfortunate truth as long as you can, I know it can't take long.'
He willingly assured her of his secrecy; again he expressed his regret for her plight, wished her a happier conclusion than there was now reason to hope, and with a serious farewell look he left his compliments for her relatives and disappeared.
As he calmed the room, Elizabeth felt how unlikely it was that they would ever see each other as warmly again as it had shaped their numerous encounters in Derbyshire; and when she took a retrospective look at the whole so contradictory and diverse acquaintance, she sighed at the perversity of those feelings that would now have fostered their continuation and previously enjoyed their end.
If gratitude and appreciation are good foundations for affection, Elisabeth's change of mood will be neither unlikely nor wrong. But if different – if the observation from such sources is inappropriate or unnatural, compared to what is so often described as springing from a first conversation with his object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defense, apart from the fact that she had put the latter method to the test a little in her preference for Waterhouse and that her bad success might empower her, to look for the other, less interesting way of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him leave with regret; and in this early example of what must produce Linda's shame, she found additional anxiety as she thought about this pathetic business. Never since I read Jane's second letter had she had any hope of Waterhouse's intention to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of their feelings during this development. While she remembered the contents of the first letter, she was quite surprised – quite amazed that Waterhouse was supposed to marry a girl whom he could not possibly marry for money; and how Linda could ever have bound him had seemed incomprehensible to him. But now everything was too natural. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey. could flatter himself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of their feelings during this development. While she remembered the contents of the first letter, she was quite surprised – quite amazed that Waterhouse was supposed to marry a girl whom he could not possibly marry for money; and how Linda could ever have bound him had seemed incomprehensible to him. But now everything was too natural. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey. could flatter himself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of their feelings during this development. While she remembered the contents of the first letter, she was quite surprised – quite amazed that Waterhouse was supposed to marry a girl whom he could not possibly marry for money; and how Linda could ever have bound him had seemed incomprehensible to him. But now everything was too natural. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey. While she remembered the contents of the first letter, she was quite surprised – quite amazed that Waterhouse was supposed to marry a girl whom he could not possibly marry for money; and how Linda could ever have bound him had seemed incomprehensible to him. But now everything was too natural. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey. While she remembered the contents of the first letter, she was quite surprised – quite amazed that Waterhouse was supposed to marry a girl whom he could not possibly marry for money; and how Linda could ever have bound him had seemed incomprehensible to him. But now everything was too natural. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey. For such attachment, it may have enough charms; and although she did not assume that Linda intentionally went on an escape without the intention of marrying, she had no difficulty believing that neither her virtue nor her mind would save her from becoming easy prey.
While the regiment was in Hertfordshire, she had never noticed that Linda had any fondness for him; but she was convinced that Linda just wanted an encouragement to commit to anyone. Sometimes she preferred one officer, sometimes the other, because she felt she was attracting attention. Their affection had been constantly wavering, but never without an object. The nonsense of neglect and erroneous forbearance towards such a girl – oh! how strong she felt it now!
She was eager to be at home – to hear, to see, to be in place to share with Jane the worries that must now fall entirely on her, in such a disturbed family, an absent father, a mother who is unable to make any effort, and requires constant presence; and although almost convinced that nothing could be done for Linda, her uncle's interference seemed of utmost importance, and until he entered the room, her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart had rushed back frightened because, according to the servant's account, they suspected that their niece had suddenly fallen ill; but she immediately satisfied them and eagerly informed them of the reason for their summons, read the two letters aloud, and lingered with trembling energy at the transcription of the last one, although Linda had never been particularly popular with them, Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart couldn't help but be deeply affected. Not only Linda, but everyone was involved; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Lockhart promised every support in his power. Elizabeth, although she expected no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and since all three were driven by one spirit, everything concerning their journey was quickly done. You should leave as soon as possible. "But what to do with Pemberley?" cried Ms. Lockhart. "John told us that Drury-san was here when you sent to us; was it like that?' You should leave as soon as possible. "But what to do with Pemberley?" cried Ms. Lockhart. "John told us that Drury-san was here when you sent to us; was it like that?' You should leave as soon as possible. "But what to do with Pemberley?" cried Ms. Lockhart. "John told us that Drury-san was here when you sent to us; was it like that?'
'Yes; and I told him that we couldn't keep our engagement. THAT's all cleared up.'
'What's settled?' the other repeated as she ran into her room to prepare. "And are they obliged on such terms that they reveal the real truth? Oh, that I knew what it was like!'
But wishes were in vain or could at least only amuse them in the hurry and confusion of the next hour. Had Elizabeth had had time to be idle, she would have remained sure that all employment was impossible for someone as miserable as she is; but she had her share of the business as well as her aunt, and among other things, there were notes to be written to all her friends in Lambton, with false excuses for her sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole thing completed; and Mr. Lockhart, who had meanwhile paid his bill at the inn, had no choice but to leave; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself in the carriage and on the way to Longbourn in less time than she could have assumed.
Chapter 204
Mr Dorset, the next subject of Mr Thomas was that he should be missed; and he had great hope that his niece would find a gap in the loss of those attentions that she had felt or imagined at the time as an evil. It had tasted like consistency in its most flattering form; and he really hoped that the loss, the re-sinking into nothingness, would awaken very soothing regret in her mind. He observed them with this idea; but he could hardly say with which ?? Success. He hardly knew if there was a difference in their mood or not. She was always so gentle and reserved that her feelings were beyond his discernment. He did not understand them: he felt that he did not; and therefore turned to Edmund to tell him how she was affected on the present occasion and whether she was more or less happy than she had been.
Edmund did not notice any signs of regret and considered his father a little unreasonable in the assumption that the first three or four days could produce such.
What surprised Edmund the most was that Dorset's sister, the friend and companion who gave her so ?? That is why we have tabled a motion for a resolution calling on the Commission and the Council to take the necessary steps to ensure that the European Parliament is fully involved in He was surprised that Esther spoke of her so rarely and voluntarily had so little to say about her concern about this separation.
Oh! it was this sister, this friend and companion, who was now the greatest curse of Esther's consolation. If she had believed that Mary's future fate would be as independent of Mansfield as her brother's, she could have hoped that her return there would be as distant as he thought she was very inclined, she would indeed have been light-hearted; but the more she remembered and observed, the deeper she was convinced that now everything was on a nicer train for Miss Dorset's marriage to Edmund than ever before. On his side the inclination was stronger, on hers less ambiguous. His objections, the scruples of his integrity all seemed to have been eliminated, no one could say how; and the doubts and hesitations of their ambition were also overcome – and also for no apparent reason. It could only be attributed to increasing attachment. His good and bad feelings gave way to love, and such love must unite them. He was to go to town as soon as some deals regarding Thornton Lacey had been completed – perhaps within fourteen days; he spoke of leaving, he loved to talk about it; and when she was back with her, Esther couldn't doubt the rest. Their acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet bad feelings that made the prospect of it most distressing for her still remained independent, she believed, independent of herself. Esther could not doubt the rest. Their acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet bad feelings that made the prospect of it most distressing for her still remained independent, she believed, independent of herself. Esther could not doubt the rest. Their acceptance must be as certain as his offer; and yet bad feelings that made the prospect of it most distressing for her still remained independent, she believed, independent of herself.
At their very last conversation, Miss Dorset had still been Miss Dorset despite some kind feelings and many personal kindnesses; still showed a spirit that was misled and confused, and without any suspicion that it was so; darkened, but slightly imagining itself. She may have loved, but she didn't deserve Edmund by any other feeling. Esther believed that there was hardly a second common feeling between them; and older wise may forgive her for seeing the chance of Miss Dorset's future improvement as almost desperate, that she thought that if Edmund's influence in this time of love had already done so little to clarify her judgment and regulate her ideas, his value would be finally wasted on her even in years of marriage.
The experience could have hoped for more for any young person in such circumstances, and impartiality would not have denied Miss Dorset's nature participation in the general nature of women, which would lead her to accept the opinions of the man she loved and respected as her own. But such were Esther's beliefs, she suffered greatly from it and could never speak of Miss Dorset without pain.
Sir Thomas, meanwhile, continued with his own hopes and observations, and with all his knowledge of human nature, still felt entitled to expect the effects of the loss of power and the consequences on his niece's mood and the attentions of the lover that provoke a desire for her return; and that he had not yet seen all this completely and unquestionably, he was soon able to explain himself by the prospect of another visitor, whose approach he could allow quite enough to support the spirits he observed. William had been given a ten-day holiday to Northamptonshire and came, the happiest of all lieutenants, because the last one had managed to show his joy and describe his uniform.
He came; and he would have liked to show his uniform there as well, if cruel custom had not forbidden its appearance out of service. So the uniform remained in Portsmouth, and Edmund suspected that before Esther had even the slightest chance of seeing it, all her own freshness and all the freshness of her wearer's feelings had to be worn off. It would sink into a badge of shame; for what can be more indecent or worthless than the uniform of a lieutenant who has been a lieutenant for a year or two and sees others before him become commanders? So Edmund argued until his father made him a confidant of a plan that would cast Esther's chance of seeing the second lieutenant of HMS Thrush in all its glory in a different light.
This plan was for her to accompany her brother back to Portsmouth and spend some time with her own family. It had come to Sir Thomas in one of his dignified reflections as a correct and desirable measure; but before he finally decided, he questioned his son. Edmund looked at it in every way and saw nothing but the right thing. The thing was good in itself and could not be done at a better time; and he had no doubt that Esther was very pleasant. That was enough to determine Sir Thomas; and a decisive "then it should be so" completed this phase of the business; Sir Thomas withdrew from it with some feelings of satisfaction and views of goodness that went beyond what he had communicated to his son; because his main motive of sending her away had very little to do with whether it was decent for her to see her parents again, and nothing at all with the idea of making them happy. He certainly wished that she would leave willingly, but he also certainly wished that she had had enough of her homeland before her visit ended; and that a small abstinence from the elegance and luxury of Mansfield Park would bring her mind to a sober state and she would tend to make a fairer assessment of the value of this home of greater durability and the same comfort she was offered.
It was a medical project according to the understanding of his niece, whom he must consider currently ill. An eight- or nine-year stay in the homeland of wealth and abundance had confused their power of comparison and judgment a little. Her father's house would in all likelihood teach her the value of a good income; and he trusted that for the experiment he had come up with, she would be the smarter and happier woman all her life.
Had Esther been addicted to raptures at all, she would have had a strong seizure of it when she first realized what was meant when her uncle first offered her the opportunity to visit the parents and brothers and sisters from whom she came almost half her life; return to the scenes of her childhood for a few months, with William as the protector and companion of her journey, and the certainty of seeing William until the last hour of his whereabouts on land. If she had ever given in to outbursts of joy, it must have been then, for she was delighted, but her happiness was of a silent, deep, heartwarming nature; and although she was never a great orator, she was always more inclined to remain silent when she felt strongest. At the moment, she could only thank and accept. After that, when she became familiar with the visions of pleasure that opened up so suddenly, she was able to talk in more detail with William and Edmund about what she felt; but nevertheless there were feelings of tenderness that could not be put into words. The memory of all her earliest pleasures and of what she had suffered when she was torn by them came over her with new strength, and it seemed as if returning home would heal any pain that had grown out of the separation since then. To be in the middle of such a circle, loved by so many and loved by all more than ever before; feel affection without fear or restraint; to feel equal to those who surrounded them; To have peace before every mention of the Dorsets, safe from any look that might seem like reproach to them.
Also Edmund – to be two months away from him (and maybe she can extend her absence to three months) must do her good. From a distance, unchallenged by his appearance or kindness, and safe from the constant annoyance of knowing his heart and the pursuit of avoiding his trust, she should be able to put herself in a better condition; she should be able to imagine how he was in London and arranged everything there, without misery. What was perhaps difficult to bear in Mansfield was to become a minor evil in Portsmouth.
The only downside was the doubt whether her aunt Schmidt felt comfortable without her. It was of no use to anyone; but there she could be missed to a degree she would not like to think of; and this part of the arrangement was indeed the most difficult for Sir Thomas to accomplish, and what only he could have accomplished.
But he was a master at Mansfield Park. If he had really decided to take a measure, he could still carry it out; and now, by talking long about the subject, explaining and dwelling on Esther's duty to see her family sometimes, he made his wife let her go; However, he obtained it out of submission rather than conviction, for Lady Schmidt was convinced of very little more than that Sir Thomas believed that Esther should go and that she therefore had to leave. In the tranquility of her own dressing room, in the unbiased flow of her own meditations, unaffected by his confusing statements, she could see no need for Esther ever to go near a father and mother who had been without her for so long and was useful to herself. And what she does not miss, the one under Mrs. Norris'
Sir Thomas had appealed to her reason, her conscience and her dignity. He called it a sacrifice and demanded it of their kindness and self-control as such. But Mrs. Norris wanted to convince her that Esther could be spared very well – she was willing to devote all her time to her as required – and in short, she could not really be wanted or missed.
"That may be, sister," was Lady Schmidt's only answer. "I dare say that you are very right; but I'm sure I'll miss her very much."
The next step was to communicate with Portsmouth. Esther wrote to offer herself; and her mother's response, though short, was so kind – a few simple lines expressed such a natural and maternal joy in the prospect of seeing her child again to confirm all the daughter's views on the happiness of being with her – to convince her that she should now be in the "mommy", who had certainly not shown her remarkable affection in the past, find a warm and loving friend; but she could easily assume that this was her own fault or imagination. She had probably alienated love through the helplessness and despondency of an anxious temperament, or was unreasonable to want a greater share than any of so many could earn. Now that she knew better how to be useful and how to refrain from doing so,
William was almost as happy with the plan as his sister. It would be his greatest pleasure to have them there until the last moment before departure and maybe still find them there when he came back from his first cruise. He also wanted to show her the Thrush before she left the port – the Thrush was certainly the best sloop on duty – and there were also some improvements in the shipyard that he really wanted to show her.
He added without scruples that it would be a great benefit for everyone if she were at home for a while.
"I don't know what it's like," he said; "But we seem to want something of your nice way and order from my father. The house is always in confusion. They will get things going better, I'm sure. You will tell my mother how everything should be, and you will be so useful to Susan, and you will teach Betsey and make sure that the boys love you and take care of you. How right and convenient it will all be!"
When Mrs Price's reply arrived, there were very few days left to spend in Mansfield; and some of those days the young travelers were quite worried about their trip, because when the way of the trip came up, Mrs. Norris realized that all her concern wanted to save her brother, the mother-in-law's money was in vain, and that despite her wishes and hints of a cheaper transportation of Esther they should travel by mail; when she saw Sir Thomas actually giving william banknotes for this purpose, it occurred to her that there was still room in the carriage for a third, and suddenly she overcame a strong inclination to go with them to visit her poor dear sister. She proclaimed her thoughts. She must say that more than half of her thought of going with the young people; it would be such leniency for them; she hadn't seen her poor dear sister Price in over twenty years; and it would help the young people on their journey if their older head were to act for them; and she couldn't help but think that her poor dear sister Price would find it very unkind of her not to take advantage of such an opportunity.
William and Esther were horrified by the idea.
All the comfort of their comfortable journey would be immediately destroyed. With sad faces, they looked at each other. Their tension lasted an hour or two. No one interfered to encourage or dissuade. Mrs. Norris had to settle the matter on her own; and it ended, to the infinite delight of her nephew and niece, with the memory that she could not possibly be spared from Mansfield Park at present; that she was far too necessary for Sir Thomas and Lady Schmidt to be responsible for leaving them even for a week, and therefore certainly had to sacrifice every other pleasure to be useful to them.
It had actually occurred to her that although she was brought to Portsmouth for free, she could hardly avoid repaying her own expenses. So her poor, dear sister Price was left to all the disappointment that she missed such an opportunity, and perhaps another twenty-year absence began.
Edmund's plans were affected by this trip to Portsmouth, this absence of Esthers. He also had to make a sacrifice to Mansfield Park as well as to his aunt. He had planned to go to London for this time; but he could not leave his father and mother just when all the others who were most important to their well-being left them; and with an effort he felt but did not boast, he delayed a trip he was looking forward to by a week or two longer, hoping that it would solidify his happiness forever.
He told Esther about it. She already knew so much that she had to know everything. It formed the content of another confidential discourse about Miss Dorset; and Esther was all the more saddened when she felt that Miss Dorset's name would be mentioned between them for the last time with a remnant of freedom. Once later, she was alluded to by him. Lady Schmidt had told her niece in the evening to write to her soon and often, and promised to be a good correspondent herself; and Edmund added in a fitting moment, whispering, "And I will write to you, Esther, if I have something to write that is worth saying something that I think you'll love to hear and that you won't hear from any other side anytime soon." Had she doubted his meaning while listening, the glow in his face when she looked up to him,
For this letter she must try to prepare herself. That a letter from Edmund should be a subject of terror! She began to feel that she had not yet undergone all the changes in opinion and feeling that the progress of time and the change of circumstances cause in this world of change. The vicissitudes of the human mind were not yet exhausted by her.
Poor Esther! although she walked willingly and eagerly as she did, the last evening at Mansfield Park must still be a misery. Her heart was completely sad when she said goodbye. She had tears for every room in the house, much more so for every beloved resident. She clung to her aunt because she would miss her; she kissed her uncle's hand with fighting sobs because she had disliked him; and as for Edmund, she could neither speak, nor look, nor think when the last moment came with him; and it wasn't until it was over that she knew he was giving her the loving farewell of a brother.
All this went overnight, because the journey was to start very early in the morning; and when the small, smaller group met for breakfast, William and Esther were told that they were already one step ahead.
Chapter 205
They had a very nice day for Box Hill; and all other external circumstances of the décor, accommodation and punctuality spoke for a pleasant company. Mr. Winstone led the whole thing, officiating safely between Hartfield and the rectory, and every body was on time. Emma and Harriet went together; Miss Bates and her niece with the Alton; the gentlemen on horseback. Mrs. Winstone stayed with Mr. Lodge. Nothing was missing but to be happy when they got there. Seven miles were covered in anticipation of pleasure, and everyone had a hint of admiration on the first arrival; but in the general amount of the day was lack. There was a dullness, a lack of spirit, a lack of union that could not be overcome. They divided too much into parties. The Altons went together; Mr. Hill took over Miss Bates and Jane; and Emma and Harriet belonged to Frank Curcelle. And Mr. Winstone tried in vain to make these harmonies better. It seemed like a random division at first, but it never changed significantly. Mr. and Mrs. Alton actually showed no reluctance to mingle and be as pleasant as possible; but throughout the two hours spent on the hill, a principle of separation between the other parties seemed too strong to be eliminated by good prospects, a cold vote, or a cheerful Mr. Winstone.
In the beginning it was a real dullness for Emma. She had never seen Frank Curcelle so quiet and stupid. He said nothing worth hearing – looked without seeing – admired without reason – listened without knowing what she was saying. While he was so boring, it was no wonder Harriet was supposed to be just as boring; and they were both unbearable.
When they all sat down, it was better; their taste much better, because Frank Curcelle became talkative and cheerful and made her his first object. Every special attention that could be given to her was given to her. Amusing her and being pleasant in her eyes seemed to be everything he cared about – and Emma, ?? who was glad to be revived, did not regret being flattered, was also cheerful and easy-going, and gave him all the kind encouragement, the admission of being gallant, that she had ever given in the first and most animated period of her acquaintance; but that now, in their own estimation, meant nothing, although, according to the judgment of most people who looked at it, it must have had such an appearance that no English word but flirt could describe very well. "Sir. Frank Curcelle and Miss Lodge flirted excessively with each other. " They opened up to this very sentence – and to having it sent by one lady in a letter to Maple Grove and by another to Ireland. Not that Emma was gay and thoughtless of real happiness; it was more because she felt less happy than she expected. She laughed because she was disappointed; and although she liked him because of his attention and found them all, whether in friendship, admiration or playfulness, extremely reasonable, they did not win back their hearts. She had still destined it for her friend. Admiration or playfulness, extremely reasonable, they did not win back their hearts. She had still destined it for her friend. Admiration or playfulness, extremely reasonable, they did not win back their hearts. She had still destined it for her friend.
"How connected I am to you," he said, "that you told me to come today! I was determined to leave."
"Yes, you were very evil; and I don't know what about except that you were too late for the best strawberries. I was a friendlier friend than you deserve. But you were humble. You asked hard to be allowed to come."
"Don't say I'm evil. I was tired. The heat overwhelmed me."
"It's hotter today."
"Not according to my feelings. I feel completely comfortable today."
"You feel comfortable because you are under command."
"Your command? – Yes."
"Maybe I wanted you to say that, but I meant self-control. You somehow crossed boundaries yesterday and ran away from your own administration; but today you came back – and since I can't always be with you, it's best to believe your temperament more than mine."
"It boils down to the same thing. Without a motive, I cannot have self-control. You tell me whether you speak or not. And you can always be with me. You are always with me."
"Yesterday from three o'clock. My eternal influence couldn't have started earlier, otherwise you wouldn't have been so upset before."
"Yesterday at three o'clock! This is your date. I thought I had seen you for the first time in February."
"Your gallantry is truly undeniable. But (lowers the voice) – no one speaks but ourselves, and it's too much to talk nonsense to entertain seven silent people."
"I don't say anything I'm ashamed of," he replied with lively impudence. "I saw you for the first time in February. Let me hear everyone on the hill if they can. Let my accent swell to Mickleham on one side and Dorking on the other. I saw you for the first time in February." And then whispers, "Our companions are overly stupid. What should we do to shake them up? Any nonsense will serve. They should speak. Ladies and gentlemen, I was ordered by Miss Lodge (who chairs wherever she is) to say that she wants to know what you are all thinking about?"
Some laughed and replied in a good mood. Miss Bates said a lot; Mrs Alton swelled on the idea of chairing Miss Hütte; Mr. Hill's answer was the clearest.
"Is Miss Lodge sure she'd like to hear what we're all thinking about?"
"Oh! no, no," Emma shouted, laughing as carelessly as she could, "definitely not in the world. It's the very last thing I would endure at the moment of the main burden. Let me hear something rather than what you all think about. I don't want to say everything. There may be one or two (with a look at Mr. Winstone and Harriet) whose thoughts I may not be afraid to know."
"That's one thing," Mrs. Alton exclaimed emphatically, "that I shouldn't have asked myself about in a privileged way. Although perhaps as the lady of decency of the party – I was never in any circle – I explored parties – young ladies – married women – «
Her murmur was mainly for her husband; and he murmured in response,
"Very true, my love, very true. Just like that, in fact – quite outrageous – but some ladies say something. Give it better than joke. Everyone knows what you are entitled to."
"It's not possible," Frank whispered to Emma; "Most of them are offended. I will attack them with more address. Ladies and gentlemen – I was ordered by Miss Lodge to say that she is renouncing her right to know exactly what you are all thinking of and only asking for something very entertaining from each of you, in general. Here are seven of you, except me (which, as she likes to say, are already very entertaining), and she just asks each of you either one very clever thing, be it prose or verse, original or repeated - or two things reasonably clever - or three things really very boring, and she commits to laughing heartily at them all."
"Oh! very good," exclaimed Miss Bates, "then I don't need to be restless." Three things are indeed very boring." That will be enough for me, you know. I'm bound to say three stupid things as soon as I open my mouth, right? (looks around with the very best mood and depends on everyone's approval) – Don't you all think I'll do it?"
Emma couldn't resist.
"Ah! Ma'am, but there could be a problem. Forgive – but your number will be limited – only three at a time."
Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her behavior, did not immediately understand what she meant; but when it attacked her, it could not annoy, although a slight blush showed that it could hurt her.
"Ah! – well – to be sure. Yes, I understand what she means (turned to Mr. Hill), and I will try to keep my mouth shut. I have to make myself very uncomfortable, otherwise she wouldn't have said something like that to an old friend."
"I like your plan," shouted Mr. Winstone. "Agreed, agreed. I will do my best. I'm making myself a mystery. How will a puzzle calculate?"
"Low, I'm afraid, sir, very low," his son replied, "but we will be lenient—especially to anyone who leads the way."
"No, no," Emma said, ??" it will not be small. A riddle from Mr. Winstone is supposed to clarify him and his nearest neighbor. Come, sir, please let me hear."
"I doubt it's very smart itself," Mr. Winstone said. "It's too much of a fact, but here it is. What two letters of the alphabet are there that express perfection?"
"What two letters! – express perfection! I'm sure I don't know."
"Ah! You'll never guess. You, (to Emma), I'm sure you'll never guess. – I will tell you. – M. and A. – Em-ma. – Do you understand?"
Understanding and satisfaction came together. It may have been a very indifferent joke, but Emma found a lot to laugh about and enjoy – as did Frank and Harriet. – It didn't seem to touch the rest of society equally; some looked very stupid, and Mr. Hill said seriously
,
"That explains the kind of clever stuff you need, and Mr. Winstone did very well; but he must have impregnated every other body. Perfection should not have come so quickly."
"Oh! for myself, I protest that I need to be excused," Mrs. Alton said; "I really can't try – I don't like things like that at all. I was once sent an acrostichon in my own name, which I didn't like at all. I knew who it came from. A hideous pooch! – You know who I mean (nods to her husband). Such things are very good at Christmas when sitting around the fire; but in my opinion quite out of place when exploring the country in the summer. Miss Lodge must apologize. I am not one of those who have funny things at the service of everyone. I'm not claiming to be a joker. I have a great liveliness in my own way, but I really need to be allowed to judge when to speak and when to keep my mouth shut. Please tell us, Mr. Curcelle. Hand over Mr. E., Hill, Jane and me.
"Yes, yes, please walk past me," her husband added with a kind of sneering consciousness; "I have nothing to say that could entertain Miss Lodge or any other young lady. An old married man – for free. Shall we go, Augusta?"
"With all my heart. I'm really tired of exploring in one place for so long. Come, Jane, take my other arm."
However, Jane refused, and the husband and wife walked away. "Happy couple!" said Frank Curcelle as soon as they were out of earshot: – "How well they fit together! – Very happy – to have married like this, with an acquaintance that was only closed in a public place! – They only knew each other, I think, for a few weeks in Bath! Special luck! – for what Bath or any public place can give in terms of real knowledge about a person's disposition – none of this is anything; there can be no knowledge. Only when you see women in their own homes, under their own family, as they always are, can you form a just judgment. Apart from that, everything is conjecture and luck – and will generally be bad luck. Like many a man, he embarked on a brief acquaintance and regretted it for the rest of his life!"
Miss Saxon, who had rarely spoken before, except among her own allies, was now speaking.
"Such things undoubtedly happen." – She was stopped by a cough. Frank Curcelle turned to her to listen.
"You have spoken," he said seriously. She has regained her voice.
"I just wanted to note that while such unfortunate circumstances sometimes occur in both men and women, I can't imagine that they are very common. A premature and careless attachment can arise – but in general, there is time to recover from it afterwards. I would understand that it can only be weak, indecisive characters (whose happiness must always be left to chance) who will endure an unfortunate acquaintance as inconvenience, as oppression forever."
He did not answer; looked only and bowed in submission; and soon said in a lively tone
,
"Well, I have so little confidence in my own judgment that I hope someone will choose my wife for me when I get married. Will you? [Turns to Emma.) Do you want to choose a woman for me? — I'm sure I'd like any body you fix. You take care of the family, you know (with a smile on his father). Find a body for me. I'm in no hurry. Adopt them, educate them."
"And make them like myself."
"Definitely, if you can."
"Very good. I take over the assignment. Thou shalt have a charming wife."
"She must be very lively and have hazel eyes. For me, it's about nothing else. I will go abroad for a few years – and when I come back, I will come to you for my wife. Remember."
Emma was not in danger of forgetting it. It was a mission to touch every favorite feeling. Wouldn't Harriet be exactly the creature described? Aside from the hazel eyes, maybe two more years would make her anything he wanted. He might even think of Harriet right now; who could say that? The reference to education seemed to imply this.
"Well, Ma'am," Jane said to her aunt, "shall we join Mrs. Alton?"
"Please, my dear. With all my heart. I'm pretty much done. I was willing to go with her, but that will go just as well. We will catch up with them soon. There it is – no, that's someone else. This is one of the ladies at the Irish car party, not at all like her. – Well, I explain – "
They walked away, followed by Mr. Hill in half a minute. Only Mr. Winstone, his son Emma and Harriet remained; and the mood of the young man now rose to an almost unpleasant tone. Even Emma finally got tired of flattery and cheerfulness and wished to walk quietly with one of the others or to sit almost alone and completely unsupervised and watch the beautiful view under her in peace. The appearance of the servants looking for them to announce the chariots was a joyful sight; and even the hustle and bustle of collecting and leaving and Mrs. Alton's request to have her carriage first were gladly endured in the prospect of the quiet ride home that would end the very questionable pleasures of that enjoyable day. Such a different scheme, composed of so many poorly sorted people,
while waiting for the carriage, she found Mr. Hill at her side. He looked around as if he wanted to see that no one was around, and then
said,
"Emma, ?? I have to speak to you again as I am used to: a privilege that may be more bearable than allowed, but I still have to use it. I cannot see you behaving wrongly without objections. How could you be so insensitive to Miss Bates? How could you be so outrageous in your wit towards a woman of her character, age and situation? – Emma, ?? I wouldn't have thought that possible."
Emma remembered, blushed, felt sorry, but tried to laugh about it.
"No, how could I have avoided saying what I did? – No one could have prevented it. It wasn't that bad. I dare say she didn't understand me."
"I assure you that she did. She felt your full meaning. Since then, she has talked about it. I wish you could have heard her talk about it – with what openness and generosity. I wish you could have heard her appreciate your forbearance by giving her the attention she always received from you and your father when her company must be so annoying."
"Oh!" cried Emma, ??" I know that there is no better creature in the world: but you must allow the good and the ridiculous to be mixed in it most unhappily."
"They are mixed," he said, "I confirm; and if she were wealthy, I could allow much for the occasional ridiculous to outweigh the good. If she were a happy woman, I would give free rein to any harmless absurdity, I would not argue with you about any manners. Would she be your equal in the situation – but, Emma, ?? consider how far this is not yet the case. She is poor; she has fallen from the comforts to which she was born; and as it gets old, it will probably have to sink even more. Your situation should secure your compassion. It was really badly done! She, whom she knew from childhood, who saw her grow up from a time when her resignation was an honor, to make you laugh at her now in a thoughtless mood and in the pride of the moment, to humiliate her – and also in front of her niece – and in front of others, many of whom (certainly some, ) would be guided entirely by your dealings with her. – This is not pleasant for you, Emma – and it is anything but pleasant for me; but I must, I will – I will tell you truths as long as I can; content to prove me a friend through very faithful advice, and trusting that at some point you will do me more justice than you can do now."
As they spoke, they walked towards the car; it was done; and before she could speak again, he had handed her over. He had misinterpreted the feelings that had turned her face away and kept her tongue motionless. They consisted only of anger against themselves, humiliation and deep concern. She had not been able to speak; and upon entering the car, she sank back overwhelmed for a moment – then she blamed herself for not saying goodbye, made no recognition, separated in obvious disenchantment, and looked out with her voice and hand, eager to show a difference; but it was just too late. He had turned away, and the horses were moving. She looked further back, but in vain; and soon, with seemingly unusual speed, they were halfway down the hill, leaving everything far behind. She was upset beyond what could have been expressed – almost beyond what she could have hidden. Never before in her life had she felt so agitated, offended and saddened. She was beaten the most violently. The truth of this account was undeniable. She felt it in her heart. How could she be so brutal, so cruel to Miss Bates! How could she expose herself to such a bad opinion from someone she valued! And how he tolerates leaving them without saying a word of gratitude, approval, common kindness! How could she expose herself to such a bad opinion from someone she valued! And how he tolerates leaving them without saying a word of gratitude, approval, common kindness! How could she expose herself to such a bad opinion from someone she valued! And how he tolerates leaving them without saying a word of gratitude, approval, common kindness!
Time did not compose her. As she thought more, she just seemed to feel it more. She had never been so depressed. Fortunately, there was no need to speak. There was only Harriet, who herself did not seem to be in a good mood, exhausted and very willing to remain silent; and Emma felt tears running down her cheeks almost all the way home, without bothering to hold her back, as extraordinary as they were.
Chapter 206
"Well, Miss Hargrove," Mrs. Jennings said with a wise smile as soon as the Lord withdrew, "I don't ask you what the Colonel said to you, because even though I tried to hold back at my honor, I couldn't help but hear enough to understand his business. And I assure you that I have never been happier in my life, and I wish you joy in it with all my heart.
"Thank you, Ma'am," Eleanore said. "It is a great pleasure for me; and I feel the kindness of Colonel Bridgerton very clearly. There are not many men who would act like him. Few people who have such a compassionate heart! I've never been amazed at my life again."
"Lord! My dear, you are very humble. I'm not at all amazed at this in the world, because I've thought a lot lately that nothing would happen more likely."
"They judged according to their knowledge of the general benevolence of the Colonel; but at least you couldn't have foreseen that the opportunity would arise so very soon."
"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings – "Oh, as far as that is concerned, once a man has decided to do something like this, he will somehow soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy in it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I'll soon know where to look for them.
"You think you're going to Delaford," Eleanore said with a faint smile.
"Yes, my dear, I actually do. And as for the house, which is a bad one, I don't know what the Colonel is up to, because it's as good as I've ever seen it."
"He said it couldn't be repaired."
"Well, and whose fault is that? Why doesn't he fix it? - Who should do it if not himself?"
They were interrupted by the arrival of the servant to announce that the car was at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately prepared for the departure and said
,
"Well, my dear, I have to be gone before I finish half of my conversation. But we can have everything over in the evening, because we will be all alone. I'm not asking you to go with me, because I dare say that your thoughts are too busy with the matter to care about company, and besides, you have to long to tell your sister all about it."
Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
"Certainly, Ma'am, I will tell Marianne about it; but I'm not going to mention it to anyone else now."
"Oh! Very good," said Mrs. Jennings quite disappointed. "Then you don't want me to tell Lucy, because I'm thinking of going as far as Holborn today."
"No, Ma'am, not even Lucy, if you will. The delay of one day will not be very significant, and until I have written Mr. Gastonois, in my opinion, no one else should be told. I will do that directly. It is important that no time is lost with him, because he will of course have a lot to do with his ordination."
At first, this speech confused Mrs. Jennings extraordinarily. Why Mr. Gastonois should have been so hurriedly written about it, she could not immediately understand. However, a few moments of reflection produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed
,
"Oh, ho! – I understand you. Mr. Gastonois is supposed to be the man. Well, all the better for him So among you. But, my dear, isn't that quite atypical? Shouldn't the colonel write himself?
Eleanore didn't quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings' speech, and she didn't think it was worth asking; and therefore replied only to its conclusion.
"Colonel Bridgerton is such a sensitive man that he would rather have anyone tell Mr. Gastonois his intentions than he did."
"And so YOU are forced to do so. Well, THAT's a weird kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (she sees herself preparing to write). You know your own worries best. So goodbye, my dear. I haven't had it since Charlotte was put to bed, I've heard anything I liked so much.
And she went away; but return right away,
"I just thought of Betty's sister, my dear. I would be very happy to give her such a good lover. But whether she would be suitable for a maid, I certainly do not know. She is an excellent maid, and works very well on her needle. But you will think of all this calmly."
"Sure, Ma'am," replied Eleanore, who didn't hear much of what she said and was more concerned with being alone than being the mistress of the subject.
How to start – how she should express herself in her note to Edward was now her only concern. The special circumstances between them made difficult what would have been the easiest thing for anyone else in the world; but she was also afraid of saying too much or too little, and sat thoughtfully over her paper with a pen in her hand until she was interrupted by the entry of Edward himself.
He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door on the way to the carriage when he came to leave his farewell card; and after apologizing for not returning, she had forced him to step in by saying that Miss Hargrove was upstairs and wanted to talk to him about a very special matter.
Eleanore had just congratulated herself in the midst of her confusion that, as difficult as it may be to express herself correctly in writing, it was at least preferable to oral communication when her visitor stepped in to force her to make this greatest effort of all. Their amazement and confusion were great at his sudden appearance. She hadn't seen him since his engagement became known, and therefore not since he knew her; which made her particularly uncomfortable for a few minutes with the awareness of what she had in mind and what she had to say to him. He, too, was very distressed; and they sat down together in hopeful embarrassment. he could not remember; but to be on the safe side, he formally apologized as soon as he could say something after sitting down on a chair.
"Mrs. Jennings told me," he said, "that you wanted to talk to me, at least that's how I understood you — or I certainly shouldn't have bothered you so much; although I should have done it at the same time I am extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially since it will most likely take some time – it is unlikely that I will soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I'm going to Oxford tomorrow."
"But you wouldn't have left," said Eleanore, who recovered and was determined to get over what she feared so much as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we could not have delivered them in person ... Mrs. Jennings was quite right with what she said. I have something important to tell you that I was about to tell you on paper. I was given a very pleasant office (I breathed a little faster than usual while she was speaking.) Colonel Bridgerton, who was here just ten minutes ago, asked me to tell you that he takes great pleasure in offering you the Apartment of Delaford, which is currently vacant, because he understands that you want to take orders and wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having such a respectable and judgmental friend, and to join his desire that the living – it's about two hundred a year – would be much more handsome and those who could make it better for you – which could be more than a temporary shelter for yourself – in short, as if all your views on happiness could be consolidated."
What Edward felt, since he couldn't say it himself, can't be expected that someone else should say it for him. He SAW all the amazement that such unexpected, ill-considered information could make exciting; but he said only these two words,
"Colonel Bridgerton!"
"Yes," Eleanore continued, gathering more determination when the worst was over, "Colonel Bridgerton means it as a testimony to his concern about what has happened recently – about the cruel situation your family's unjustified behavior has gotten into – a concern that Marianne, I and all your friends must surely share, and also as proof of his high esteem for your general character and his special endorsement of your conduct on the present occasion.
"Colonel Bridgerton, give me my livelihood! – Can this be possible?"
"The unkindness of your own relatives has made you amazed to find friendship somewhere."
"No," he replied with sudden consciousness, "not to be found in you; for I cannot be unaware that I owe everything to you, to your goodness. – I feel it – I would express it if I could – but as you know, I am not a speaker."
"They are very wrong. I assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit and Colonel Bridgerton's judgment. I have nothing to do with it. I didn't even know it until I understood his intention that life was empty; nor had it ever occurred to me that he could have had such a livelihood with his gift. As a friend of mine, my family, he might – in fact, I know he HAS, even greater pleasure to give it; but at my word, you owe nothing to my request."
The truth forced her to acknowledge a small part of the plot, but at the same time she was so reluctant to appear as Edward's benefactor that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably helped fix this suspicion in his mind that had recently come to his mind. For a short time he sat there, deeply immersed in thought, after Eleanore had stopped speaking; – finally, and as if it were quite an effort, he said:
"Colonel Bridgerton seems to be a man of great value and prestige. I have always heard him refer to him as such, and I know that your brother appreciates him very much.
"In fact," Eleanore replied, "I believe that you will find him upon further acquaintance, everything you have heard from him, and since you will be such close neighbors (because I have heard that the rectory is almost near the mansion -house), it is especially important that he SHOULD be all that."
Edward gave no answer; but when she had turned her head away, he gave her such a serious, as serious, as unforgiving look, as it seemed to say that he would later wish the distance between the rectory and the mansion much greater.
"I think Colonel Bridgerton lives on St. James Street," he said soon after, rising from his chair.
Eleanore gave him the house number.
"Then I must hurry to express to him that gratitude that I will not give you; to assure him that he has made me a very happy man."
Eleanore did not offer to hold him; and they parted with a very serious assurance on THEIR side of their incessant good wishes for his happiness in any change in the situation that might happen to him; to BE, rather with the attempt to reciprocate the same goodwill than with the power to express it.
"When I see him again," Eleanore said to himself as the door locked him out, "I will see him, Lucy's husband."
And with this pleasant anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, remember the words, and make an effort to understand all of Edward's feelings; and, of course, to think about yourself dissatisfied.
When Mrs. Jennings came home, although she had returned from an encounter with people she had never seen before and of whom she must therefore have a lot to say, she was so much more preoccupied with the important secret in her possession than with anything else that she came back to it as soon as Eleanore appeared.
"Well, my dear," she exclaimed, "I sent you the young man up. Didn't I do it right?
"No, Ma'am; THAT was not very likely."
"Well, and how soon will it be finished? - Because everything seems to depend on that."
"Really," Eleanore said, "I know so little about these types of forms that I can hardly make assumptions about the time or the necessary preparation; but I guess two or three months will complete his ordination."
"Two or three months!" shouted Ms. Jennings; "Lord! My dear, how calmly you speak of it; and the colonel can wait two or three months! a kindness of poor Mr. Gastonois, I don't think it's worth waiting for him for two or three months. Surely someone else could be found who would do it too; someone who is already okay.
"My dear Ma'am," said Eleanore, "what are you thinking of?
"Lord bless you, my dear! - You certainly have no intention of convincing me that the colonel is only marrying you to give Mr. Gastonois ten guineas!"
The deception could not be continued after that; and immediately a statement took place, about which both were for the time being considerably amused, without there being any material loss of happiness to both, because Mrs. Jennings exchanged only one form of joy for another, and still without giving up her expectation of the first.
"Aye, aye, the rectory is just a small one," she said, after the first surge of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely it COULD be broken; but to hear a man apologizing, as I thought, for a house that, to my knowledge, has five living rooms on the ground floor, and I think the housekeeper told me it could make fifteen beds! – and you too, who lived in Barton Cottage! – It seems pretty ridiculous. But, my dear, we need to mend the Colonel so that he can do something with the rectory and make them comfortable before Lucy goes there."
"But Colonel Bridgerton seems to have no idea that the living are enough to allow them to marry."
"The Colonel is a jerk, my dear; because he himself has two thousand a year, he thinks that no one else can marry with less. Believe me, when I'm alive, I'll pay him a visit to Delaford Parsonage in front of Michaeli, and I'm sure I won't leave if Lucy isn't there.
Eleanore was pretty much her opinion about the likelihood that they wouldn't wait for anything more.
Chapter 207
"I thought about it again, Elizabeth," her uncle said as they drove out of town; " and really, after serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge this matter as your eldest sister does. It seems so unlikely to me that a young man will develop such a plan against a girl who is by no means defenseless or without friends and who is actually in the family of his colonel, that I am strongly inclined to hope for the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed by the regiment again after such an insult by Colonel Forster? His temptation is not appropriate to the risk!'
'Do you really think that?' Elizabeth shouted and lit up for a moment.
"At my word," said Mrs. Lockhart, "I begin to agree with your uncle. It is really too great a violation of decency, honor and interest for him to be guilty of it. I can't think waterhouse that badly. Can you, Lizzy, give him up so completely that you trust him to be able to do it?'
"Perhaps not because he has neglected his own interest; but I can trust him with any other neglect. If it should be! But I dare not hope. Why shouldn't they travel on to Scotland if that had been the case?'
"First of all," Replied Mr. Lockhart, "there is no absolute proof that they did not go to Scotland."
'Oh! but their change from the chaise longue to a carriage is such a presumption! In addition, there were no traces of it on the road to Barnet."
"Well, suppose they were in London. They can be there, albeit for the purpose of obfuscation, but no longer exceptionally. It is unlikely that money should be very abundant on both sides; and they might notice that they could get married cheaper, though less quickly, in London than in Scotland.'
"But why all this secrecy? Why fear of discovery? Why does their marriage have to be private? Oh, no, no – that's unlikely. His best friend, as you can see from Jane's account, was convinced that he never intended to marry her. Waterhouse will never marry a woman without some money. He can't afford it. And what demands does Linda have – what attraction does she have beyond youth, health and a good mood that could lead him for her sake to give up any chance to enrich himself through a good marriage? What restraint the fears of shame in the corps could counter with a dishonorable flight with her, I can not judge; because I don't know about the effects that such a step could have. But as far as your other objection is concerned, I fear it will hardly last. Linda has no brothers to stand out; and he might imagine because of my father's behavior,
"But can you imagine Linda being so lost in everything but love for him that she agrees to live with him in conditions other than marriage?"
"It seems, and it is indeed highly shocking," Elizabeth replied with tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue should allow doubt on such a point. But really, I don't know what to say. Maybe I won't do her justice. But she is very young; she was never taught to think about serious issues; and for half a year, no, for twelve months – she has devoted herself only to pleasure and vanity. She was allowed to use her time in the most idle and frivolous way and accept all the opinions that came in her way. Ever since the county was first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation and officers have been on their minds. She did everything in her power by thinking and talking about the subject to give more – what should I call it? susceptibility to their feelings; which, of course, are lively enough. And we all know that Waterhouse has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman.'
"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "doesn't think so badly of Waterhouse to trust him to try."
"Who does Jane ever think badly of? And who is there, whatever her previous behavior may have been, that she would consider capable of such an attempt until it was proven to them? But Jane knows as well as I do what Waterhouse really is. We both know that he was lavish in the truest sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honor; that he is as false and deceitful as he suggests.'
"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Lockhart, whose curiosity about the nature of her intelligence was alive.
"I actually do," Elizabeth replied, dying. "I told you the other day about his shameful behavior toward Mr. Drury; and you yourself, the last time you were in Longbourn, heard him speak of the man who had behaved toward him with such forbearance and generosity. And there are other circumstances that are not free for me – which are not worth telling; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. After what he said about Miss Drury, I was quite prepared to see a proud, reserved, unpleasant girl. But he himself knew the opposite. He must know that she was as gracious and unpretentious as we found her."
"But doesn't Linda know about it? Can't she know what you and Jane seem to understand so well?'
"Oh, yes! – that, that's the worst of all. Until I was in Kent and saw so much of Mr. Drury and his relative Colonel Gill, I was not aware of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the County of Meryton was due to leave in a day or fourteen. Since this was the case, neither Jane, to whom I told the whole thing, nor I felt it necessary to make our knowledge public; because what good is it apparently to anyone that the good opinion of the whole neighborhood is there. had been overthrown by him then? And even when it was clear that Linda should go with Mrs. Forster, the need to open his eyes never occurred to me. That SHE could be in danger through the deception never occurred to me. That such an episode as THIS could follow, you could easily believe, was far enough away from my thoughts.'
"So when they all moved to Brighton, you had no reason to think they liked each other?"
"Not the slightest. I can't remember any symptom of affection on either side; and if such a thing had been perceptible, you must be aware that our family is not one to throw it at. When he first joined the Corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but that's how we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton had senses because of him for the first two months; but he never distinguished YOU by special attention; and consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, their inclination towards him waned, and others of the regiment, who treated them with more nobility, again became their favorites."
* * * * * It
can easily be assumed that, as little new could be added to their fears, hopes and assumptions about this interesting topic, through its repeated discussion no one else could stop them from doing so for a long time throughout the trip. Elizabeth's thoughts were never missing. There fixed by the sharpest of all torments, self-reproach, she could not find a rest or forgetfulness.
They traveled as quickly as possible and reached Longbourn for dinner the next day after spending a night on the road. It was a comfort for Elizabeth to remember that Jane could not be tired of long expectations.
The little Lockharts, attracted by the sight of a carriage, stood on the steps of the house when they entered the paddock; and as the carriage drove outside the door, the joyful surprise that lit up their faces and showed up in a multitude of caprioles and frisks all over her body was the first pleasing proof of her welcome.
Elizabeth jumped out; and after giving each of them a hasty kiss, she hurried to the vestibule, where Jane, who ran down from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.
Elizabeth, who embraced her lovingly while tears filled the eyes of both of them, didn't lose a moment in asking if anything had been heard from the refugees.
"Not yet," Jane replied. "But now that my dear uncle is here, I hope everything will be fine."
'Is my father in town?'
'Yes, he left on Tuesday, as I wrote to you.'
"And have you heard of him many times?"
"We only heard twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he arrived safely and to give me his directions, which I especially asked him to do. He merely added that he should not write again until he had something important to say.'
"And my mother– how is she doing? How are you all doing?'
"My mother is doing pretty well, I trust; although their mood is severely shaken. She is upstairs and will be very happy to see you all. She doesn't leave her dressing room yet. Mary and Kitty are doing quite well, thanks to heaven."
"But you – how are you?" cried Elisabeth. 'You look pale. How much must you have been through!'
However, her sister assured her that she was doing perfectly well; and their conversation, which had passed while Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart were busy with their children, was now ended by the approach of the whole society. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt and greeted and thanked them, alternately with smiles and tears.
Of course, when they were all in the salon, the questions Elizabeth had already asked were repeated by the others, and they soon realized that Jane had no information to give. However, the Sanguine hope for good, which indicated the benevolence of her heart, had not yet left her; she still expected that everything would end well and that every morning a letter would come, either from Linda or her father, to explain her actions and perhaps announce her marriage.
Mrs. Mitchell, to whose apartment they all went, received them after a conversation of a few minutes exactly as one might expect; with tears and lamentations of regret, insults against Waterhouse's rogue behavior, and lamentations about her own sufferings and abuses; to blame all but the person whose ill-considered leniency is mainly due to their daughter's mistakes.
"If I had been able," she said, "to go to Brighton with my whole family, THAT would not have happened; but poor, dear Linda had no one to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let them out of sight? I'm sure there was a lot of neglect on her side, because she's not the kind of girl who does that if she was well taken care of. I always thought they were very unsuitable to blame them; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now Mr. Mitchell has left, and I know he's going to fight Waterhouse wherever he meets him, and then he's going to be killed, and what's going to become of all of us? The Collinses will throw us out before he freezes in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I don't know what to do."
They all proclaimed against such great ideas; and Mr. Lockhart, after assuring her and her entire family in general, told her that he intended to be in London the next day and that Mr. Mitchell would assist in all efforts to recover Linda.
'Don't give in to useless alarms,' he added; "Although it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no reason to consider it safe. It's been less than a week since they left Brighton. In a few days, we may receive some messages from them; and until we know that they are not married and have no intention of getting married, let us not give the thing as lost. Once I'm in town, I'll go to my brother and get him to come home with me on Gracechurch Street; and then we can consult on what to do.'
'Oh! My dear brother," Replied Mrs. Mitchell, "this is exactly what I could wish for most. And now do it, when you come to the city, find them out wherever they may be; and if they are not yet married, LET them get married. And as for wedding clothes, don't let them wait for them, but tell Linda to have as much money as she wants to buy them after they get married. And above all, stop Mr. Mitchell from fighting. Tell him what a terrible state I am, that I am frightened by fright – and have such tremors, such fluttering all over my body – such cramps in my side and pain in my head and such palpitations that I can rest neither at night nor during the day. And tell my dear Linda not to give instructions about her clothes until she sees me, because she doesn't know what the best camps are. Oh, brother, how kind you are!
But Mr. Lockhart, although he reassured her of his serious efforts in the matter, could not help but recommend moderation to her, both in her hopes and in her fear; and after talking to her in this way until dinner was on the table, they all left to vent all their feelings on the housekeeper who was present in the absence of her daughters.
Although her brother and sister were convinced that there was no real reason for such seclusion from the family, they did not try to resist it, because they knew that she was not smart enough to keep her mouth shut in front of the servants while they waited table and thought it better that only ONE from the household and the one, who they could trust the most, should understand all their fears and concerns about this topic.
In the dining room, they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busy in their separate chambers to show up beforehand. One came from her books and the other from her toilet. However, the faces of both were quite calm; and in either of them, no change was visible, except that the loss of her favorite sister or the anger she herself had drawn on herself in this matter had added more trouble than usual to Kitty's accent. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth with a face of serious reflection shortly after they sat at the table:
"This is an extremely unfortunate affair, and there will probably be a lot of talk about it. But we must stop the tide of wickedness and pour the balm of sisterly consolation into each other's wounded bosom.'
Then, noticing no inclination in Elizabeth to respond, she added, "As unfortunate as the event must be for Linda, we can draw this useful lesson from it: that the loss of virtue in a woman is irretrievable; this one wrong step brings them to endless ruin; that their reputation is no less brittle than beautiful; and that she cannot be too careful in her behavior toward the unworthy of the opposite sex.'
Elizabeth raised her eyes in amazement, but was too depressed to give an answer. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such moral excerpts from evil before them.
In the afternoon, the two older Miss Mitchells could be alone for half an hour; and Elizabeth immediately took the opportunity to do any research that Jane was just as eager to satisfy. After interfering in the general lamentation about the terrible consequence of this event, which Elizabeth considered almost certain and Miss Mitchell could not claim that it was completely impossible, the former continued with the subject by saying, "But tell me everything and everything about what I have not heard before. Give me more details. What did Colonel Forster say? Had they feared nothing before fleeing? You must have seen them together for ages."
"Colonel Forster has admitted that he had often suspected some bias, especially on Linda's side, but nothing that would worry him. I'm so sad for him! His behaviour was extremely attentive and friendly. He came to us to assure us of his concern before he had any idea that they had not gone to Scotland: when this fear first went abroad, it accelerated his journey.'
"And was Denny convinced that Waterhouse wouldn't get married? Did he know of their intention to leave? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"
'Yes; but when questioned by HIM, Denny denied knowing anything about their plans and did not want to express his real opinion on them. He hasn't repeated his belief that they didn't marry – and I'm inclined to hope that he might have been misunderstood beforehand because of that.
"And until Colonel Forster himself came, surely none of you had any doubt that you were really married?"
"How was it possible for such an idea to enter our brains? I felt a little uncomfortable – a little anxious about my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew his behavior hadn't always been quite right. My father and mother knew nothing about it; they just felt how careless a match must be. Kitty then confessed with a very natural triumph to know more than the rest of us that she had prepared her for such a step in Linda's last letter. She had, it seems, known for many weeks that they were in love with each other.'
"But not before they went to Brighton?"
'No, I don't think so.'
"And did Colonel Forster himself seem to have a good opinion of Waterhouse? Does he know his true character?'
"I have to admit that he didn't talk about Waterhouse as well as he used to. He considered him careless and extravagant. And since this sad affair took place, he is said to have left Meryton heavily in debt; but I hope that can be wrong.'
"Oh, Jane, if we had been less secret, we would have said what we knew about him, that couldn't have happened!"
"Maybe it would have been better," her sister replied. "But uncovering a person's past mistakes without knowing what their current feelings were didn't seem justified. We acted with the best of intentions."
"Could Colonel Forster repeat to his wife the details of Linda's note?"
"He brought it with him so we could see it."
Jane then took it out of her wallet and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents:
"My dear Harriet,
"You'll laugh when you know where I've gone, and I can't help but laugh at your surprise tomorrow morning as soon as I'm missed. I go to Gretna Green, and if you can't guess with whom, I think you're a simpleton, because there's only one man in the world who I love, and he's an angel. I should never be happy without him, so don't think it's bad when I'm gone. You don't have to tell them about my departure in Longbourn if you don't like it, because it will make the surprise even bigger when I write to them and sign my name "Linda Waterhouse". What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write with laughter. Please apologize to Pratt for not keeping my engagement and dance with him tonight. Tell him I hope he will apologize to me if he knows everything; and tell him that I will dance with him with great joy at the next ball we meet. I will send for my clothes when I am in Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a big slit in my made muslin dress before they're wrapped up. See you later. Greetings Colonel Forster from me. I hope you will toast to our good trip.
'Your loving friend,
'LYDIA BENNET.'
'Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Linda!' elizabeth shouted when she was done. "What a letter that is written at such a moment! But at least it shows that SHE was serious about the subject of her trip. Whatever he later tried to persuade her to do, it was not a game of shame on her side. My poor father! how he must have felt it!'
"I've never seen anyone so shocked. He couldn't speak a word for ten minutes. My mother immediately got sick and the whole house was in such confusion!'
'Oh! Jane," Elizabeth exclaimed, "was there a servant who was one of them who didn't know the whole story until the end of the day?"
'I don't know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very difficult. My mother was hysterical, and although I tried to give her every help I could, I'm afraid I didn't do as much as I could have done! But the horror of what could possibly happen almost took away my abilities.'
"Your visit to her was too much for you. You don't look good. Oh, I would have been with you! They carried all their worries and fears on their own.'
"Mary and Kitty were very friendly and would have experienced any fatigue, I'm sure; but I didn't think it was right for either of them. Kitty is slim and delicate; and Mary learns so much that her rest hours should not be interrupted. My Aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday after my father left; and was so good to stay with me until Thursday. It was of great benefit and comfort to all of us. And Lady Lucas was very nice; she came here on Wednesday morning to offer us her condolences and offered her services or one of her daughters if they were to benefit us."
'She would have been better off staying at home,' shouted Elizabeth; "Maybe she meant well, but under such a misfortune you can't see too little of your neighbors. Help is impossible; Condolences unbearable. Let them triumph over us from afar and be satisfied.'
She then inquired about the measures her father had intended during his stay in the city to recover his daughter.
'He meant, I think,' Jane replied, 'to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, to see the Postillons and to see if you can read anything out of them. His main goal must be to find out the number of the cab that took her away from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and since he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and a lady changing from one car to another could be noticed, he intended to inquire in Clapham. If he could somehow figure out which ?? House of the coachmen had previously parked his fare, he decided to inquire there, hoping that it was not impossible to know the status and number of the carriage. I don't know of any other designs he had developed; but he was in such a hurry to leave, and his mood was so badly shattered,
Chapter 208
The novelty of travel and the happiness of being with William soon produced their natural effect on Esther's spirits when Mansfield Park was quite left behind; and when her first stage was finished and they were to leave Sir Thomas' carriage, she was able to say goodbye to the old coachman and send back neat messages with happy looks.
There was no end to the nice conversations between brother and sister. Everything amused the high joy in William's spirit, and he was full of jokes and jokes in the breaks of their higher-toned subjects, all of whom ended, if they did not begin, with a praise of the thrush, suspecting how they would be used, plans for an action with a superior force that (assuming the first lieutenant was out of the way, and William was not very gracious to the first lieutenant) would take the next step as soon as possible, or speculation about prize money to be generously distributed at home, just with the reservation of enough to make the little cottage where he and Esther would spend their entire middle and later lives together cozy.
Esther's immediate concerns as far as Mr. Dorset were concerned played no role in their conversation. William knew what had happened and lamented from the bottom of his heart that his sister's feelings towards a man he had to consider the first human character; but he was at an age to be all for love, and therefore could not blame; and since he knew her desire on this subject, he would not worry her by the slightest allusion.
She had reason to believe that Mr. Dorset hadn't forgotten her yet. She had heard repeatedly from his sister in the three weeks that had passed since her departure from Mansfield, and in each letter there had been a few lines from him, warm and determined like his speeches. It was an exchange of letters that Esther found as unpleasant as she had feared. Miss Dorset's writing style, lively and loving, was itself an evil, regardless of what she was so forced to read from her brother's pen, for Edmund would never rest until she had read him the main part of the letter; and then she had to listen to his admiration for her language and the warmth of her affection. In fact, there had been so much message, allusion, memory, so much of Mansfield in each letter that Esther could not help but assume that it meant for him to hear; and to feel compelled for such a purpose, to be forced into a correspondence that brought her the addresses of the man she did not love, and which forced her to live up to the detrimental passion of the man she loved, was cruelly humiliating. Here, too, their current removal promised advantages. When she was no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Dorset would have no motive to write strong enough to overcome the difficulties, and that her correspondence in Portsmouth would disintegrate into nothing. their current move promised advantage. When she was no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Dorset would have no motive to write strong enough to overcome the difficulties, and that her correspondence in Portsmouth would disintegrate into nothing. their current move promised advantage. When she was no longer under the same roof with Edmund, she trusted that Miss Dorset would have no motive to write strong enough to overcome the difficulties, and that her correspondence in Portsmouth would disintegrate into nothing.
With such thoughts, among ten hundred others, Esther continued her journey safely and cheerfully, and as quickly as one could reasonably hope for in the dirty month of February. They arrived at Oxford, but she could only catch a glimpse of Edmunds College as they drove by, stopping nowhere until they reached Newbury, where a leisurely meal that combined lunch and dinner brought the joys and hardships of the day to a close.
The next morning they said goodbye at an early hour; and without events and delays, they regularly advanced and were around Portsmouth while Esther still had daylight to look around and marvel at the new buildings. They passed the drawbridge and entered the city; and the light was just beginning to fade when, guided by William's powerful voice, they were dragged into a narrow alley off the High Street and stopped at the door of a small house now inhabited by Mr. Price.
Esther was very excited and fluttering; all hope and fear. The moment they stopped, a maid who looked like a doll and seemed to be waiting for her at the door came forward and immediately began: "The thrush has gone out of the harbor, please sir, and one of the officers was here to ..." She was interrupted by a fine, tall boy of eleven who stormed out of the house, pushed the maid aside and, while William himself opened the chaise longue door, shouted out, "You're coming just in time. We searched for you for this half hour. The Thrush left the port this morning. I saw them. It was a beautiful sight. And they believe she will have her orders in a day or two. And Mr. Campbell was here at four o'clock to ask about you: He has one of the boats of the Thrush,
one or two glances at Esther, when William helped her out of the carriage, were all the voluntary attention that this brother gave; but he did not object to her kissing him, although he was still busy telling more details about the departure of the thrush, in which he had a strong interest, since he would start his career as a sailor with her at that very moment.
One more moment, and Esther was in the narrow entrance hall of the house and in the arms of her mother, who met her there with looks of genuine kindness, and with traits that Esther loved all the more because they brought those of her aunt Schmidt in front of her, and there were her two sisters: Susan, a well-grown, fine girl of fourteen years, and Betsey, the youngest of the family, about five years old – both were happy to see her in their own way, although they had no advantage in receiving them. But ways Esther didn't want. If they loved her, she should be satisfied.
Then she was led into a parkour so small that she was initially convinced that it was just a passage room to something better, and she stood there for a moment, expecting to be invited; but when she saw that there was no other door, and that there were signs of dwelling in front of her, she called back her thoughts, reprimanded herself, and grieved so that they would not be suspected. However, her mother could not stay long enough to suspect anything. She had gone back to the street door to welcome William. "Oh! My dear William, how happy I am to see you. But have you heard of the thrush? She has already left the port; three days before we thought about it; and I don't know what to do with Sam's stuff, they will never be ready in time; because maybe tomorrow she will have her orders. It hits me quite unprepared. And now you have to leave for Spithead as well. Campbell was here, quite worried about you; and what should we do now? I thought I had had such a cozy evening with you, and here I remember everything at once."
Her son replied cheerfully and told her that everything was always for the best; and making fun of his own inconvenience of having to rush away so soon.
"Of course, I would have much preferred her to stay in the port so that I could have sat comfortably with you for a few hours; but since there is a boat on land, I better leave right away, and it doesn't help. Where is the thrush at Spithead? Close to the Canopus? But no problem; Here's Esther in parkour, and why should we stay in the aisle? Come, Mother, you have barely looked at your own dear Esther."
They both came in, and Mrs. Price, who had kissed her daughter again in a friendly way and talked a little about her growth, began to feel her hardships and needs as travelers with very natural anxiety.
"Poor loves! how tired you both must be! and now, what will you have? I began to believe that you would never come. Betsey and I have been looking for you for half an hour. And when did you get what to eat? And what do you want to have now? I couldn't tell if you would have some meat or just a bowl of tea after your trip, otherwise I would have prepared something. And now I'm afraid Campbell will be here before there's time to make a steak, and we don't have a butcher on hand. It is very impractical not to have a butcher on the street. In our last house we were better off. You may want some tea as soon as it's available."
They both said they should prefer it to everything. "Then, Betsey, my dear, run into the kitchen and see if Rebecca put the water on; and tell her to bring the tea stuff as soon as possible. I wish we could have the bell repaired; but Betsey is a very practical little messenger."
Betsey left with zeal, proud to show off her skills in front of her fine new sister.
"Love me!" the worried mother continued, "what a sad fire we have, and I dare to say that you are both starved of cold. Draw your chair closer, my dear. I can't imagine what Rebecca said. I'm sure I told her half an hour ago to bring coal. Susan, you should have taken care of the fire."
"I was upstairs, Mom, and I was rearranging my things," Susan said in a fearless, self-defending tone, which frightened Esther. "You know you just agreed that my sister Esther and I should have the other room; and I couldn't get Rebecca to help me."
Another discussion was prevented by various hustle and bustle: first, the driver came to get paid; then there was an argument between Sam and Rebecca over the way he should carry up his sister's suitcase, which he would do in his own way; and finally Mr. Price himself came in, his own loud voice preceded him as he stepped away with something of the manner of eid his son's portmanteau and his daughter's bandbox in the corridor and called for a candle; However, no candle was brought, and he entered the room.
Esther had risen towards him with doubtful feelings, but sank down again when she found herself inconspicuous in the twilight and unnoticed. With a friendly handshake from his son and an eager voice, he immediately began: "Ha! Welcome back, my boy. Glad to see you. Have you heard the news? The Thrush left the port this morning. Sharp is the word, you see! At G—, you arrive just in time! The doctor was here and inquired about you: he has one of the boats and is supposed to leave for Spithead at six, so you better go with him. I was at Turner's because of your mess; it's all done in one way. I wouldn't be surprised if you had your orders tomorrow: but you can't sail in this wind if you're supposed to sail west; and Captain Walsh believes you will surely take a cruise west with the Elephant. With G—, I wish you could! But old Scholey just said that he thought you would be sent to Texel first. Well, good, we're ready for whatever happens. But by God, you lost a beautiful sight because you weren't here in the morning to see the thrush leak out of the harbor! For a thousand pounds I would not have gone out of the way. Old Scholey came running in at breakfast time to say she had put down her mooring and came out, I jumped up and took only two steps to the platform. If ever a perfect beauty has been on the water, she is one; and there she is in Spithead, and anyone in England would consider her twenty-eight. I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck." Well, we're ready for whatever happens. But by God, you lost a beautiful sight because you weren't here in the morning to see the thrush leak out of the harbor! For a thousand pounds I would not have gone out of the way. Old Scholey came running in at breakfast time to say she had put down her mooring and came out, I jumped up and took only two steps to the platform. If ever a perfect beauty has been on the water, she is one; and there she is in Spithead, and anyone in England would consider her twenty-eight. I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck." Well, we're ready for whatever happens. But by God, you lost a beautiful sight because you weren't here in the morning to see the thrush leak out of the harbor! For a thousand pounds I would not have gone out of the way. Old Scholey came running in at breakfast time to say she had put down her mooring and came out, I jumped up and took only two steps to the platform. If ever a perfect beauty has been on the water, she is one; and there she is in Spithead, and anyone in England would consider her twenty-eight. I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck." For a thousand pounds I would not have gone out of the way. Old Scholey came running in at breakfast time to say she had put down her mooring and came out, I jumped up and took only two steps to the platform. If ever a perfect beauty has been on the water, she is one; and there she is in Spithead, and anyone in England would consider her twenty-eight. I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck." For a thousand pounds I would not have gone out of the way. Old Scholey came running in at breakfast time to say she had put down her mooring and came out, I jumped up and took only two steps to the platform. If ever a perfect beauty has been on the water, she is one; and there she is in Spithead, and anyone in England would consider her twenty-eight. I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck." I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck." I was on the platform for two hours this afternoon and looked at them. It is located near the Endymion, between it and the Cleopatra, just east of the sheer shipwreck."
"Ha!" cried William, "That's exactly where I should have put her myself. It is the best mooring in Spithead. But here is my sister, my Lord; here is Esther," turned around and led her forward; "It's so dark that you don't see them."
With the admission that he had forgotten her completely, Mr. Price now received his daughter; and after hugging her warmly and realizing that she had grown into a woman, and he assumed that she wanted to have a husband soon, he seemed very inclined to forget about her again. Esther retreated to her seat, with feelings sadly tormented by his speech and smell of spirits; and he only continued to talk to his son and only about the thrush, although William, as much as he was interested in this subject, tried more than once to remind his father of Esther and her long absence and long journey.
After sitting for a long time, a candle was obtained; but since there was still no tea, still, according to Betsey's reports from the kitchen, much hope for less than a considerable period of time, William decided to change and make the necessary preparations for his move directly on board, which perhaps he drank his tea comfortably afterwards.
As he left the room, two ragged and dirty boys with rosy faces, about eight and nine years old, who had just been discharged from school and eagerly came to see their sister and say that the thrush had gone out of the harbor; Tom and Karl. Charles had been born since Esther's departure, but Tom had often helped her breastfeed, and now he was especially happy to see him again. Both were kissed very tenderly, but Tom wanted to keep them with him to try to trace the traits of the baby she had loved and talked to, of his childlike preference for himself. Tom, however, had no desire for such treatment: he did not come home to stand up and be talked to, but to walk around and make noise; and both boys soon burst out of it and slammed the salon door until their temples hurt.
She had now seen all those who were at home; only two brothers remained between her and Susan, one of whom was an employee in a public office in London and the other a midshipman aboard an Indian. But even though she had seen all the family members, she hadn't heard all the noise they could make. Another quarter of an hour brought her much more. William soon called for his mother and Rebecca from the jetty on the second floor. He was in distress because of something he had left there and couldn't find again. A key was misplaced, Betsey was accused of getting his new hat, and a minor but substantial change to his uniform vest that had been promised to him was completely neglected.
Mrs. Price, Rebecca and Betsey all approached her to defend themselves, everyone was talking to each other, but Rebecca was the loudest, and the work had to be done as well as possible in great haste; William tried in vain to send Betsey back down or stop her from making trouble where she was; the whole thing, since almost every door in the house was open, could be clearly distinguished in the parkour, except when it was drowned out from time to time by the superior noise of Sam, Tom and Charles chasing each other up and down the stairs and stumbling around and hello.
Esther was almost stunned. The smallness of the house and the thinness of the walls brought everything so close to her that, in addition to the fatigue of her trip and all her recent excitement, she hardly knew how to endure it. In the room everything was quiet enough, because Susan, who had disappeared with the others, soon only her father and she were left; and he took out a newspaper, the usual loan from a neighbor, and devoted himself to studying, seemingly remembering her existence. The single candle was held between him and the paper, without any indication of its possible convenience; but she had nothing to do and was glad that the light was shielded from her aching head as she sat in confused, broken, sad contemplation.
She was at home. But unfortunately! it was not such a home, she had no such welcome as – she checked herself; it was unreasonable. What right did she have to be important to her family? She couldn't have one, lost sight of it for so long! William's concerns must be the most important, they had always been, and he had every right to do so. But to have said or asked so little about yourself, to have hardly asked for Mansfield! It hurt her to forget Mansfield; the friends who had done so much – the dear, dear friends! But here one topic has swallowed up all the rest. Maybe it has to be this way. The target of the thrush must now be extremely interesting. A day or two might show the difference. She was solely to blame. But she thought it hadn't been like that in Mansfield. No, in her uncle's house there would have been a consideration for times and seasons,
the only interruption that thoughts like these received for almost half an hour was a sudden outburst of her father, who was not at all destined to compose them. With a more than ordinary bluster and hello in the hallway, he exclaimed: "The devil is bringing these young dogs! How they sing! Yes, Sam's voice louder than everyone else! The boy is fit for a boatman. Holla, you're there! Sam, stop your damn pipe, or I'll be after you."
This threat was so blatantly ignored that although within five minutes of it the three boys all stormed into the room together and sat down, Esther could not take this as evidence of anything other than that they were thoroughly exhausted for the time being, which showed their hot faces and wheezing breaths seemed to prove themselves, especially since they were still kicking each other's shins and immediately under their eyes. of her father were suddenly startled.
The next opening of the door brought something more welcome: it was for the tea dishes that she almost began to despair that evening. Susan and a servant, whose inferior appearance told Esther, to her great surprise, that she had previously seen the chief servant, brought in everything necessary for the food; When Susan put the cauldron on the fire and looked at her sister, Susan looked as if she was divided between the pleasant triumph of showing her activity and usefulness and the fear of having to humiliate herself through such an office. "She had been in the kitchen," she said, "to help Sally rush and help make toast and distribute bread and butter, or she didn't know when to get tea, and she was sure her sister wanted something after her trip."
Esther was very grateful. She couldn't help but admit that she should be very happy about a little tea, and Susan immediately set about cooking it, as if she were delighted to have the occupation all to herself; and with just a little unnecessary hustle and bustle and a few unreasonable attempts to keep her brothers in order better than she could, she did very well. Esther's mind was as refreshed as her body; her head and heart were soon better for such well-timed kindness. Susan had an open, reasonable face; she was like William, and Esther hoped to find her in her attitude and benevolence against herself.
In this calmer state, William returned, closely followed by his mother and Betsey. He, complete in his lieutenant's uniform, but all the bigger, firmer and more graceful looking and moving, and with the happiest smile on his face, walked directly towards Esther, who rose from her seat and looked at him for a while moment in speechless admiration and then wrapped her arms around his neck to sob out her various feelings of pain and pleasure.
Worried not to appear unhappy, she soon recovered; and wiped away her tears, could notice and admire all the striking parts of his dress; listened with a reviving spirit to his cheerful hopes of being ashore for part of the day before they left, and even taking them to Spithead to see the sloop.
The next hustle and bustle brought in Mr. Campbell, the surgeon of the thrush, a very well-behaved young man who came to call for his friend, and for whom there was with some skill a chair and with some hasty washing of the chair young tea maker, a cup and saucer; and after another quarter of an hour of serious conversation between the gentlemen, noise about noise and hustle and bustle about hustle and bustle, men and boys finally all moving together, the moment came to leave; everything was ready, William said goodbye, and all were gone; because the three boys, despite their mother's request, are determined to see their brother and Mr Campbell at the port of failure; and Mr. Price left at the same time to return his neighbor's newspaper.
Something like calm could now be hoped for; and accordingly, when Rebecca had been made to carry away the teaware, and Mrs. Price had walked around the room for some time looking for a shirt sleeve, which Betsey finally picked out of a drawer in the kitchen, the small group of women was pretty well composed, and the mother, who again complained about the impossibility of getting Sam ready in time, had time to think about her eldest daughter and the friends she had come from.
Some inquiries began: but one of the earliest – "How did Sister Schmidt deal with her servants?" "Was she as troubled as she was to find bearable servants?" – soon diverted her thoughts from Northamptonshire, focusing on her own domestic ailments and the shocking character of all Portsmouth servants, whom she believed were her own two, the worst of which she took full advantage of. The Schmidts were all forgotten to describe Rebecca's mistakes, against which Susan also had a lot to complain about, and against little Betsey much more, and who looked so thorough without a single recommendation that Esther could not help but modestly assume that it was her mother who wanted to separate from her when her year was over.
"Your year!" shouted Mrs. Price; "I certainly hope I'll get rid of her before she's stayed for a year, because that won't last until November. The servants have come so far in Portsmouth, my dear, that it is a true miracle to keep them for more than half a year. I have no hope of ever settling down; and if I broke up with Rebecca, I would only get worse. And yet I do not believe that I am a beloved who is very difficult to satisfy; and I'm sure the place is simple enough, because there's always a girl under her, and I often do half the work myself."
Esther remained silent; but not to be convinced that no cure could be found for some of these evils. When she looked at Betsey now, she had to think of another sister, a very pretty little girl who she hadn't left there much younger when she went to Northamptonshire, who died a few years later. There was something remarkably amiable about her. Esther had preferred her to Susan at the time; and when the news of her death finally reached Mansfield, she had been quite depressed for a short time. The sight of Betsey brought back the image of little Mary, but she wouldn't have tormented her mother by alluding to her for everything in the world. As Betsey looked at her with these thoughts, she held something against her from a distance to grab her attention.
"What do you have there, my dear?" said Esther; "Come and show me."
It was a silver knife. Susan jumped up, claimed it as her own and tried to get it away; but the child ran to protect her mother, and Susan could only blame her, which she did very warmly and obviously hoped to interest Esther. "It was very hard that she shouldn't have her own knife; it was her own knife; little sister Mary had left it to her on her deathbed, and she should have kept it to herself a long time ago. But Mom hid it from her and always left it to Betsey; and in the end, Betsey would spoil it and get it herself, even though Mom had promised her that Betsey shouldn't hold it in her own hands."
Esther was quite shocked. Every sense of duty, honor and tenderness was hurt by her sister's speech and her mother's response.
"Well, Susan," cried Mrs. Price in a plaintive voice, "well, how can you be so evil? They always fight over this knife. I wish you weren't so argumentative. Poor little Betsey; how evil Susan is to you! But you shouldn't have taken it out, my dear, when I sent you to the drawer. You know, I told you not to touch it because Susan is so angry about it. I have to hide it another time, Betsey. Poor Mary didn't think it would be such a bone of contention when she gave it to me for safekeeping just two hours before her death. Poor little soul! she could only speak to be heard, and she said so nicely, 'Let Sister Susan have my knife, Mom, when I'm dead and buried.' Poor little treasure! She loved it so much, Esther, that she left it in bed with her throughout her illness. It was the gift of her good godmother, the old Mrs. Admiral Maxwell, just six weeks before she was killed. Poor little sweet creature! Well, it was snatched from the coming evil. My own Betsey" (caresses her), "you don't have the luck of such a good godmother. Aunt Norris lives too far away to think of little people like you."
Esther actually had nothing to deliver from Aunt Norris, but a message that she hoped her goddaughter was a good girl and learned her book. Once there had been a quiet murmur in the salon of Mansfield Park to send her a prayer book; but no second sound had been heard of such a purpose. However, Mrs. Norris had gone home and had taken down two of her husband's old prayer books with this idea; but in the examination the zeal of generosity was extinguished. One had too small an imprint for a child's eyes and the other was too cumbersome to carry around.
Esther, exhausted and exhausted again, gratefully accepted the first invitation to go to bed; and before Betsey had finished her cry, because she was only allowed to stand up for an hour in honor of her sister, she was gone, leaving everything down in confusion and noise; the boys begging for roasted cheese, her father called for his rum and water, and Rebecca was never where she was supposed to be.
In the cramped and sparsely furnished room she was supposed to share with Susan, there was nothing to lift her spirits. The smallness of the rooms upstairs and downstairs and the narrowness of the corridor and stairs exceeded her imagination. She soon learned to think in terms of her own little attic in Mansfield Park, in this house that was considered too small for anyone's comfort.
Chapter 209
The next day did not provide an opportunity for the planned investigation of the mysterious apartments. It was Sunday, and all the time between morning and afternoon duty was needed by the general to practice abroad or to eat sausage at home; and as great as Catherine's curiosity was, her courage could not match the desire to explore her after dinner, either in the fading light of the sky between six and seven o'clock or in the even weaker, if stronger, glow of a treacherous lamp. The day was therefore marked by nothing that interested her imagination, except the sight of a very elegant monument in memory of Mrs. Alsina, which stood directly in front of the family bench. As a result, her gaze was immediately captured and held for a long time; and the reading of the high-tension epitaph,
That the general, after he had erected such a monument, could face him, was perhaps not very strange, and yet he could sit so boldly collected in his view, maintain such a sublime posture, look around so fearlessly, no, that he should even enter the church, seemed wonderful to Catherine. However, it is not that many cases of beings who are equally hardened in feelings of guilt cannot be produced. She could remember dozens who had remained in all sorts of vices, going from crime to crime, and murdering whoever they wanted, without any sense of humanity or remorse; until a violent death or religious retreat ended her black career. The erection of the monument itself could not change her doubts about Mrs. Alsina's real death in the slightest. Should she even descend into the family crypt, where her ashes were to slumber, she should see the coffin in which they were to be enclosed - what good could it be in such a case? Catherine had read too much not to be aware of the ease with which a waxy figure could be introduced and a presumed funeral could be carried out.
The following morning promised something better. The early course of the general, as outdated as he was in any other view, was favorable here; and when she knew he was out of the house, she directly suggested to Miss Alsina to fulfill her promise. Eleanor was ready to obey her; and Catherine reminded her of another promise as she walked, her first visit in the aftermath was the portrait in her bedroom. It represented a very beautiful woman, with a mild and thoughtful expression on her face, which so far justified the expectations of his new observer; but they were not answered in every way, because Catherine had been dependent on encountering facial features, hair and complexion, which were to be exactly the opposite, the exact image, if not that of Henry, then that of Eleanor – the only portraits in which she could be seen the habit of always having the same resemblance to mother and child. A face that was once taken was taken for generations. But here she was forced to look for a similarity and to think and study. However, despite this disadvantage, she looked at it with a lot of emotion and would have been reluctant to leave it without an even stronger interest.
Their excitement when they entered the large gallery was too much for any conversation; she could only look at her companion. Eleanor's expression was depressed but calm; and his serenity she spoke accustomed to all the dark objects to which they penetrated. Again she walked through the gullwing doors, again her hand lay on the important lock, and Catherine, barely able to breathe, turned around with anxious caution to close the former, when the figure, the dreaded figure of the general himself, at the other end of the gallery, stood in front of her! The name "Eleanor" echoed through the building at the same moment in its loudest tone, giving his daughter the first hint of his presence and Catherine horror upon terror. An attempt to hide had been her first instinctive movement when she noticed him, nor could she hardly hope to have escaped his eye; and when her boyfriend, who had rushed past her with an apologetic look, joined him and disappeared with him, she ran into her own room, locked herself in, and believed she would never have to have the courage to go down again. She stayed there for at least an hour in the greatest excitement, deeply regretting the condition of her poor friend, and awaited a summons from the angry general to serve him in his own apartment. However, there was no subpoena; and finally, when she saw a carriage drive up to the abbey, she felt encouraged to descend and meet him under the protection of the visitors. The breakfast room was full of company; and she was called to them by the general as his daughter's girlfriend in a flattering style, who hid his resentment so well that she at least felt safe from life for the present. And Eleanor, with an attitude that honored her concern for his character, took an early opportunity to tell her, "My father just wanted me to respond to a message," she began to hope that she had either not been seen as the general, or that she should be allowed to take care of herself that way for political reasons. With this trust, she still dared to remain in his presence after society had left her, and nothing happened that could disturb her. or that it should be allowed to do so for political reasons. With this trust, she still dared to remain in his presence after society had left her, and nothing happened that could disturb her. or that it should be allowed to do so for political reasons. With this trust, she still dared to remain in his presence after society had left her, and nothing happened that could disturb her.
In the course of the deliberations this morning, she decided to make the next attempt at the forbidden door alone. It would be much better in every way if Eleanor didn't know about the matter. Involving her in the danger of a second discovery, luring her into an apartment that has to tear her heart apart, could not be a friend's office. The greatest anger of the general could not be on himself, what he could be on a daughter; and she also thought that the exam itself would be more satisfying if it were conducted unaccompanied. It would be impossible to explain to Eleanor the suspicion from which, in all likelihood, the other had been happily exempted so far; Therefore, she could not search in her presence for those proofs of the general's cruelty that may not have yet been discovered, she was sure that something would emerge in the form of a fragmented diary that would continue until her last breath. On the way to the apartment, she was now completely mistress; and since she wanted to get it over before Henry's return, which was expected the next day, there was no time to lose. The day was bright, her courage great; at four o'clock the sun was now two hours above the horizon, and it would retreat only half an hour earlier than usual to dress.
It was done; and Catherine found herself alone in the gallery before the clocks stopped beating. There was no time to think; she hurried on, slipping through the gullwing doors with the slightest noise, and rushing towards the one without stopping to see or breathe. The castle gave way to her hand, and fortunately without grumpy noises that might worry a person. On tiptoe she entered; the room was in front of her; but it took a few minutes before she could take another step. She saw what fixed her in place and shook every train. She saw a large, well-proportioned apartment, a pretty dimity bed set up as uninhabited by a maid, a bright bath stove, mahogany cabinets and neatly painted chairs on which the warm rays of a western sun happily fell through two windows! Catherine had expected her feelings to work, and they worked. Astonishment and doubt seized them; and a beam of common sense shortly thereafter added some bitter feelings of shame. She couldn't be wrong about the room; but how grossly mistaken in everything else! – in Miss Alsina's meaning, in her own calculation! This apartment, to which she had given such an old date, such a terrible situation, proved to be an end to what the general's father had built. There were two other doors in the chamber, which probably led into dressing cabinets; but she also had no desire to open up. Would the veil in which Mrs. Alsina had last walked, or the volume in which she had last read, remain to tell what no one else was allowed to whisper? No: Whatever the general's crimes may have been, he certainly had too much wit to have them sued for discovery. She was tired of exploring everything and only wished to be safe in her own room, with her own heart, initiated only in its folly; and she was about to retreat as quietly as she had entered, as the sound of footsteps, she could hardly say where, she stopped and trembled. To be found there, even by a servant, would be unpleasant; but from the general (and he always seemed to be there when you needed him least), much worse! She listened – the sound had stopped; She decided not to lose a moment, went through and closed the door. At that moment, a door was hastily opened underneath; someone seemed to climb the stairs with quick steps, whose head she still had to pass before she could reach the gallery. She had no strength to move. With a not very definable sense of horror, she turned her eyes to the stairs, and in a few moments she gave Henry in her gaze. "Sir. Alsina!" she exclaimed with a voice of more than ordinary amazement. He also looked amazed. "Good God!" she continued, without caring about his speech. "How did you get here? How did you get up the stairs?"
"How did I get up the stairs!" he replied very surprised. "Because it is my next way from the stable yard to my own chamber; and why shouldn't I come up with it?"
Catherine remembered, blushed deeply and could not say anything more. He seemed to look for this explanation in her facial expression, which her lips did not grant. She went on to the gallery. "And may I not ask on my part," he said as he pushed open the gullwing door, "how you got here? This passage is at least as extraordinary a path from the breakfast salon to your apartment as this staircase from the stables to mine can be."
"I was," said Catherine, looking downstairs, "to see your mother's room."
"My mother's room! Is there anything extraordinary to see there?"
"No, nothing at all. I thought you didn't want to come back until tomorrow."
"I didn't expect to be able to return earlier when I left; but three hours ago I had the pleasure of finding nothing to stop me. You look pale. I'm afraid I scared you by running up the stairs so fast. Maybe you didn't know – you weren't aware that they lead away from the general offices?"
"No, I wasn't. You had a very nice day for your ride."
"Very; and does Eleanor leave it to you to find your way around all the rooms of the house on your own?"
"Oh! No; she showed me most of it on Saturday – and we came here to these rooms – but only" – she lowered her voice – "Your father was with us."
"And that prevented you from doing so," said Henry, looking at her seriously. "Have you looked at all the rooms in this hallway?"
"No, I just wanted to see – Isn't it very late? I have to go and get dressed."
"It's only quarter past four" and pointed to his watch – "and you're not in Bath now. No theatre, no rooms to prepare for. Half an hour in Northanger must be enough."
She could not contradict him and therefore allowed herself to be restrained, although she felt the desire to leave him for the first time in her acquaintance for fear of further questions. They slowly walked up the gallery. "Have you received a letter from Bath since I saw you?"
"No, and I'm very surprised. Bella so faithfully promised to write directly."
"So faithfully promised! A faithful promise! That confuses me. I heard of a faithful performance. But a faithful promise – the fidelity of the promise! However, it is a power that is worth little to know as it can deceive and hurt you. My mother's room is very spacious, isn't it? Big and cheerful looking, and the wardrobes so well ordered! It always seems to me to be the coziest apartment in the house, and I am rather surprised that Eleanor should not take it to herself. She sent you to look at it, I suppose?"
"No."
"It was entirely your own work?" Catherine said nothing. After a brief silence, during which he had watched her closely, he added: "Since there is nothing in the room that could arouse curiosity, this must have come from a sense of respect for my mother's character, as described by Eleanor honors her memory. I don't think the world has ever seen a better woman. But it is not often that the virtue of such an interest can boast. The domestic, unpretentious merits of an unknown person don't often produce that kind of fervent, reverent tenderness that would prompt a visit like yours. Eleanor, I suppose, talked a lot about her?"
"Yes, a lot. That's – no, not much, but what she said was very interesting. Their sudden death" (spoken slowly and with hesitation), "and you – none of you were at home – and your father, I thought – may not have liked them very much."
"And from these circumstances," he replied (his quick eye fixed on hers), "maybe you close the probability of negligence – some" – (involuntarily she shook her head) – "or it could be – something even more unforgivable." She looked at him more than she had ever done before. "My mother's illness," he continued, "the seizure that ended with her death came suddenly. The disease itself, from which she had often suffered, a bile fever, its cause therefore constitutional. In short, on the third day, as soon as she was up for grabs, a doctor came to her, a very decent man with whom she always had great confidence. According to his opinion of their danger, two others were summoned the next day and remained in presence almost constantly for twenty-four hours. On the fifth day she died. As her illness progressed, Frederick and I (we were both at home) saw her repeatedly; and from our own observation we can testify that she has received all possible attention that could spring from the affection of her environment or that her life situation might require. Poor Eleanor was absent and so far away that she only returned to see her mother in her coffin."
"But your father," Catherine said, "was he sick?"
"For a while even very much. They were wrong to assume that he was not attached to her. He loved her, I'm convinced, as much as he could – you know, we don't all have the same tenderness – and I don't want to say that she may not have done it often while she lived much to endure, but although his temperament hurt her, his judgment never did. He sincerely appreciated them; and, though not forever, he was truly affected by her death."
"I'm very happy about it," said Catherine; "it would have been very shocking!"
"If I understand you correctly, you have expressed such a terrible assumption that I have hardly any words for it – dear Miss Fenmore, consider the terrible nature of the suspicions you harbor. How did you judge? Think of the country and the age we live in. Remember that we are English, that we are Christians. Turn to your own understanding, your own sense of probability, your own observation of what is going on around you. Does our education prepare us for such atrocities? Do our laws agree with them? Could they be committed unnoticed in a country like this, where social and literary traffic is on such a basis, where every person is surrounded by a neighborhood? of volunteer spies, and where streets and newspapers reveal everything? Dearest Miss Fenmore, what ideas did you admit?"
They had reached the end of the gallery, and with tears of shame she ran away to her own room.
Chapter 210
The whole society was hoping for a letter from Mr. Mitchell the next morning, but the mail came without a single line from him. His family knew him as a highly negligent and hesitant correspondent on all ordinary occasions; but at such a time they had hoped for effort. They had to conclude that he had no good news to send; but even that they would have liked to have been safe. Mr. Lockhart had just been waiting for the letters before he left.
When he was gone, they were sure to receive constant information about what was going on, and her uncle promised at the farewell to persuade Mr. Mitchell to return to Longbourn as soon as possible, to the great consolation of his sister, who saw it as the only certainty that her husband would not be killed in a duel.
Mrs. Lockhart and the children were to stay in Hertfordshire for a few more days, as the former thought their presence might benefit their nieces. She shared her presence with Mrs. Mitchell and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Her other aunt also visited her frequently, and always, as she said, with the aim of cheering her up and cheering her up – although she never came without reporting a new case of Waterhouse's extravagance or irregularity, she rarely walked away without leaving them more discouraged than she found them.
All of Meryton seemed to be striving to blacken the man who just three months ago had been almost an angel of light. He was declared a debtor to every merchant of the place, and his intrigues, all honored with the title of seduction, had spread to the family of every merchant. Everyone declared that he was the most evil young man in the world; and all began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not endorse more than half of what was said, believed enough to make her earlier assurance of her sister's demise safer; and even Jane, who believed even less in it, became almost hopeless, especially now that the time had come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never been completely desperate about before, they must have received some news from them.
Mr. Lockhart left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday, his wife received a letter from him; it told them that when he arrived, he had immediately tracked down his brother and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Mitchell had been in Epsom and Clapham before his arrival, but without receiving satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the major hotels in the city, as Mr. Mitchell thought it was possible that on their first arrival in London, they had gone to one of them before getting a place to stay. Mr. Lockhart himself did not expect this measure to succeed, but since his brother was eager to help him, he intended to help him with it. He added that Mr. Mitchell currently seems completely averse to leaving London and promised to write again very soon. There was also an epilogue:
"I wrote to Colonel Forster and asked him, if possible, to find out from some of the young man's confidants in the regiment whether Waterhouse has any relatives or connections who probably know in which ?? Part of the city he now keeps himself hidden. If there was someone to turn to with the likelihood of receiving such a hint, it could be crucial. At present, we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster, dare I say, will do everything in his power to satisfy us in this regard. But on closer reflection, Lizzy might be able to tell us what relationships he has now, better than any other person."
Elizabeth was not embarrassed to understand where this reverence for her authority came from; but it was not in their power to provide as satisfying information as the compliment deserved. She had never heard of him having any relatives, except for a father and a mother, both of whom had been dead for many years. However, it was possible that some of his companions could give more information in the floodplain; and while she didn't expect it to be very confident, the application was something she could look forward to.
Every day in Longbourn was now a day of fear; but the most anxious part of everyone was when the mail was expected. The arrival of letters was the great object of impatience every morning. Through letters, everything good or bad was communicated, and each following day should bring important news.
But before they heard about Mr. Lockhart again, a letter arrived for their father, from another side, from Mr. Collins; who, since Jane had received instructions to open everything that came for him in his absence, read them accordingly; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked at them and read them as well. It was as follows:
'MY DEAR LORD,
'I feel called by our relationship and my life situation to express my condolences to you for the grave sorrow you are now suffering from, of which we were informed yesterday by a letter from Hertfordshire. Rest assured, sir, that Mrs. Collins and I sincerely sympathize with you and all your respectable family in your present distress, which must be of the most bitter kind, because it comes from a cause that no time can eliminate. For my part, no arguments should be missing that can mitigate such a grave misfortune or comfort you, in circumstances that must be the most distressing of all others for the soul of one parent. On the other hand, the death of your daughter would have been a blessing. And it is all the more deplorable because there is reason to believe, as my dear Charlotte tells me, that this licentiousness of your daughter's behavior has arisen from a flawed degree of leniency; but at the same time, I tend to yours and Mrs. Mitchell's consolation to the assumption that her own disposition must be inherently bad, or she might not be guilty of such monstrosity at such a young age. Whatever that may be, you are very sorry; I agree with this opinion not only Mrs Collins, but also Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have communicated the matter. You agree with me that this wrong step in one daughter will harm the fate of everyone else; for who, as Lady Catherine herself says condescendingly, will join such a family? And this reflection also leads me to reflect with increased satisfaction on a particular event last November; for if it had been otherwise, I would have been involved in all your sorrow and shame. Let me advise you, dear Lord, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw your unworthy child out of your affection forever and let him reap the fruits of his own heinous crime.
"I am, dear Sir, etc., etc."
Mr. Lockhart did not write again until he received a response from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing pleasant to send. It was not known that Waterhouse had a single relationship with which he was in any connection, and it was certain that he had no one around who lived. His earlier acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not seem as if he had a special friendship with any of them. So there was no one to point out who could give news about him. And in the miserable state of his own finances, in addition to his fear of being discovered by Linda's relatives, there was a very strong motive for secrecy, because it had just turned out that he had left behind gambling debts of a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be needed to settle his expenses in Brighton. He owed a lot in the city, but his honor debts were even more enormous. Mr. Lockhart did not attempt to hide these details from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. 'A player!' She cried. "This is completely unexpected. I had no idea about it."
Mr. Lockhart added in his letter that they could expect to see their father at home the next day, Saturday. Rendered mindless by the poor success of all their efforts, he had yielded to his brother-in-law's request to return to his family, leaving it to him to do whatever he deems advisable to continue their persecution. When Mrs. Mitchell learned of this, she did not express as much satisfaction as her children had expected, considering how great her concern for his life had been before.
"What, does he come home and without poor Linda?" She cried. "Of course he won't leave London until he finds them. Who is going to fight Waterhouse and get him to marry her if he gets away?"
When Mrs. Lockhart wished to be at home, it was agreed that she and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Mitchell came from London. The carriage therefore took her on the first leg of her journey and brought her master back to Longbourn.
Mrs. Lockhart walked away in all the confusion about Elizabeth and her friend from Derbyshire who had visited her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned by her niece before them; and the kind of half-expectation that Mrs. Lockhart had aroused that a letter from him would follow them had led nowhere. Elizabeth had not received one since her return that could have come from Pemberley.
The current unhappy state of the family made any other excuse for their dejection unnecessary; therefore, nothing could reasonably be inferred from this, although Elizabeth, who was quite familiar with her own feelings at the time, was fully aware that she could have endured the fear of Linda's shame a little better if she had not known about Drury. It would have saved her one of two sleepless nights, she thought.
When Mr. Mitchell arrived, he had all the semblance of his usual philosophical serenity. He said as little as he ever used to say; did not mention with a word the business that had taken him away, and it took some time for his daughters to have the courage to talk about it.
It wasn't until the afternoon, when he had joined them over tea, that Elizabeth dared to introduce the subject; and when she briefly expressed her grief at what he must have suffered, he replied, "Don't say anything about it. Who should suffer but myself? It was my own work, and I should feel it."
"You can't be too strict with yourself," Elizabeth replied.
"You can warn me well of such an evil. Human nature is so susceptible to it! No, Lizzy, let me feel once in my life how much I am to blame. I'm not afraid of being overwhelmed by the impression. It will pass soon enough."
"Do you think they're in London?"
'Yes; where else can they be hidden so well?'
"And Linda used to want to go to London," Kitty added.
"Then she is happy," her father said dryly; 'and their stay there will probably be of some duration.'
Then, after a short silence, he continued
,
"Lizzy, I have no grudge against you because you were justified to me last May with your advice, which testifies to a certain greatness of mind in view of the event."
They were interrupted by Miss Mitchell, who fetched her mother's tea.
"This is a parade," he exclaimed, "which is good; it gives misfortune such elegance! On another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my night hat and powder coat, and put in as much effort as I can; or maybe I can postpone it until Kitty runs away."
"I'm not going to run away, Dad," Kitty said restlessly. If I ever went to Brighton, I would behave better than Linda."
"YOU're going to Brighton. I wouldn't trust you as close as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I've finally learned to be careful, and you'll feel the effects of it. No officer is ever allowed to enter my house again, not even to cross the village. Balls are absolutely forbidden unless you get up with one of your sisters. And you must never move out the door until you can prove that you have spent ten minutes every day sensibly.'
Kitty, who took all these threats seriously, began to cry.
"Well," he said, "don't make yourself unhappy. If you're a good girl for the next ten years, I'll take you back at the end.'
Chapter 211
If Sir Thomas could have seen all the feelings of his niece when she wrote her first letter to her aunt, he would not have despaired; for a good night's sleep, a pleasant morning, the hope of seeing William again soon, and the comparatively quiet state of the house, as Tom and Charles went to school, Sam worked on his own project and her father at his usual lounges, allowed her to express herself cheerfully on the subject of home, but according to her own perfect consciousness many disadvantages were suppressed. If he had only been able to see half of what she felt before the end of a week, he would have thought Mr. Dorset was safe and rejoiced in his own acumen.
Before the week ended, everything was a disappointment. First of all, William was gone. The Thrush had received her orders, the wind had changed, and it was sailed within four days of her arrival in Portsmouth; and in those days she had seen him only twice briefly and hastily when he had come ashore in service. There had been no free entertainment, no walk on the ramparts, no visit to the shipyard, no acquaintance with the thrush, none of everything they had planned and relied on. Everything in that neighborhood let her down, except William's affection. His last thought when he left the house was for her. He stepped back to the door to say, "Watch out for Esther, Mother. She is tender and not used to roughing it like the rest of us. I urge you to take care of Esther."
William was gone, and the house he had left her in was, Esther could not hide it, in almost every way the exact opposite of what she could have wished for. It was the abode of noise, disorder and impropriety. No one was in their right place, nothing was done as it should be. She couldn't respect her parents as much as she had hoped. Her trust in her father had not been rosy, but he was more negligent towards his family, his habits were worse and his manners rougher than they had expected. He didn't want skills, but he had no curiosity and no information beyond his profession; he only read the newspaper and the navy list; he spoke only of the shipyard, the harbour, Spithead and the Motherbank; he cursed and he drank, he was dirty and disgusting. She had never been able to remember anything that came close to tenderness in his previous dealings with himself. Only a general impression of roughness and volume had remained; and now he almost never noticed them, but to make them the subject of a crude joke.
Her disappointment with her mother was greater: she had hoped a lot there and found almost nothing. Any flattering plan to matter to them soon fell to the ground. Mrs. Price was not rude; but instead of gaining her affection and trust and becoming more and more expensive, her daughter never met with greater kindness than on the first day of her arrival. Nature's instinct was soon satisfied, and Mrs. Price's attachment had no other source. Her heart and time were already full; she had neither leisure nor affection to give Esther. Her daughters had never been much to her. She loved her sons, especially William, but Betsey was the first of her girls she had ever held in high esteem. She was most unreasonably lenient towards her. William was her pride and joy; Betsey her darling; and John, Richard, Sam, Tom, and Charles took turns occupying the rest of their maternal care with their worries and comforts. They shared her heart: she devoted her time mainly to her house and her servants. She spent her days in a kind of slow hustle and bustle; everything was busy without getting ahead, always afterwards and whining, without changing their ways; want to become an economist, without invention or regularity; dissatisfied with their servants, without the ability to make them better, and whether she helps them, rebukes them or gives in to them, without the power to gain their respect. always lagging behind and lamenting it without changing their ways; want to become an economist, without invention or regularity; dissatisfied with their servants, without the ability to make them better, and whether she helps them, rebukes them or gives in to them, without the power to gain their respect. always lagging behind and lamenting it without changing their ways; want to become an economist, without invention or regularity; dissatisfied with their servants, without the ability to make them better, and whether she helps them, rebukes them or gives in to them, without the power to gain their respect.
Of her two sisters, Mrs. Price resembled Lady Schmidt much more than Mrs. Norris. She was a manager out of necessity, without Mrs. Norris' inclination to do so or her job. Her nature was light and sluggish, like lady Schmidt's; and a situation of similar prosperity and inaction would have been much more appropriate to her ability than the efforts and self-denials of those into whom her unwise marriage had brought her. She could have made as good a woman of prestige as Lady Schmidt, but Mrs. Norris would have been a more respectable mother of nine low-income children.
Esther could only consciously perceive much of this. She may have scruples about using these words, but she had to and had the feeling that her mother was a partisan, ill-judgmental mother, a junker, a slut who neither taught nor held back her children, whose house was the scene of mismanagement and mismanagement of discomfort from start to finish, and who had no talent, no conversation, had no affection for himself; no curiosity to get to know them better, no desire for their friendship and no inclination towards their company that could diminish their sense of such feelings.
Esther was very anxious to be useful and not to appear above her home or to be in any way disqualified or averse by her foreign education to contribute her help to his comfort, and therefore immediately set about working for Sam; and by working early and late, with perseverance and great speed, he did so much that the boy was eventually taken away with more than half of his laundry. She took great pleasure in feeling its usefulness, but could not imagine how they would have gotten along without them.
Sam, loud and presumptuous as he was, she regretted quite a bit when he left, for he was smart and intelligent and happy to be busy with every errand in the city; and although she rejected Susan's accusations as they were, though they were very reasonable in themselves, with outdated and powerless warmth, she began to be influenced by Esther's services and gentle beliefs; and she found that the best of the three younger ones had disappeared in him: Tom and Charles were at least as many years away from this age of feelings and reason as his younger ones, which could indicate how expedient it is to make friends and strive to be less uncomfortable. Her sister soon despaired of making the slightest impression on her; They were quite untamable by all the means of salutation that she was able to try or had time. Every afternoon brought a return of their extravagant games throughout the house; and she learned very early to sigh as Saturday's constant half holiday approaches.
Also, Betsey, a spoiled child who was raised to consider the alphabet to be her greatest enemy, stayed with the servants at will, and was then encouraged to report all evil from them, was almost as willing to despair, love, or help; and she had many doubts about Susan's temperament. Her constant disagreements with her mother, her hasty quarrels with Tom and Charles, and her irritability with Betsey were at least so disturbing to Esther that, although she admitted that they were by no means without provocation, she was afraid of the predisposition that could drive her to such a length, she must be anything but gracious and not give herself rest.
This was the house that would drive Mansfield out of her head and teach her to think of her cousin Edmund with moderate feelings. On the contrary, she could not think of anything other than Mansfield, his beloved inmates, his cheerful ways. Everything she was now was in full contrast to that. The elegance, decency, regularity, harmony and perhaps above all the peace and tranquility of Mansfield were recalled to her at every hour of the day by the predominance of everything that was opposite to them here.
Living in incessant noise was an evil for a physique and a tender and nervous temperament like Esther's, for which no additional elegance or harmony could have completely atone. It was the greatest misery of all. In Mansfield, there were never any sounds of argument, no raised voice, no abrupt outbursts, no footsteps of violence; all proceeded in a regular run of cheerful order; everyone had their due importance; everyone's feelings were questioned. If tenderness could ever be considered a deficiency, common sense and good education gave their place; and the little irritations that Aunt Norris sometimes caused were short, they were insignificant, they were like a drop of water in the ocean, compared to the incessant tumult of her present residence. Here everyone was loud, every voice was loud (except perhaps that of her mother, who resembled the gentle monotony of Lady Schmidt, only carried in restlessness). Whatever was intentional, there was shouting, and the servants shouted their apologies from the kitchen. The doors slammed continuously, the stairs never stood still, nothing happened without rattling, no one sat still, and no one could attract attention when he spoke.
In a review of the two houses that appeared to her before the end of a week, Esther was tempted to apply Dr. Johnson's famous judgment on marriage and celibacy to her, saying that although Mansfield Park might be in some pain, Portsmouth could not have any joy.
Chapter 212
Emma spent the evening thinking about the pitifulness of a plan for Box Hill. How the rest of the party would think about it, she could not say. They could look back on it with joy in their different homes and on their different paths; but in her opinion, it was a morning that was completely wasted, that at that time was completely devoid of rational satisfaction and more to be detested in memory than anyone she had ever experienced. A whole back-gammon evening with her father was her luck. There was indeed true pleasure in this, for there she gave up the sweetest hours of the twenty-four for his convenience; and the feeling that, however undeserved the degree of his tender affection and trusting appreciation may be, she could not be subject to any serious reproach in her general behavior. As a daughter, she hoped that she was not without a heart. She hoped no one could have told her, "How could you be so callous to your father? I must, I will tell you the truth as long as I can." Miss Bates should never again – no, never! If attention could eliminate the past in the future, it might hope for forgiveness. She had often been negligent, her conscience told her; careless, perhaps more in thoughts than in facts; sneering, unfriendly. But it shouldn't be like that anymore. In the warmth of true remorse, she would visit them the very next morning, and it would in turn be the beginning of a regular, equal, friendly relationship. her conscience told her; careless, perhaps more in thoughts than in facts; sneering, unfriendly. But it shouldn't be like that anymore. In the warmth of true remorse, she would visit them the very next morning, and it would in turn be the beginning of a regular, equal, friendly relationship. her conscience told her; careless, perhaps more in thoughts than in facts; sneering, unfriendly. But it shouldn't be like that anymore. In the warmth of true remorse, she would visit them the very next morning, and it would in turn be the beginning of a regular, equal, friendly relationship.
She was just as determined when the morning came, and left early that nothing could stop her. It was not unlikely, she thought, that she could see Mr. Hill on her way; or maybe he came in while she was paying her visit. She didn't mind. She would not be ashamed of the appearance of repentance, so rightly and truly to her. Her eyes were on Donwell as she walked, but she didn't see him.
"The ladies were all at home." She had never before rejoiced at the sound, had ever entered the corridor or walked up the stairs before, with the desire to give pleasure, but to transfer obligations or derive them, except in subsequent mockery.
When they approached, there was a lot of activity; move and talk a lot. She heard the voice of Miss Bates that something urgently needed to be done; the maid looked frightened and awkward; hoped she would like to wait a moment, and then led her in too early. Aunt and niece both seemed to flee to the next room. Jane, on whom she had a clear view, looked very sick; and before the door locked her out, she heard Miss Bates say, "Well, my dear, I'll say you're lying on the bed, and I'm sure you're sick enough."
Poor old Mrs. Bates, polite and humble as always, looked like she didn't quite understand what was going on.
"I'm afraid Jane isn't doing very well," she said, "but I don't know; They tell me she's fine. I dare say that my daughter will be right here, Miss Lodge. I hope you find a chair. I wish Hetty hadn't left. I'm very incapable – Do you have a chair, Ma'am? Do you sit where you like it? I'm sure she'll be right here."
Emma sincerely hoped she would. She was afraid for a moment that Miss Bates would stay away from her. But Miss Bates came soon – "very happy and committed" – but Emma's conscience told her that she no longer had the same cheerful talkativeness as before – less serene looks and manners. A very friendly request for Miss Saxon, she hoped, could point the way to a return of old feelings. The touch seemed instantaneous.
"Ah! Miss Lodge, how friendly you are! – I assume you have heard it – and have come to bring us joy. That doesn't seem to be much joy in me in fact – (waving away a tear or two) – but it will be very hard for us to part with her after having had her for so long, and she now has terrible headaches I write all morning: – so long letters, you know, to Colonel Campbell and Mrs. Dixon. "My dear," I said, "you will blind yourself" – because there were tears in her eyes all the time. You can't be surprised, you can't be surprised. It's a big change; and although she is incredibly lucky – a situation that probably no young woman has ever experienced when she first went out – do not consider us ungrateful, Miss Lodge, for such a surprising happiness – (again driving away her tears) – but, poor dear soul! if you would see what a headache she has. When you're in a lot of pain, you know you can't feel a blessing the way it deserves. It is as low as possible. Looking at her, no one would think how pleased and happy she is to have secured such a situation. You will apologize for not coming to you – she can't – she went to her own room – I want her to lie down on the bed. "My dear," I said, "I will say you are lying on the bed." But it is not; She walks around the room. But now that she's written her letters, she says she'll be fine soon. She will be very sorry not to see you, Miss Lodge, but your kindness will excuse her. They made you wait at the door – I was very ashamed – but somehow there was a bit of hustle and bustle – because we hadn't heard the knocking, and until you were on the stairs, we didn't know anyone was coming. "It's just Mrs. Cole," I said, "rely on it. No one else would come so early.' "Well," she said, "it has to be endured at some point, and it may as well be now." But then Patty came in and said it was you. 'Oh!' I said, 'it's Miss Lodge. I'm sure you'll love to see them." – "I can't see anyone," she said; and she got up and wanted to go away; and that was what caused us to make you wait – and we were very sorry and ashamed. 'If you have to go, my dear,' I said, 'you must, and I will say you have laid down on the bed.'" and said it was you. 'Oh!' I said, 'it's Miss Lodge. I'm sure you'll love to see them." – "I can't see anyone," she said; and she got up and wanted to go away; and that was what caused us to make you wait – and we were very sorry and ashamed. 'If you have to go, my dear,' I said, 'you must, and I will say you have laid down on the bed.'" and said it was you. 'Oh!' I said, 'it's Miss Lodge. I'm sure you'll love to see them." – "I can't see anyone," she said; and she got up and wanted to go away; and that was what caused us to make you wait – and we were very sorry and ashamed. 'If you have to go, my dear,' I said, 'you have to, and I will say you've laid down on the bed.'"
Emma was genuinely interested. Her heart had long since become friendlier to Jane; and this image of her present sufferings acted as a remedy for any previous unkind suspicion, leaving her with nothing but compassion; and the memory of the less just and less gentle feelings of the past forced her to admit that Jane could very naturally decide to see Mrs. Cole or another firm friend if she might not be able to bear to see herself. She spoke as she felt with serious regret and concern – and sincerely wished that the circumstances she learned from Miss Bates in order to actually be decided could be as much to Miss Saxon's advantage and comfort as possible. "It must be a difficult test for all of them. She understood that it should be postponed until the return of Colonel Campbell."
"So very nice!" replied Miss Bates. "But you're always nice."
There was no such "always"; and to break through her terrible gratitude, Emma made the direct request to ...
"Where to go – may I ask? – is Miss Saxon driving?"
"To a Mrs. Smallridge – a charming woman – highly superior – to look after her three little girls – adorable children. Impossible that any situation could be full of comfort; if we perhaps exclude Mrs. Suckling's own family and Mrs. Bragge's; but Mrs. Smallridge is familiar with both of them and is in the same neighborhood: – lives just four miles from Maple Grove. Jane will only be four miles from Maple Grove."
"Woman. Alton, I suppose, was the person who owes something to Miss Saxon...""
"Yes, our good Mrs. Alton. The most tireless, true friend. It would not accept rejection. She wouldn't let Jane say 'no'; for when Jane first heard about it (it was the day before yesterday, the very morning we were in Donwell), when Jane heard about it for the first time, she was strongly opposed to accepting the offer, for the reasons you mentioned; Just as you say, she had set out not to finish with anything until Colonel Campbell returned, and nothing was going to get her into an engagement now – and she kept telling Mrs. Alton this – and I'm sure she had no idea she would change her mind! – but this good Mrs. Alton, whose judgment she never lets down, looked further than I did. It is not every body that would have been as kind as she was and refused to accept Jane's answer; but she resolutely stated that yesterday she would not write such a rejection as Jane wished her to; she would wait – and in fact it was decided last night that Jane should leave. Quite a surprise for me! I didn't have the slightest idea! Jane took Mrs. Alton aside and immediately told her that after thinking about the benefits of Mrs. Smallridge's situation, she had decided to accept her. – I didn't know a word about it until everything was settled."
"You spent the evening with Mrs. Alton?"
"Yes, all of us; Mrs. Alton wanted us to come. It was set up so on the hill while we walked around with Mr. Hill. 'You all have to spend your evening with us,' she said, 'I absolutely have to let you come.'"
Hill was there too, wasn't he?"
"No, not Mr. Hill; he rejected it from the beginning; and even though I thought he was coming because Mrs. Alton said she wouldn't let him go, he didn't – but my mom, Jane, and I were all there, and we had a very pleasant evening. Such friendly friends, you know, Miss Lodge, you always have to find pleasant, although every body seemed quite exhausted after the morning party. You know, even pleasure tires – and I can't say that any of them seemed to have enjoyed it very much. However, I will always find it a very pleasant celebration and feel extremely committed to the friendly friends who have included me in it."
"Miss Saxon, I suppose even though you weren't aware of it, did you decide all day?"
"I dare say she had it."
"Whenever the time comes, it must be unwelcome to her and all her friends – but I hope her engagement will receive every possible relief – I mean, in terms of the character and manners of the family."
"Thank you, dear Miss Lodge. Yes, indeed, there is everything in the world that can make them happy in it. Apart from the Sucklings and Bragges, there is no such liberal and elegant nursery in the whole acquaintance of Mrs. Alton. Mrs. Smallridge, a delightful woman! – A lifestyle almost equal to that of Maple Grove – and as far as the kids are concerned, except for the little Sucklings and the little Bragges, nowhere else are there such elegant sweet children. Jane will be treated with such respect and kindness! – It will be nothing but pleasure, a life full of pleasure. – And their salary! – I really can't dare tell you her salary, Miss Lodge. Even you, who are used to large sums of money, would hardly believe that so much can be given to a young person like Jane."
"Ah! Madam," cried Emma, ?"?" if other children are at all like myself, as I remember, I would consider five times what I have ever mentioned as salary on such occasions to be expensively earned."
"You are so noble in your ideas!"
"And when will Miss Saxon leave you?"
"Very soon, really very soon; that's the worst. Within two weeks. Mrs. Smallridge is in a hurry. My poor mother can't stand it. Then I try to banish it from their thoughts and say, "Come, Ma'am, let's not think about it any further."
"Your friends must be sorry to lose them; and won't Colonel and Mrs. Campbell regret that she got engaged before her return?"
"Yes; Jane says she's sure they will; but still, this is a situation in which she cannot feel entitled to refuse. I was so amazed when she first told me what she had said to Mrs. Alton, and when Mrs. Alton came at the same moment and congratulated me on it! It was before the tea – stay – no, it couldn't be before the tea because we just wanted to play cards – and yet it was before the tea because I remember thinking – oh! no, now I remember, now I have it; Something happened before the tea, but it didn't. Mr. Alton was called out of the room before the tea, the son of old John Abdy wanted to talk to him. Poor old John, I appreciate him very much; he was my poor father's employee for twenty-seven years; and now, the poor old man, he is bedridden and very sick with rheumatic gout in his joints – I have to visit him today; and so Jane, I'm sure she'll come out at all. And the son of poor John came to talk to Mr. Alton about the relief of the community; he is very wealthy, you know, as a superior at the crown, as a stable servant and so on, but he still cannot keep his father without help; So when Mr. Alton came back, he told us what John Ostler had told him, and then it came out that the carriage had been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Curcelle to Richmond. So it was before the tea. After tea, Jane talked to Mrs. Alton." he told us what John Ostler had told him, and then it came out that the carriage had been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Curcelle to Richmond. So it was before the tea. After tea, Jane talked to Mrs. Alton." he told us what John Ostler had told him, and then it came out that the carriage had been sent to Randalls to take Mr. Frank Curcelle to Richmond. So it was before the tea. After tea, Jane talked to Mrs. Alton."
Miss Bates would hardly give Emma time to say how completely new this circumstance was for her; but since, without thinking it possible that she did not know any details about Mr. Frank Curcelle's departure, she gave them all, it was irrelevant.
What Mr. Alton had learned from the stableman on this subject was the accumulation of the stableman's own knowledge and the knowledge of the servants of Randalls that a messenger from Richmond had come out of Box Hill shortly after the return of the group – which messenger had not been more than expected; and that Mr. Curcelle had sent his nephew a few lines, which by and large contained a tolerable account of Mrs. Curcelle, wishing only that he should not delay his return beyond the next morning; but since Mr. Frank Curcelle had decided to go straight home without waiting at all, and his horse had apparently caught a cold, Tom had immediately been sent to the Crown Chaise, and the servant had noticed and had seen it drive by, the boy is going at a good pace and driving very evenly.
There was nothing to surprise or interest in any of this, and it didn't catch Emma's attention until it connected with the topic she was already dealing with. The contrast between Mrs. Curcelle's importance in the world and that of Jane Saxon struck her; one was everything, the other nothing – and she sat there?? and pondered the different fates of the women and was completely unaware of what their eyes were fixed on until she was startled by Miss Bates' saying:
"Yes, I understand what you are thinking, the pianoforte. What will become of it? - Very true. Poor, dear Jane was just talking about it. "You have to go," she said. "You and I have to separate. You won't have anything to look for here. But let it stay," she said; "Give him room until Colonel Campbell returns. I will talk to him about it; he will be content with me; he will help me out of all difficulties.' – And I think she still doesn't know if it was his gift or that of his daughter."
Now Emma had to think of the pianoforte; and the memory of all her earlier imaginative and unfair assumptions was so unpleasant that she soon allowed herself to believe that her visit had been long enough; and with a repetition of everything she dared to say about the good wishes she really felt, she said goodbye.
Chapter 213
It was early February; and Anne, who had been in Bath for a month, was very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme. She wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated. It had been three weeks since she had heard anything at all. All she knew was that Grace was back home; and that Lois, although believed to recover quickly, was still in Lyme; and one evening she thought very intensely of all of them when a thicker letter than usual was delivered to her by Mary; and, to speed up the pleasure and surprise, with the compliments of Admiral and Mrs. Field.
The Field must be in Bath! A circumstance that interests them. They were people to whom their hearts turned naturally.
"What is it?" cried Mr. Walter. "The fields have arrived in Bath? The fields that Kellynch rented? What did they bring you?"
"A letter from Uppercross Cottage, sir."
"Oh! These letters are convenient passports. You secure an idea. However, I should have definitely visited Admiral Field. I know what my tenant is entitled to."
Anne could no longer listen; she could not even have said how the poor admiral's face escaped; her letter kept her busy. It had been started a few days ago.
"1 February.
What terrible weather we had! In Bath with its beautiful sidewalks, it may not be felt; but in the countryside it is of some importance. I haven't received a call since the second week of January, except for Charles Hayter, who had called much more often than desired. Among us said, I think it's a shame that Grace hasn't stayed in Lyme as long as Lois; it would have gotten them a little out of his way. The carriage is gone today to bring Lois and the Chevals tomorrow. However, we are not asked to dine with them until the next day, because Mrs. Cumberland is so afraid that she might be exhausted from the trip, which is not very likely considering how you take care of her; and it would be much more convenient for me to dine there tomorrow. I am glad that you find Mr. Hightower so pleasant, and wish I could get to know him too; but I have my usual luck: I am always out of the way when something desirable is going on; always the last of my family to be noticed. What a tremendous amount of time Mrs Clay spent with Elizabeth! Does she never want to leave? But maybe she wouldn't invite us if she left the space free. Let me know what you think. I don't expect my kids to be asked, you know. I can leave them very well in the Big House, for a month or six weeks. I heard at that moment that the fields go to Bath almost immediately; they consider the admiral to be sick with gout. Charles heard it quite by chance; They didn't have the courtesy to notify me or offer to accept anything. I don't think they improve as neighbors at all. We don't see any of them, and that's really an example of gross inattention. Charles joins me in love, and all right. Sincerely,
"Maria M---.
"I'm sorry to say that I'm anything but healthy; and Jemima just told me that the butcher says there are a lot of bad sore throats. I dare say that I will get it; and my sore throat, you know, is always worse than anyone."
Thus ended the first part, which had later been put into an envelope that contained almost as much more.
because he and the Chevals had been invited; and what do you think was the reason? Nothing more and nothing less than his love for Lois and his decision not to venture to Uppercross until he received an answer from Mr. Cumberland; for everything was settled between him and her before she left, and he had written from Captain Cheval to her father. That's right, with my honor! Are you amazed? I'll at least be surprised if you've ever received a hint of it, because I never did. Mrs Cumberland solemnly asserts that she was unaware of the matter. However, we are all very satisfied, because although it is not equal to her marriage to Captain Cambridge, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr. Cumberland has written his approval, and Captain Bean is expected today. Mrs. Cheval says her husband is comfortable because of his poor sister; but, Lois is a big favorite with both. In fact, Mrs. Cheval and I agree that we love her all the more because we have cared for her. Charles wonders what Captain Cambridge will say; but if you remember, I never thought he was attached to Lois; I could never see any of it. And this is the end of Captain Bean, who is supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could put something like this in his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope it will be more pleasant now. Certainly not a great match for Lois Cumberland, but millions of times better than getting married under the Hayters." I could never see any of it. And this is the end of Captain Bean, who is supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could put something like this in his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope it will be more pleasant now. Certainly not a great match for Lois Cumberland, but millions of times better than getting married under the Hayters." I could never see any of it. And this is the end of Captain Bean, who is supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could put something like this in his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope it will be more pleasant now. Certainly not a great match for Lois Cumberland, but millions of times better than getting married under the Hayters."
Mary should not have feared that her sister was in any way prepared for the news. Never before in her life had she been so amazed. Captain Bean and Lois Cumberland! It was almost too wonderful to believe, and it took her the greatest effort to stay in the room, maintain an atmosphere of calm and answer the usual questions of the moment. Luckily for them, there weren't many. Sir Walter wanted to know if the Fields were travelling with four horses and if they were probably in a part of Bath who would visit Miss Hightower and himself; but had little curiosity beyond that.
"How is Mary?" said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer: "And please, what brings the Fields to Bath?"
"They come at the expense of the admiral.
"Gout and old age!" said Mr. Walter. "Poor old gentleman."
"Do they have any acquaintances here?" asked Elisabeth.
"I don't know; but I can hardly imagine that he should not have many acquaintances during Admiral Field's lifetime and in his profession in a place like this."
"I suspect," Sir Walter said coolly, "that Admiral Field in Bath will be best known as a tenant of Kellynch Hall. Elizabeth, may we dare introduce him and his wife to Laura Place?"
"Oh, no! I don't think so. As we are with Lady Galloway, cousins, we should be very careful not to embarrass her with an acquaintance she may not approve of. If we weren't related, wouldn't it mean that we cousins?? That is why we have tabled a motion for a resolution calling on the Commission and the Council to take the necessary steps to ensure that the European Parliament is fully involved in the work of the European Parliament We had better leave the fields to find our own level. There are several strange-looking men walking around here who, as I've been told, are sailors. The fields will interact with them."
This was sir Walter and Elizabeth's interest in the letter; When Mrs. Clay paid tribute with more decent attention in an investigation into Mrs. Charles Cumberland and her fine little boys, Anne was at large.
In her own room, she tried to understand it. Perhaps Charles is wondering how Captain Cambridge would feel! Maybe he had stocked the field, had given up on Lois, had stopped loving, had realized that he didn't love her. She couldn't stand the idea of betrayal or recklessness or anything like evildoers between him and his friend. She could not bear that such a friendship as hers should be ended in an unfair way.
Captain Bean and Lois Cumberland! The cocky, cheerfully speaking Lois Cumberland and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading Captain Bean each of them seemed to be anything that would not suit the other. Your opinions vary greatly! Where could the attraction have been? The answer soon arose. It had been in the situation. They had been thrown together for several weeks; they had lived in the same small family society: since Grace had left, they must have been almost completely dependent on each other, and Lois, who was recovering from an illness, was in an interesting state, and Captain Bean was not heartbroken. This was a point that Anne had not been able to avoid before; and instead of drawing the same conclusions as Mary from the present course of events, they only served to confirm the idea that he had felt a certain tenderness towards her. However, she didn't want to get much more out of it to satisfy her vanity than Mary might have allowed. She was convinced that any reasonably pleasant young woman who had listened to him and felt with him would have received the same compliment. He had a loving heart. He must love someone.
She saw no reason not to be happy. Lois had a great emotional zeal from the beginning, and soon they would become more and more similar. He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be enthusiastic about Scott and Lord Byron; no, that was probably already learned; of course they had fallen in love with poetry. The idea of Lois Cumberland turned into a person with literary taste, and sentimental reflections were amusing, but she had no doubt about it. The day in Lyme, the fall from the Cobb, could have had as lasting an impact on her health, her nerves, her courage, her character until the end of her life as it seems to have influenced her fate.
The conclusion of the whole thing was that if the woman who had been aware of Captain Cambridge's merits could be allowed to prefer another man, there was nothing in the engagement to cause lasting miracles; and if Captain Cambridge didn't lose a friend as a result, it certainly wasn't to be regretted. No, it was no regret that made Anne's heart beat and the color in her cheeks when she thought of the unleashed and free Captain Cambridge. She had some feelings that she was ashamed to examine. They were too much like joy, senseless joy!
She longed to see the fields; but when the meeting took place, it was obvious that they had not yet reached a rumor of the news. The ceremonial visit was paid for and returned; and Lois Cumberland was mentioned, and also Captain Bean, without even half a smile.
The Fields had settled in accommodation on Gay Street, to Sir Walter's satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance and actually thought and talked much more about the admiral than the admiral had ever thought or talked about him.
The Fields knew as many people in Bath as they wanted and regarded their dealings with the Hightowers as a mere formality that would not give them the slightest pleasure. They brought with them their land habit of almost always being together. He was ordered to leave to avoid gout, and Mrs. Field seemed to share everything with him and to go for her life to do him good. Anne saw her wherever she was going. Lady Russell took her in her carriage almost every morning, and she never failed to think of her, and she never failed to see her. Knowing her feelings, it was an extremely attractive image of happiness for her. She always watched them as long as she could, and happily imagined herself to understand what they were talking about as they walked away in happy independence.
Anne was too busy with Lady Russell to go for a walk herself often; but one morning, about a week or ten days after the field arrived, it suited her best to leave her friend or her friend's carriage in the lower part of town and return alone to Camden Place and into when she walked up Milsom Street, she was lucky enough to meet the admiral. He stood alone at a shop window of a printing house, hands on his back, and seriously looked at some kind of pressure, and not only could she have passed him unnoticed, but she also had to touch and address him before she noticed him. However, when he perceived and acknowledged them, it was done with all his usual openness and good humor. "Ha! Is it you? Thank you, thank you. That means treating me like a friend. Here I am, you see, staring at a picture. I can't get past this shop without stopping. But what a thing is here, by a boat! Look at it. Have you ever seen something like this? What strange guys do your good painters have to be to believe that someone would dare their life in such a formless old shell as this? And yet here two gentlemen are stuck in their comfort and look around the rocks and mountains, as if they should not be upset in the next moment, which they certainly have to be. I wonder where this boat was built!" (laughs heartily); "I wouldn't venture across a horse pond with it. Well," (turns away), "well, where have you gone? Can I go anywhere for you or with you? Can I be of use?" Have you ever seen anything like this? What strange guys do your good painters have to be to believe that someone would dare their life in such a formless old shell as this? And yet here two gentlemen are stuck in their comfort and look around the rocks and mountains, as if they should not be upset in the next moment, which they certainly have to be. I wonder where this boat was built!" (laughs heartily); "I wouldn't venture across a horse pond with it. Well," (turns away), "well, where have you gone? Can I go anywhere for you or with you? Can I be of use?" Have you ever seen anything like this? What strange guys do your good painters have to be to believe that someone would dare their life in such a formless old shell as this? And yet here two gentlemen are stuck in their comfort and look around the rocks and mountains, as if they should not be upset in the next moment, which they certainly have to be. I wonder where this boat was built!" (laughs heartily); "I wouldn't venture across a horse pond with it. Well," (turns away), "well, where have you gone? Can I go anywhere for you or with you? Can I be of use?" as if they wouldn't get upset the next moment, which they certainly have to be. I wonder where this boat was built!" (laughs heartily); "I wouldn't venture across a horse pond with it. Well," (turns away), "well, where have you gone? Can I go anywhere for you or with you? Can I be of use?" as if they wouldn't get upset the next moment, which they certainly have to be. I wonder where this boat was built!" (laughs heartily); "I wouldn't venture across a horse pond with it. Well," (turns away), "well, where have you gone? Can I go anywhere for you or with you? Can I be of use?"
"None, thank you, unless you give me the pleasure of your company on the small path that brings our path together. I'm going home."
"That's what I want, with all my heart, and even further. Yes, yes, we will have a leisurely walk together, and I have something to tell you along the way. There, take my arm; that's right; I don't feel comfortable if I don't have a wife there. Lord! what a boat is that!" took one last look at the picture as they set off.
"Did you say you had something to tell me, sir?"
"Yes, I have now. But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I'll just say, 'How are you?' when we come by. I will not stop. "How are you?" Brigden stares to see someone next to me, except my wife. She, the poor soul, is tied to her leg. She has a blister on one of her heels, the size of a three-shilling piece. If you look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand come down and his brother. Both shabby guys! I'm glad they're not on that side of the road. Sophy can't stand them. You once played a pathetic prank on me: you got away with some of my best men... I'll tell you the whole story another time. Here comes the old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he sees us; he kisses your hand; he thinks you are my wife. Ah! Peace has come too soon for this boy, poor old Sir Archibald! How are you enjoying Bath, Miss Hightower? It suits us very well. We always meet with some old friend; the streets are full of them every morning; certainly a lot to chat about; and then we get away from them all and lock ourselves in our accommodations and pull up our chairs and are as cozy as if we were in Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even in North Yarmouth and Deal. We don't like our accommodations here any worse, I can tell you that because we remember the ones we first had in North Yarmouth. Likewise, the wind blows through one of the closets." and are as cozy as if we were in Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be in North Yarmouth and Deal. We don't like our accommodations here any worse, I can tell you that because we remember the ones we first had in North Yarmouth. Likewise, the wind blows through one of the closets." and are as cozy as if we were in Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be in North Yarmouth and Deal. We don't like our accommodations here any worse, I can tell you that because we remember the ones we first had in North Yarmouth. In the same way, the wind blows through one of the cabinets."
When they were a little further, Anne dared to push again for what he had to say. She hoped, when she had left Milsom Street, to have satisfied her curiosity; but she still had to wait, because the admiral had decided not to start until they had gained the greater space and tranquility of Belmont; and since she wasn't really Mrs Field, she had to give him his way. As soon as they drove quite far up Belmont, he began –
"Well, now you're going to hear something that will surprise you. But first you have to tell me the name of the young lady I'm going to talk about. That young lady, you know, we've all been so worried about. Miss Cumberland, to whom all this happened. Her first name: I always forget her first name."
Anne had been ashamed to comprehend as quickly as she really did; but now she could confidently suggest the name "Lois".
the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; because this young lady, the same Miss Cumberland, is supposed to marry James Bean instead of marrying Frederick. You know James Bean."
"A little bit. I know Captain Bean a little bit."
"Well, she's supposed to marry him. No, most likely they are already married, because I don't know what to wait for."
"I thought Captain Bean was a very pleasant young man," Anne said, "and I understand that he has an excellent character."
"Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Bean. He's just a commander, it's true, made last summer, and these are bad times to move forward, but he has no other fault than I assure you, an excellent, kind-hearted guy, and also a very active, eager officer, which is perhaps more than you would think, because this gentle nature does not do him justice.
"In fact, you are wrong there, sir; I would never predict lack of spirit from the manners of Captain Bean. I found them particularly pleasant, and I will stand up for them, they would generally be liked."
"Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Bean is pretty much too piano for me; and while it's most likely all of our bias, Sophy and I can't help but find Frederick's manners better than his. Frederick has a little more to offer our taste."
Anne was caught. She had only wanted to contradict the all too widespread idea that spirit and gentleness were incompatible, in no way did she want to portray Captain Bean's manners as the very best possible; and after a short hesitation, she began to say, "I didn't want to compare the two friends," but the admiral interrupted her with –
"And the thing is certainly true. It's not just gossip. We got it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday telling us about it, and he had just received it in a letter from Cheval, written on the spot, from Uppercross. I suppose they're all in Uppercross."
This was an opportunity that Anne could not resist; She said, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Cambridge's letter that could particularly worry you and Mrs. Field. Last fall, it seemed as if there was a bond between him and Lois Cumberland; but I hope it can be understood that it is worn out on both sides equally and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of a badly treated man.
"Not at all, not at all; there is no oath or grumbling from start to finish."
Anne looked down to hide her smile.
"No, no; Frederick is not a man to complain and complain; he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man more, it's very fitting that she should have him."
"Sure. But what I mean is that I hope that nothing in Captain Cambridge's spelling makes you suspect that he thinks he is being abused by his friend, which might seem like it is said absolutely. I should be very sorry that such a friendship that existed between him and Captain Bean should be destroyed or even hurt by a circumstance of this kind.
"Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing of the sort in the letter. He doesn't care about Bean in the slightest; he doesn't even say, 'That surprises me, I have a reason for it, my own, because I wondered about it.' No, you wouldn't deduce from his way of writing that he ever thought of this miss (what was her name?) for himself. He very much hopes that they will be happy together, and there is nothing very unforgivable about that, I think."
Anne did not receive the perfect conviction that the admiral wanted to convey, but it would have been useless to move the investigation further. She was therefore content with ordinary remarks or silent attention, and the admiral had it entirely according to his will.
"Poor Frederick!" he finally said. "Now he has to start again with someone else. I think we need to bring him to Bath. Sophy has to write and ask him to come to Bath. Pretty girls are enough here, I'm sure you'll go back to Uppercross, because this other Miss Cumberland, I think, was ordered by her cousin, the young pastor. Don't you think, Miss Hightower, we'd better try to bring him to Bath?"
Chapter 214
Edward, who had given his thanks to Colonel Bridgerton, went on with his luck to Lucy; and when he reached Bartlett's Buildings, it was so exaggerated that she could assure Mrs. Jennings, whom she visited again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such a mood in her life.
Their own happiness and mood were at least very safe; and she warmly joined Mrs. Jennings in her expectation that they would all be comfortably together at Delaford Parsonage in front of Michaeli. At the same time, she was so far from any backwardness to pay Eleanore the honor Edward would bestow upon her that she spoke with the most grateful warmth of her friendship for both of them, was willing to admit all her commitment to her, and openly stated that no effort for her good on the part of Miss Hargrove, either now or in the future, she would ever be surprised because she believed that she was able to do anything in the world for those she truly appreciated. As for Colonel Bridgerton, she was not only willing to venerate him as a saint, but was also genuinely concerned that he should be treated as one in all worldly affairs; Concerned that his tithe should be elevated to the utmost; and hardly determined to help himself in Delaford, as far as she could, his servants, his carriage, his cows and his poultry.
It had now been over a week since John Hargrove had stopped by Berkeley Street, and since they had not taken notice of his wife's illness apart from a verbal question, Eleanore began to consider it necessary to pay her a visit. However, this was a commitment that not only ran counter to their own inclination, but was also not supported by any encouragement from their companions. Marianne, who was not satisfied with absolutely refusing to leave herself, tried very hard to prevent her sister from walking at all; and Mrs. Jennings, although her carriage was always at Eleanore's service, did not like Mrs. John Hargrove so much that not even her curiosity to see how she cared about the late discovery, nor her strong desire to offend her by taking on Edward's role, could overcome her reluctance to be back in her company.
Mrs. Hargrove was rejected; but before the carriage could turn off the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed his great joy at meeting Eleanore, told her that he was about to stop by Berkeley Street, and assured her that Esther would be very happy to see her and invited her to come in.
They went up the stairs to the salon. - No one was there.
"Esther is in her own room, I suppose," he said, "I'm about to go to her, because I'm sure she won't have the slightest objection in the world to see you." It can't be right NOW – but you and Marianne have always been big favourites. – Why shouldn't Marianne come?" –
Eleanore apologized for her as best she could.
"I'm not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "because I have a lot to tell you. This life of Colonel Bridgerton – can it be true? – Did he really give it to Edward? – I heard it yesterday by chance and came to you on purpose to inquire further about it.
"It's perfectly true. Colonel Bridgerton gave Edward the livelihood of Delaford."
"Really! – Well, that's very amazing! – No relationship! – No connection between them! – And now that livelihoods fetch such a price!
"About two hundred a year."
"Very well – and for the next presentation of a livelihood of this value – suppose the late incumbent had been old and sickly and would probably vacate it soon – then he might have received fourteen hundred pounds, dare I say. And how did he come about? not to have settled this matter before the death of this person? – NOW it would actually be too late to sell them, but a man of Colonel Bridgerton's mind!! – Well, I am convinced that there is a great deal of contradiction in almost every human character, but I suppose if I remember that the case could probably be like this: Edward is only supposed to keep the livelihood up to the person to whom the colonel really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it over. - Yes, yes, that's the fact, rely on it.
However, Eleanore strongly disagreed with him; and by telling that she herself was busy transmitting Colonel Bridgerton's offer to Edward, and therefore had to understand the conditions under which it was given, she obliged him to submit to her authority.
"It's really amazing!" he shouted after hearing what she said, "what could be the motive of the colonel?"
"A very simple one - to be of use to Mr. Gastonois."
"All right; whatever Colonel Bridgerton may be, Edward is a very happy man. However, they will not mention the matter to Esther, because although I have taught her and she endures it very well , she will not like to hear how much is talked about it."
Eleanore had some trouble here to refrain from remarking that she thought Esther could have endured with serenity an acquisition of wealth for her brother that could potentially impoverish neither her nor her child.
"Ms. Gastonois," he added, lowering his voice in the tone that became such an important issue, "doesn't know anything about it right now, and I think it will be best to tell her so?? to remain completely silent for as long as possible." When the wedding takes place, I'm afraid she'll have to know all about it."
"But why should such a precaution be taken? – Although it cannot be assumed that Ms Gastonois can have the slightest satisfaction at knowing that her son has enough money to live on – because THAT does not have to be an option at all; nor why should she feel at all about her late behavior?—She has killed her son, she has rejected him forever, and all those over whom she had influence have also rejected him, and one cannot imagine that she suffers the impression of sorrow or joy because of him – she cannot be interested in anything, what happens to him. – She wouldn't be so weak as to throw away a child's comfort, and yet keep a parent's fear!"
"Ah! Eleanore," John said, "Your reasoning is very good, but it is based on ignorance of human nature. and therefore any circumstance that could accelerate this terrible event must be hidden from it as much as possible. Mrs. Gastonois can never forget that Edward is her son.
"You surprise me; I should think that it must have almost escaped her at THIS point."
"You hurt her a lot. Mrs. Gastonois is one of the most loving mothers in the world."
Eleonore remained silent.
"We are thinking NOW," said Mr. Hargrove after a short break, "that ROBERT is marrying Miss Morton."
Eleanore, smiling at the serious and crucial importance of her brother's tone, replied calmly,
"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the matter."
"Choice! – what do you mean by that?"
"I just mean that, in your way of speaking, I assume that it must be the same for Miss Morton whether she marries Edward or Robert."
"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert is now considered the eldest son in every way; – and as far as everything else is concerned, they are both very pleasant young men: I don't know that one is superior to the other."
Eleanore said nothing more, and John also remained silent for a short time. - This is how his deliberations ended.
It would have been incomparable," she said, "the least evil of both, and she would be happy NOW to pay for nothing worse." But all of this is completely out of the question – not to think about or mention – in terms of any attachment you know – it could never be – all of this has passed. But I thought I'd just tell you this because I knew how much you must like it. Not that you have reason to repent, my dear Eleanore. There is no doubt that you are doing extraordinarily well – quite well, or better perhaps, all in all. Has Colonel Bridgerton been with you lately?" all of this is out of the question – not to think about it or mention it – in terms of any stubbornness you know – it could never be – all of this has passed. But I thought I'd just tell you this because I knew how much you must like it. Not that you have reason to repent, my dear Eleanore. There is no doubt that you are doing extraordinarily well – quite well, or better perhaps, all in all. Has Colonel Bridgerton been with you lately?" all of this is out of the question – not to think about it or mention it – in terms of any stubbornness you know – it could never be – all of this has passed. But I thought I'd just tell you this because I knew how much you must like it. Not that you have reason to repent, my dear Eleanore. There is no doubt that you are doing extraordinarily well – quite well, or better perhaps, all in all. Has Colonel Bridgerton been with you lately?"
Eleanore had heard enough to satisfy her vanity and increase her complacency to arouse her nerves and fill her mind – and she was therefore glad to be spared the need to answer a lot herself, and the danger of hearing anything more from her brother from the entry of Mr. Robert Gastonois. After a short conversation, John Hargrove, remembering that Esther was not yet aware of her sister's presence, equipped the room in search of her. and Eleanore was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, through the cheerful carelessness and happy complacency of his behavior, while enjoying such an unfair division of his mother's love and generosity, to the detriment of his exiled brother, earned only by his own extravagant resume and the integrity of this brother,
They had barely been alone for two minutes when he started talking about Edward; because he too had heard of the living and was very curious about the topic. Eleanore repeated the details of how she had given it to John; and her effect on Robert, although very different, was no less striking than she had been on HIM. He laughed very excessively. The idea that Edward was a clergyman and lived in a small rectory distracted him beyond measure – and when the imaginative imagery of Edward, who reads prayers in a white choir shirt and publishes the contingent of the marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could not imagine anything more ridiculous.
Eleanore, while waiting in silence and unshakable seriousness for the conclusion of such folly, could not prevent her eyes from fixing him with a look that expressed all the contempt he aroused. However, it was a very good look, because it calmed their own feelings and did not give him intelligence. He was called back from joke to wisdom, not by a rebuke from her, but by his own sensitivity.
I couldn't believe it. — My mother was the first to tell me about it; and I felt called upon to act decisively, and immediately said to her, "My dear Madam, I do not know what you intend to do on this occasion, but as far as I am concerned, I must say that if Edward marries this young woman, I will never see him again." I said that immediately. – I was really shocked! – Poor Edward! – he has completely taken care of himself – forever excluded himself from all decent society! – but, as I said directly to my mother, I am not at all surprised by this; it was always to be expected from his parenting style. My poor mother was half beside herself." My dear Madam, I don't know what you plan to do on this occasion, but I have to say that if Edward marries this young woman, I will never see him again." I said that immediately. – I was really shocked! – Poor Edward! – he has completely taken care of himself – forever excluded himself from all decent society! – but, as I said directly to my mother, I am not at all surprised by this; it was always to be expected from his parenting style. My poor mother was half beside herself." My dear Madam, I don't know what you plan to do on this occasion, but I have to say that if Edward marries this young woman, I will never see him again." I said that immediately. – I was really shocked! – Poor Edward! – he has completely taken care of himself – forever excluded himself from all decent society! – but, as I said directly to my mother, I am not at all surprised by this; it was always to be expected from his parenting style. My poor mother was half beside herself." – he took care of himself – forever excluded himself from all decent company! it was always to be expected from his parenting style. My poor mother was half beside herself." – he took care of himself – forever excluded himself from all decent company! it was always to be expected from his parenting style. My poor mother was half beside herself."
"Have you ever seen the lady?"
I should have said, "Consider what you're doing. You make an extremely shameful connection, and one like your family unanimously disapproves." In short, I can't help but think that funds might have been found. But now it's all too late. He must have starved to death, you know; – that's for sure; absolutely starved."
He had just settled this point with great serenity when the entry of Mrs. John Hargrove put an end to the subject. But although SHE never talked about it outside of her own family, Eleanore could see his influence on her mind in the somewhat confused face with which she entered and an attempt at cordiality in her behavior toward herself. She even went so far as to worry when she realized that Eleanore and her sister would leave the city as soon as she had hoped to see more of them — an effort in which her husband, who followed her into the room and hung in love with her accent, seemed to distinguish everything that was most loving and graceful.
Chapter 215
Two days after Mr. Mitchell's return, when Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the bushes behind the house, they saw the housekeeper approaching them and came to the conclusion that she had come to call her to her mother and walked towards her; But instead of the expected summons when they approached her, she said to Miss Mitchell, "I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I had hoped you might have good news from the city, so I took her to freedom to ask."
"What do you think, Hill? We haven't heard anything about the city."
"Dear Sir or Madam," Cried Mrs. Hill in Astonishment, "don't you know that Mr. Lockhart has a rush assignment for the Lord? He's been here for half an hour, and Master has received a letter."
The girls ran away, too eager to get in to have time to talk. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast room; from there to the library; her father was not in either of them; and they were about to look for him upstairs with their mother when the butler came up to them, who said
,
"If you are looking for my master, Ma'am, he is heading towards the little grove."
On this news, they immediately crossed the hall again and walked across the lawn after their father, who deliberately followed his way to a grove on one side of the paddock.
Jane, who wasn't as easy and didn't like to run as much as Elizabeth, soon stayed behind while her sister, gasping for air, came up with him and eagerly shouted
,
"Oh, Dad, what news – what news? Have you heard of my uncle?"
"Yes, I received an urgent letter from him."
"Well, and what news does it bring - good or bad?"
"What good can be expected?" he said, taking the letter out of his pocket. "But you might want to read it."
Elizabeth impatiently caught it out of his hand. Jane came up now.
"Read it out loud," said her father, "because I hardly know what it's all about."
"Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
'MY DEAR BROTHER,
'Finally I can convey to you some messages from my niece, and those that I hope will give you satisfaction on the whole. Shortly after you left me on Saturday, I was lucky enough to find out in which ?? Part of London they stayed. I reserve the details until we meet; it is enough to know that they have been discovered. I saw them both..."
"Then it's as I always hoped," Jane shouted; 'You are married!'
Elisabeth continued to read:
"I have seen them both. They are not married, and I cannot say that this was intentional; but if you are willing to fulfill the commitments that I have dared to make alongside you, I hope that it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is to assure your daughter, by comparison, her equal share of the five thousand pounds due to your children after the death of you and my sister; and also to make a commitment to grant her a hundred pounds a year during her lifetime. All in all, these are conditions that I have fulfilled without hesitation, as far as I considered myself privileged, for you. I will send this by express so that no time is lost in bringing me your answer. From these details, you will easily understand that Mr. Waterhouse's situation is not as hopeless as is commonly believed. The world has been deceived in this regard; and I am happy to say that there will be a little money, even if all his debts are settled, to pay my niece in addition to her own assets. If, as I note, you give me full authority to act on your behalf in all this business, I will immediately give Haggerston instructions to prepare a proper settlement. There will not be the slightest opportunity to come back to the city; Therefore, stay calm in Longbourn and rely on my diligence and care. Return your response as soon as possible and be sure to write explicitly. We thought it was best that my niece from this house should be married, and I hope you will agree with that. She is coming to us today. I will write again as soon as something else arises. Your etc.
'EDW. GARDENER.'
'Is it possible?' elizabeth shouted when she was done. 'Is it possible for him to marry her?'
"So Waterhouse isn't as undeserved as we thought," her sister said. My dear father, I congratulate you."
"And did you answer the letter?" cried Elisabeth.
'No; but it has to happen soon.'
In the most serious way, she then asked him not to waste any more time before he wrote.
'Oh! my dear father, she called, come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case.'
"Let me write for you," Jane said, "if you don't like the effort itself."
"I don't like it very much," he replied; 'but it has to be done.'
And so he said, turned around with them and went to the house.
"And may I ask," elizabeth said; 'but the conditions, I suppose, must be respected.'
'Adhered to! I'm just ashamed that he demands so little."
"And they MUST get married! And yet he is SUCH a man!'
"Yes, yes, they have to get married. There is nothing more to do. But there are two things I really want to know; one is how much money your uncle has deposited to make it happen; and the other, how am I ever going to pay him?'
'Money! My uncle!' cried Jane, 'what do you mean, Lord?'
"I mean that no reasonable man would marry Linda with as little temptation as a hundred a year during my life and fifty after my death."
"This is very true," Elizabeth said; 'although it hadn't occurred to me before. His debts must be paid, and something remains! Oh! it must be the work of my uncle! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has put himself in distress. A small sum could not do all this.'
"No," said her father; "Waterhouse is a fool when he takes her with a penny of less than ten thousand pounds. I would be sorry to think so badly of him, at the very beginning of our relationship.'
"Ten thousand pounds! God forbid! How is such a half sum to be repaid?'
Mr. Mitchell did not answer, and everyone remained silent in thought until they reached the house. Her father then went on to the library to write, and the girls went to the breakfast room.
'And they should really get married!' elizabeth shouted as soon as they were alone. "How strange that is! And we are grateful for that. That they should get married, as little as their chance of happiness and as miserable as his character is, we must rejoice. Oh Linda!'
"I take comfort in the thought," Jane replied, "that he certainly wouldn't marry Linda if he didn't really appreciate her. Although our friendly uncle did something to relieve him, I can't believe that ten thousand pounds or anything like that were advanced. He has children of his own and maybe even more. How could he do without half tens of thousands of pounds?"
"If he could ever know what Waterhouse's debt is," Elizabeth said, "and what his debts are to our sister, we'll know exactly what Mr. Lockhart did for her, because Waterhouse doesn't have six pence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be reciprocated. That they bring her home and give her her personal protection and attitude is such a sacrifice to her advantage, as years of gratitude cannot acknowledge enough. At this point, she is actually with them! If such kindness does not make her unhappy now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her when she sees my aunt for the first time!'
"We have to make an effort to forget everything that happened on both sides," Jane said. "I hope and trust that they will still be happy. His agreement to marry her is proof, I believe, that he has come to a right mindset. Their mutual affection will strengthen them; and I imagine that they will settle down so calmly and live so rationally that in time they will forget their former unwiseness."
"Your behavior has been like that," Elizabeth replied, "that neither you nor I nor anyone can ever forget. It's pointless to talk about it.'
Now it occurred to the girls that their mother was in all probability completely ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library and asked their father if he wanted them to tell her. He wrote and replied coolly, without raising his head,
'Just as you please.'
"May we take my uncle's letter with us to read to her?"
'Take what you want and disappear.'
Elizabeth took the letter from his desk, and they went upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Mitchell, so communication would be enough for everyone. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Mitchell could hardly control herself. As soon as Jane read Mr. Lockhart's hope for Linda's imminent marriage, her joy broke out, and every subsequent sentence contributed to her exuberance. She was now as irritated with delight as she had ever been fidgety with horror and anger. Knowing that her daughter would get married was enough. She was not disturbed by any fear for her bliss, nor humiliated by any reminder of her misconduct.
'My dear, dear Linda!' She cried. "This is really delightful! She will get married! I will see them again! She will get married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew what it would be like. I knew he could do anything! How I long to see them! and also to see the dear Waterhouse! But the dresses, the wedding dresses! I'm going to write about it directly to my sister Lockhart. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I'll go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I'm going to put on my clothes right away. My dear, dear Linda! How happy we will be together when we meet!'
Her eldest daughter tried to bring some relief to the violence of these transports by directing her thoughts to the obligations to which Mr. Lockhart's behavior imposed them all.
"Because we have to attribute this happy conclusion to a large part of his kindness," she added. We are convinced that he has agreed to support Mr. Waterhouse financially."
"Well," her mother exclaimed, "it's all right; Who should do it if not her own uncle? If he hadn't had a family of his own, I and my children would have had all his money, you know; and it's the first time we've gotten anything from him, except for a few gifts. So! I am so happy! In a short time I will marry a daughter. Mrs Waterhouse! How good it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I'm so excited that I certainly can't write; so I'm going to dictate, and you're writing for me. We will settle the money with your father afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately.'
She then went over to all the details about Kattun, Muselin and Batist and would soon have dictated some very plentiful orders if Jane had not persuaded her, albeit with some difficulty, to wait until her father had time to be consulted. A delay of one day, she noted, would be of little significance; and her mother was too happy to be as stubborn as usual. Other plans also came to her mind.
"I will go to Meryton," she said, "as soon as I get dressed, and bring the good, good news to my sister Philips. And when I come back, I can visit Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. Airing would do me a lot of good, I'm sure. Girl, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes hills! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Linda will get married; and you should all have a bowl of punch to be happy at their wedding.'
Mrs. Hill immediately began to express her joy. Elizabeth accepted her congratulations among the others and then, tired of this stupidity, took refuge in her own room so that she could think in freedom.
Poor Linda's situation must be bad enough at best; but she had to be grateful that it wasn't worse. She felt it that way; and although neither reasonable happiness nor worldly prosperity could rightly be expected for her sister looking ahead, looking back on what they had feared just two hours ago, she felt all the benefits of what they had gained.
Chapter 216
Esther was right, if she didn't expect to hear about Miss Dorset as quickly as their correspondence had begun; Mary's next letter came after a decidedly longer pause than the last, but she wasn't right in assuming that such a break would be a great relief for her. Here was another strange revolution of the mind! She was really happy to receive the letter when it came. In her current banishment from good society and far from anything she had previously been interested in, a letter written with affection and a certain degree of elegance from someone who belonged to the circle in which her heart lived was quite acceptable. The usual plea for increasing engagements was used as an excuse for not writing to her earlier; "And now that I have begun," she continued, "my letter will not be worth your reading, for in the end there will be no small gift of love, no three or four lines dispassionately from the most devoted HC in the world, for Henry is in Norfolk; Shops called him to Everingham ten days ago, or maybe he just pretended to call to travel at the same time as you. But there he is, and by the way, his absence may adequately explain his sister's negligence in writing, because there was no "Well, Mary, when do you write to Esther? Isn't it time to write Esther?' to spur me on. Finally, after several attempts at encounters, I have your cousins ?? seen, "the dear Julia and the dearest Mrs. Rushmore"; they found me at home yesterday, and we were happy to see each other again. We seemed very happy to see each other, and I really think we were a little happy. We had a lot to say. Should I tell you what Mrs. Rushmore looked like when your name was mentioned? Before, I didn't think she lacked self-control, but she didn't have quite enough for yesterday's demands. On the whole, Julia looked the best of the two, at least after you were mentioned. From the moment I spoke of "Esther" and spoke of her, as a sister should do, the face color was unrecognizable. But Mrs. Rushmore's day of good looks will come; We have tickets for their first party on 28. Then it will be in beauty, because it will open one of the best houses on Wimpole Street. I was in it two years ago when it belonged to Lady Lascelle, and I prefer it to almost everyone else in London I know, and surely then, to use a vulgar expression, she will feel that she has earned her money for her money. Henry could not have afforded her such a house. I hope she will remember this and, as best she can, be content to move the queen of a palace, although the king may seem best in the background; and since I have no desire to annoy her, I will never force your name on her again. She will gradually become sober. From what I hear and suspect, Baron Wildenheim continues to devote himself to Julia, but I don't know if he has any serious encouragement. She should do better. A poor venerable man is not a catch, and I can't imagine any favors in it, because take away his rants, and the poor baron has nothing. What a difference a vowel makes! If only his pensions were equal to his tirades! Your cousin Edmund moves slowly; perhaps held up by parish duties. Perhaps there is an old woman in Thornton Lacey who needs to be converted. I'm not ready to feel neglected for a boy. Adieu! My dear sweet Esther, this is a long letter from London: write me a pretty one in response to please Henry's eyes when he comes back, and send me an account of all the dashing young captains you despise for his sake."
This letter contained a lot of food for thought, mainly for unpleasant reflection; and yet, for all her discomfort, it connected her to the absent, it told her about people and things she had never felt so much curiosity about as she does now, and she would have been glad to have been sure of such a letter every week. Her correspondence with her aunt Schmidt was her only concern of higher interest.
As for any society in Portsmouth that could somehow compensate for the shortcomings at home, there was none in the circle of acquaintances of her father and mother that gave her the slightest satisfaction: she saw no one for whose benefit she wanted to overwhelm her own shyness and restraint. The men seemed very rough to her, the women very cheeky, all subjugated; and she gave as little satisfaction as she received from the introduction to either old or new acquaintances. The young ladies, who at first approached her with some respect because she came from a baronet family, were soon offended by what they called "airs"; because she neither played pianoforte nor wore beautiful pelissen, they could not grant themselves a right of superiority on closer inspection.
The first solid consolation Esther received for the evils at home, the first that her judgment could fully endorse and that promised some permanence, was a better knowledge of Susan and the hope of benefiting her. Susan had always behaved kindly to herself, but the determined nature of her general behavior had amazed and disturbed her, and it took at least fourteen days for her to begin to understand such a completely different predisposition than her own. Susan saw that there was a lot wrong at home and wanted to put it right. That a fourteen-year-old girl, acting only out of her own reason, should be wrong in the method of reform was not wonderful; and Esther soon tended more to admire the natural light of the mind, which could properly distinguish so early on, than to strictly rebuke the errors of behavior it led to. Susan only acted according to the same truths and pursued the same system that recognizes her own judgment, but which her dumber and more compliant temperament would have shied away from. Susan tried to be useful where only she could have walked and cried; and that Susan was useful, she could perceive; that things, as bad as they were, would have been worse without such intervention, and that both her mother and Betsey were held back by some excesses of very offensive indulgence and vulgarity.
In every quarrel with her mother, Susan had a logical advantage, and there was never maternal tenderness that she bought free. She had never known the blind affection that constantly produced evil around her. There was no gratitude for past or present affection to make them better endure their excesses toward others.
All of this gradually became apparent, gradually placing Susan in front of her sister as an object of mixed compassion and respect. However, Esther could not stop feeling that her behavior was wrong, sometimes very wrong, her actions often poorly chosen and at the wrong time and her appearance and language very often not justifiable; but she began to hope that they could be fixed. Susan looked up at her and wished her good opinion; and as new as it was for Esther an office of authority, as new as it was to imagine that she could guide or inform someone, she decided to give Susan occasional hints and strive to practice the fairer idea of it to her advantage everyone deserves, and what would be the smartest thing for her, what her own, ==References====External links==
Her influence, or at least the awareness and use of it, arose from an act of kindness on Susan, to which she finally worked her way up after a long hesitation of tenderness. Early on, it had occurred to her that a small sum of money might restore eternal peace over the now constantly courted silver knife and the riches that she herself, her uncle, possessed After giving her 10 pounds to say goodbye, she was as capable as she was willing to be generous. But she was so inexperienced in doing favors except the very poor, so untrained in eliminating evil or showing kindness among her peers, and so afraid to prove herself a great lady at home that it took some time to realize that it would not be unseemly to give her such a gift. However, it was finally made: a silver knife was bought for Betsey and accepted with great delight, as its novelty gave him every advantage over the other that could be desired; Susan was set up in full possession of her own, Betsey explained handsomely that she now had one herself so much prettier that she should never want that again; and the equally satisfied mother did not seem to be blamed, which Esther had considered almost impossible. The act answered thoroughly: A source of domestic strife was completely eliminated, and it was the means to open Susan's heart to her and give her something she might love more and be interested in. Susan showed that she had sensitivity: pleased as she was to become the mistress of property, for which she had fought for at least two years, fearing that her sister's judgment had been against her,
her temperament was open. She admitted her fears and blamed herself for fighting so heartily; and from that hour on, Esther understood the value of her disposition and realized how inclined she was to seek her good opinion and rely on her judgment, and began to feel again the blessings of affection and the hope of being useful to a spirit so much in need of help and so much deserved it. She gave advice, advice that was too reasonable to be resisted by a good understanding, and so gently and considerately given not to irritate an imperfect temperament, and she was fortunate enough to observe its good effects not infrequently. Nothing more was expected of someone who, while seeing all the commitment and expediency of submission and forbearance, also saw with sympathetic sharpness of feeling all that a girl like Susan has to wear down hourly. Her greatest miracle on this subject soon became – not that Susan should have been provoked into disrespect and impatience against her better knowledge – but that so much better knowledge, so many good ideas should belong to her in the first place; and that, in the midst of negligence and error, she should have formed such correct opinions about what should be; she who had no cousin Edmund to direct her thoughts or fix her principles.
The intimacy thus begun between them was a material advantage for everyone. By sitting together at the top, they avoided a large part of the disturbance of the house; Esther had peace, and Susan learned not to consider it a misfortune to be quietly busy. They sat without fire; but this was a deprivation familiar even to Esther, and she suffered less because it reminded her of the East Room. It was the only point of similarity. In terms of space, light, furniture and views, there was nothing comparable in the two apartments; and she often sighed at the memory of all her books and boxes and various amenities there. Gradually, the girls spent the boss of the morning upstairs, at first only with work and speeches, but after a few days, the memory of the said books became so strong and stimulating that Esther found it impossible not to search for books again. There were none in her father's house; but wealth is luxurious and daring, and some of her found their way into a lending library. She became a subscriber; amazed at being anything in propria persona, amazed at her own actions in every way, being a tenant, a book picker! And to have your own improvement in mind when choosing! But that's how it was. Susan hadn't read anything, and Esther longed to share her own first joys and awaken a taste for the biography and poetry she herself enjoyed. amazed at being anything in propria persona, amazed at her own actions in every way, being a tenant, a book picker! And to have your own improvement in mind when choosing! But that's how it was. Susan hadn't read anything, and Esther longed to share her own first joys and awaken a taste for the biography and poetry she herself enjoyed. amazed at being anything in propria persona, amazed at her own actions in every way, being a tenant, a book picker! And to have your own improvement in mind when choosing! But that's how it was. Susan hadn't read anything, and Esther longed to share her own first joys and awaken a taste for the biography and poetry she herself enjoyed.
In this profession, she also hoped to bury some of the memories of Mansfield that were too fitting to take up her mind when her fingers were only busy; and especially during this time, she hoped that it might be helpful to distract her thoughts from following Edmund to London, where she knew he was gone from her aunt's last letter. She had no doubts about what would follow. The promised notification hung over her head. The postman knocks in the neighborhood. began to bring its daily horrors, and if reading could banish the idea even for half an hour, it was something gained.
Chapter 217
Emma's thoughtful meditations as she went home were not interrupted; But when she entered the parkour, she found those who needed to wake her up. Mr. Hill and Harriet had arrived during their absence and were sitting with their father. Hill immediately stood up and said decidedly more seriously than usual:
"I wouldn't leave without seeing you, but I have no time to lose and therefore I have to leave immediately. I'm going to London to spend a few days with John and Bella. Do you have anything to send or say except the 'love' that no one carries?"
"Nothing at all. But isn't that a sudden plan?"
"Yes – rather – I've been thinking about it for some time."
Emma was sure that he had not forgiven her; he looked different from himself. However, time, she thought, would tell him that they should be friends again. While he stood there as if he wanted to leave, but did not leave, her father began his investigation.
"Well, my dear, and have you arrived safely? – And how did you find my worthy old friend and her daughter? Dear Emma was, to visit Mrs. and Miss Bates, Mr. Hill, as I told you earlier. She's always so attentive to them!"
Emma's color was heightened by this unjust praise; and with a smile and a shake of the head that spoke a lot, she looked at Mr. Hill. – It seemed as if an instantaneous impression was created in her favor, as if his eyes received the truth from hers, and all that went with it Past good in her feelings was immediately captured and honored.— He looked at her with a glow of respect. She was very pleased – and even more so the next moment when he noticed a small movement of more than ordinary kindness. – He took her hand; – whether she had not made the first movement herself, she could not say – she could do it, may have offered it more - but he took her hand, squeezed it and was surely about to lead her to his lips - when he suddenly let her go on some whim. - Why should he feel this? she could not see a scruple as to why he should change his mind when it was as good as done. – He would have judged better, she thought, if he hadn't stopped. – But the intention was unquestionable; and whether it was that his manners had so little gallantry at all, or whatever it happened, but she thought nothing stood up to him anymore. – It was with him, of such a simple and yet so dignified nature. – She could not help but remember the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect friendship. – He left her immediately afterwards – away in a moment. He always moved with the vigilance of a mind that could neither be indecisive nor hesitant, but now his disappearance seemed more sudden than usual. and whether it was that his manners had so little gallantry at all, or whatever it happened, but she thought nothing stood up to him anymore. – It was with him, of such a simple and yet so dignified nature. – She could not help but remember the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect friendship. – He left her immediately afterwards – away in a moment. He always moved with the vigilance of a mind that could neither be indecisive nor hesitant, but now his disappearance seemed more sudden than usual. and whether it was that his manners had so little gallantry at all, or whatever it happened, but she thought nothing stood up to him anymore. – It was with him, of such a simple and yet so dignified nature. – She could not help but remember the attempt with great satisfaction. It spoke such perfect friendship. – He left her immediately afterwards – away in a moment. He always moved with the vigilance of a mind that could neither be indecisive nor hesitant, but now his disappearance seemed more sudden than usual.
Emma couldn't regret going to Miss Bates, but she wished she had left ten minutes earlier; – it would have been a great pleasure to talk to Mr. Hill about Jane Saxon's situation. She also wouldn't regret that he should go to Brunswick Square, because she knew how much his visit would please – but it could have happened at a better time – and it would have been more pleasant to know it longer. she could not be deceived by the meaning of his facial expression and his unfinished gallantry; – everything was done to assure her that she had fully regained his good opinion. – He had sat with them for half an hour, she found. Too bad she didn't come back earlier!
Hoping to distract her father's thoughts from the inconvenience of Mr. Hill going to London; and leave so suddenly; and to go on horseback, which she knew would be very bad; Emma shared her message from Jane Saxon, and her dependence on the effect was justified; it provided a very useful check, interested without disturbing him. He had long decided to take jane Saxon off as governess and could happily talk about it, but Mr. Hill's trip to London had been an unexpected blow.
"I am indeed very happy, my dear, to hear that she has settled in so comfortably. Mrs. Alton is very good-natured and pleasant, and I dare say that her acquaintances are exactly what they should be. I hope that it is a dry situation and that good care is taken of their health. It should be a first object, as I am sure that poor Miss Taylor has always been with me. You know, my dear, she will be to this new lady what Miss Taylor was to us. And I hope she will be better off in one respect and not be made to leave after it has been her home for so long."
The following day brought news from Richmond that eclipsed everything else. An express arrived in Randalls to announce the death of Mrs. Curcelle! Although her nephew had no particular reason to rush back because of her, she had lived no more than thirty-six hours after his return. A sudden attack of a different nature than anything her general condition predicted had carried her away after a short struggle. The great Mrs. Curcelle was no more.
It was felt how such things must be felt. Every body had a certain degree of seriousness and suffering; tenderness towards the deceased, care for the surviving friends; and in a reasonable time the curiosity to know where she would be buried. Goldsmith tells us that when a beautiful woman is prone to folly, she has nothing to do but die; and if it condescends to be unpleasant, it is also recommended as a cleaner of bad repute. Mrs. Curcelle, after being disliked for at least twenty-five years, was now spoken of with compassionate affection. On one point, it was entirely justified. She had never been admitted as seriously ill. The event absolved them of all the imagination and selfishness of imaginary complaints.
"Poor Mrs. Curcelle! Without a doubt, she had suffered greatly: more than anyone had ever assumed – and continued pain would test her temperament. It was a sad event – a great shock – with all its flaws, what would Mr. Curcelle do without them? Mr. Curcelle's loss would be truly terrible. Mr. Curcelle would never get over it." – Even Mr. Winstone shook his head and looked serious and said, "Ah! Poor woman, who would have thought that!" and decided that his grief should be as beautiful as possible; and his wife sat there sighing, moralizing over her wide fringes with compassion and common sense, truthful and firm. How this would affect Frank was one of the earliest thoughts of both. It was also a very early speculation with Emma. The character of Mrs. Curcelle, the grief of her husband – her opinion fleetingly fleeting about them both with reverence and pity – and then rested with relieved feelings on how Frank might be affected by the event, how profited, how liberated. She saw all sorts of good things in a moment. Well, a bond with Harriet Smith would have nothing to counter. Mr Curcelle, independent of his wife, was not feared by anyone; a light, steerable man who can be persuaded to do anything by his nephew. All that remained was to wish that the nephew would form the bond, since Emma, for all her good will in the matter, could not feel any certainty that she was already educated. was not feared by anyone; a light, steerable man who can be persuaded to do anything by his nephew. All that remained was to wish that the nephew would form the bond, since Emma, for all her good will in the matter, could not feel any certainty that she was already educated. was not feared by anyone; a light, steerable man who can be persuaded to do anything by his nephew. All that remained was to wish that the nephew would form the bond, since Emma, for all her good will in the matter, could not feel any certainty that she was already educated.
Harriet behaved very well on this occasion, with great self-control. Whatever brighter hope she felt, she betrayed nothing. Emma was pleased to see in her such a proof of her strengthened character and refrained from any allusion that could jeopardize her continued existence. They therefore spoke with mutual forbearance about Mrs. Curcelle's death.
Randalls received short letters from Frank, sharing everything that was immediately important about her condition and plans. Mr. Curcelle was better than expected; and their first move was to take place on the departure of the funeral to Yorkshire to the house of a very old friend in Windsor, to whom Mr Curcelle had promised a visit for ten years. At the moment there was nothing to do for Harriet; Good wishes for the future were all that was still possible from Emma's side.
It was a more urgent concern to pay attention to Jane Saxon, whose prospects were coming to an end as Harriets opened up, and whose commitments now left no one in Highbury to show her kindness – and with Emma it had grown a first wish. She regretted little more than her former coldness; and the person she had neglected for so many months was now exactly the one on whom she would have wasted any difference of consideration or sympathy. She wanted to be useful to her; wanted to show a value for their society and show respect and consideration. She decided to persuade her to spend a day in Hartfield. A note was written to push for it. The invitation was declined by a verbal message. "Miss Saxon was not good enough to write;" and when Mr. Perry visited Hartfield that same morning, it seemed that she was so unwell that she had been visited by him, albeit against her own consent, and that she suffered from severe headaches and, to a certain extent, a nervous fever, which made him doubt the possibility of her visit to Mrs. Smallridge is suggested at the time. Her health seemed completely disturbed at the moment – the appetite was completely gone – and although there were no absolutely alarming symptoms, nothing to touch the lung discomfort that was the family's constant fear, Mr. Perry was worried about her. He thought she had planned more than she had grown to, and that she felt that way herself, even though she wouldn't admit it. Their mood seemed overwhelmed. Their current home, he could not help but, was unfavorable for a nervous disorder: – always limited to one room; – he could have wished for it differently – and her good aunt, although his age-old girlfriend, he has to admit that she is not the best companion for an invalid of this kind. Their care and attention could not be questioned; they were actually just too big. He was very afraid that Miss Saxon might get more evil than good out of it. Emma listened with warmest sympathy; grieved more and more for her and looked around, eager to discover a way to be useful. Taking her away from her aunt, even if it's just an hour or two, changing her air and setting, and giving her a quiet reasonable conversation, even for an hour or two, could do her good; and the next morning she wrote again to tell her, in the most soulful language she could speak, that she would pick her up in the carriage at any time Jane would call her – and mentioned that she had the firm opinion of Mr. Perry in favor of such an exercise for his patient. The answer was only in this short note:
"Miss Saxon's compliments and thanks, but is no match for any practice."
Emma felt that her own note deserved better; but it was impossible to argue with words whose trembling inequality betrayed her discomfort so clearly, and she only thought of how she could best counteract this unwillingness to be seen or helped. Despite the answer, she ordered the carriage and drove to Mrs. Bates, hoping that Jane would be made to join her – but that didn't work; – Miss Bates came to the carriage door full of gratitude, and I sincerely agree with her when I think that a broadcast could do the greatest service – and everything that this news could do was tried – but all in vain. Miss Bates had to return unsuccessfully; Jane was quite unconvinced; the mere suggestion to go out seemed to make them worse. Emma wished she could have seen them and tried out her own powers; but, almost before she could hint at the wish, Miss Bates made it seem like she had promised her niece not to let Miss Lodge in anyway — Mrs. Alton actually couldn't be denied — and Mrs. Cole had emphasized so much — and Mrs. Perry had said so much — but Jane really wouldn't see anyone except them."
Emma did not want to be one of the Mrs. Alton, Mrs. Perrys and Mrs. Cole's who would impose themselves everywhere; nor could she feel any preferential right herself – she therefore submitted and only continued to question Miss Bates about the appetite and nutrition of her niece, with whom she longed to be able to help her. On this subject, poor Miss Bates was very unhappy and very communicative; Jane would hardly eat anything: – Mr. Perry recommended nutritious food; but everything they could command (and never had such a good neighbor) was tasteless.
When Emma got home, she called the housekeeper directly to check her supplies; and some arrowroots of very superior quality were quickly sent to Miss Bates with an extremely friendly message. In half an hour, the arrowroot was brought back, with a thousand thanks from Miss Bates, but "dear Jane would not be satisfied if she was not sent back; it was a thing she couldn't stand – and besides, she insisted that she said she wasn't missing anything at all."
When Emma later heard that Jane Saxon had been seen wandering in the meadows some distance from Highbury, exactly on the afternoon of the day when, under the pretext of not being able to move, she had so resolutely refused to go out with her in the carriage, she could have no doubt - putting it all together - that Jane was determined, not to receive kindness from her. She felt sorry, very sorry. Her heart was saddened by a state that seemed all the more pitiful by this kind of excitement of spirits, contradictions in action and inequality of forces; and it shamed her that she was so little trusted with the right feeling or appreciated so little as a friend: but she had the comfort of knowing that her intentions were good and being able to tell herself that Mr.
Chapter 218
The Visions of Romance were over. Catherine had woken up completely. Henry's speech, as short as it had been, had opened her eyes to the extravagance of her late imaginations more thoroughly than all her various disappointments had done. She was most painfully humiliated. She cried the most bitterly. She was not only immersed in herself – but also in Henry. Her folly, which now even seemed criminal to him, was exposed to him, and he had to despise her forever. The freedom that her imagination had dared to take with his father's character – could he ever forgive her? The absurdity of their curiosity and fears – could they ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He had– she thought he had shown her something like affection once or twice before that fateful morning. But now – in short, she made herself as unhappy as possible for about half an hour, went down at five o'clock with a broken heart, and could hardly give an understandable answer to Eleanor's question as to whether she was doing well. The impressive Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his behavior towards her was that he paid her a little more attention than usual. Catherine had never wanted more comfort, and he looked like he was aware of it.
The evening passed without any slackening of this reassuring politeness; and their spirits were gradually raised to a modest calm. It has neither learned to forget nor defend the past; but she learned to hope that it would never happen again, and that it might not cost her all the consideration of Henry. Her thoughts still focused mainly on what she had felt and done with such gratuitous horror, nothing could be clearer in a nutshell than that everything had been a voluntary, self-generated deception, that every insignificant circumstance had taken on meaning from an alarmed imagination, and that everything had been forced to bow to a purpose, by a spirit who, before entering the abbey, had longed to be afraid. She remembered the feelings with which she had prepared for the knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,
as enchanting as all the works of Mrs. Radcliffe were, and enchanting even as the works of all her imitators, it was perhaps not in them that human nature was to be sought, at least in the English Midland counties. Of the Alps and Pyrenees with their pine forests and their vices, they could give a faithful description; and Italy, Switzerland and the south of France could be as fruitful in horrors as they were portrayed there. Catherine did not dare to doubt beyond her own country, and even that, if it had been persistent, would have yielded to the northern and western ends. But in the central part of England there was certainly a certain certainty for the existence of even an unloved woman in the laws of the country and the customs of the time. Murder was not tolerated, servants were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping pills could be obtained, like rhubarb, from any druggist. In the Alps and Pyrenees, there may not have been mixed characters. There, those who were not as flawless as an angel might have the dispositions of a devil. But it wasn't like that in England; among the English, she believed, there was a general, if unequal, mixture of good and evil in their hearts and habits. After this conviction, she would not be surprised if a small imperfection could later occur even with Henry and Eleanor Alsina; and according to this conviction, she did not need to be afraid to acknowledge some real stains in the character of her father, who, although freed from the grossly hurtful suspicions she ever had to harbor, believed after serious consideration that she was not perfectly amiable. there were no mixed characters. There, those who were not as flawless as an angel might have the dispositions of a devil. But it wasn't like that in England; among the English, she believed, there was a general, if unequal, mixture of good and evil in their hearts and habits. After this conviction, she would not be surprised if a small imperfection could later occur even with Henry and Eleanor Alsina; and according to this conviction, she did not need to be afraid to acknowledge some real stains in the character of her father, who, although freed from the grossly hurtful suspicions she ever had to harbor, believed after serious consideration that she was not perfectly amiable. there were no mixed characters. There, those who were not as flawless as an angel might have the dispositions of a devil. But it wasn't like that in England; among the English, she believed, there was a general, if unequal, mixture of good and evil in their hearts and habits. After this conviction, she would not be surprised if a small imperfection could later occur even with Henry and Eleanor Alsina; and according to this conviction, she did not need to be afraid to acknowledge some real stains in the character of her father, who, although freed from the grossly hurtful suspicions she ever had to harbor, believed after serious consideration that she was not perfectly amiable. In their hearts and habits, there was a general, if unequal, mix of good and evil. After this conviction, she would not be surprised if a small imperfection could later occur even with Henry and Eleanor Alsina; and according to this conviction, she did not need to be afraid to acknowledge some real stains in the character of her father, who, although freed from the grossly hurtful suspicions she ever had to harbor, believed after serious consideration that she was not perfectly amiable. In their hearts and habits, there was a general, if unequal, mix of good and evil. After this conviction, she would not be surprised if a small imperfection could later occur even with Henry and Eleanor Alsina; and according to this conviction, she did not need to be afraid to acknowledge some real stains in the character of her father, who, although freed from the grossly hurtful suspicions she ever had to harbor, believed after serious consideration that she was not perfectly amiable.
Her opinion on these individual points, and her decision to always judge and act with the greatest common sense in the future, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and the mild hand of time did a lot for them through imperceptible gradations over the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobility of behavior, never alluding in the slightest to what had happened, was of the greatest help to her; and earlier, when she would have thought it possible at the beginning of her distress, her mood became absolutely pleasant and, as before, able to constantly improve through everything he said. There were actually still some themes before which she believed they must always tremble – the mention of a chest or a closet,
The fears of ordinary life soon began to replace the horror of Romanticism. Her desire to hear from Bella grew bigger every day. She was quite impatient to learn what was going on in the Bath world and how the rooms were maintained; and especially she was anxious to be sure that Bella had brought together a fine net of cotton, on which she had left her intention; and that she is still on the best foot with James. Her only addiction to information of any kind was on Bella. James had protested against writing to her until his return to Oxford; and Mrs. Allen had had no hope of a letter until she returned to Fullerton. But Bella had promised it and promised it again; and when she promised something, she was so conscientious in fulfilling! That made it so special!
For nine consecutive mornings, Catherine wondered at the repetition of a disappointment that got worse every morning: but on the tenth, when she entered the breakfast room, her first item was a letter that Henry willingly held out. She thanked him so warmly, as if he had written it himself. "But it's only from James" as she looked in that direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford;
"Dear Catherine,
"Although I know God, with little inclination to write, I think it is my duty to tell you that everything between Miss Dorfman and me is over. I left her and Bath yesterday to never see them again. I won't go into details – they would only torment you even more. You will hear from another side soon enough to know where the blame lies; and I hope I will absolve your brother of everything except the stupidity of believing too easily that his affection has returned. Thank you God! I am not deceived in time! But it's a heavy blow! After my father's approval had been given so kindly - but no more of it. It made me unhappy forever! Let me hear from you soon, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; I am counting on your love. I wish your visit to Northanger was over before Captain Alsina announces his engagement, or you will find yourself in awkward circumstances. Poor Dorfman is in town: I fear his sight; his honest heart would feel so much. I wrote to him and my father. Their duplicity hurts me more than anything else; until the end, when I talked to her, she explained her attachment to me as always and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think about how long I have endured; but if ever a person had reason to believe that he was loved, then I was that person. I can't even now understand what she was up to, because it might not be necessary for me to be played out to convince her of Alsina. We finally broke up by mutual agreement – happy for me if we had never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, watch how you give away your heart. until the end, when I talked to her, she explained her attachment to me as always and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think about how long I have endured; but if ever a person had reason to believe that he was loved, then I was that person. I can't even now understand what she was up to, because it might not be necessary for me to be played out to convince her of Alsina. We finally broke up by mutual agreement – happy for me if we had never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, watch how you give away your heart. until the end, when I talked to her, she explained her attachment to me as always and laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think about how long I have endured; but if ever a person had reason to believe that he was loved, then I was that person. I can't even now understand what she was up to, because it might not be necessary for me to be played out to convince her of Alsina. We finally broke up by mutual agreement – happy for me if we had never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, watch how you give away your heart. because it couldn't be necessary for me to be played out to convince her of Alsina. We finally broke up by mutual agreement – happy for me if we had never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, watch how you give away your heart. because it couldn't be necessary for me to be played out to convince her of Alsina. We finally broke up by mutual agreement – happy for me if we had never met! I can never expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, watch how you give away your heart.
"Believe me, etc.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of face and short exclamations of sorrowful amazement declared that she was receiving unpleasant messages; and Henry, who watched her earnestly throughout the letter, clearly saw that it did not end better than it began. However, he was prevented from even looking at his surprise at his father's entry. They went straight to breakfast; but Catherine could hardly eat anything. Tears filled her eyes and even ran down her cheeks as she sat down. The letter was in her hand for a moment, then in her lap and then in her pocket; and she looked like she didn't know what she was doing. The general, between his cocoa and his newspaper, fortunately had no leisure to notice them; but for the other two, their plight was just as visible. As soon as she dared to leave the table, she hurried to her own room; but the maids were busy with it, and she had to come back down. She went to the salon to have privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had also withdrawn there and were involved in intense consultations about her at that moment. She withdrew and tried to ask her for forgiveness, but was forced to return with gentle force; and the others withdrew after Eleanor had lovingly expressed a desire to be of use or comfort to her.
After half an hour of grief and reflection, Catherine felt ready to meet her friends; but whether she should tell them her plight was another consideration. Perhaps, if she is particularly asked, she could only give one idea – only point it out remotely – but no more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Bella had been to her – and then her own brother, who was so involved in it! She believed she had to give up the topic altogether. Henry and Eleanor were alone in the breakfast room; And everyone when she entered it looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her seat at the table, and after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from Fullerton, I hope? Mr. and Mrs. Fenmore – your brothers and sisters – I hope they are all not sick?"
"No, thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "They are all doing very well. My letter was from my brother in Oxford."
Nothing more was said for a few minutes; and then she added in tears, "I don't think I'll ever want a letter again!"
"I'm sorry," Henry said, closing the book he had just opened; "If I had suspected that the letter contained something undesirable, I would have given it with completely different feelings."
"It contained something worse than anyone could assume! Poor James is so unhappy! You'll soon know why."
"To have such a kind-hearted, loving sister," Henry replied warmly, "must be a comfort to him in every need."
"I have a request," Catherine said excitedly shortly afterwards, "that you let me know when your brother comes here so I can leave."
"Our brother! Frederick!"
"Yes; I'm sure I'd be very sorry to leave you so soon, but something happened that would make it very terrible for me to be in the same house with Captain Alsina."
Eleanor's work was interrupted while staring with growing amazement; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something that included miss Dorfman's name led his lips.
"How fast are you!" shouted Catherine. "You guessed it, I'll explain it! And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you thought so little of its end. Bella – no wonder I haven't heard from her – Bella has left my brother and is supposed to marry yours! Would you have believed that there was such impermanence and fickleness and all the bad things in the world?"
"I hope as far as my brother is concerned, you are misinformed. I hope he had no material part in causing Mr. Fenmore's disappointment. His marriage to Miss Dorfman is unlikely. I think you have to be wrong so far. I'm very sorry for Fenmore-san – I'm sorry someone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater with Frederick's marriage than with any other part of history."
"However, it is very true; thou shalt read the letter of James himself. Stay – there is a part – " and blushed and remembered the last line.
"Do you want to take the trouble to read us the passages that concern my brother?"
"No, read it yourself," shouted Catherine, whose second thoughts were clearer. "I don't know what I was thinking about" (blushing again that she had turned red before); "James just wants to give me good advice."
He gladly accepted the letter and, after reading it carefully, sent it back with the words: "Well, if so, I can only say that I am sorry. Frederick will not be the first man to choose a woman with less intellect than his family had expected. I don't envy him, neither as a lover nor as a son."
Miss Alsina also read the letter at Catherine's invitation and, after also expressing her concern and surprise, began to inquire about Miss Dorfman's connections and assets.
"Her mother is a very good woman," was Catherine's reply.
"What was her father?"
"A lawyer, I think. They live in Putney."
"Are they a wealthy family?"
"No, not very. I don't think Bella has a fortune at all: but that won't mean anything in your family. Your father is so very liberal! He told me the other day that he only values money because it allows him to promote the happiness of his children." "But," Eleanor said after a short break, "should it promote his happiness to allow him to marry such a girl? She must be unprincipled, otherwise she would not have been able to use her brother like that. And what a strange infatuation on Friedrich's side! A girl who breaks a voluntary engagement to another man before her eyes! Isn't it unimaginable, Henry? Also Friedrich, who always carried his heart so proudly! Who hasn't found a woman good enough to be loved!"
"This is the most hopeless circumstance, the strongest presumption against him. When I think of his past statements, I give him up. Also, I have too good an opinion of Miss Dorfman's wisdom to assume that she would part with one gentleman before the other would be secured. Frederick is really over! He is a deceased man – incomprehensible. Prepare for your sister-in-law Eleanor and such a sister-in-law to enjoy! Open, open, simple, innocent, with strong but simple affection, without presumption and without disguise."
"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, would make me happy," Eleanor said with a smile.
"But maybe," Catherine noted, "even though she has behaved so badly with our family, she may behave better with yours. Now she really has the man she likes, she can be consistent."
"In fact, I'm afraid she will," Henry replied; "I fear she will be very consistent unless a baronet gets in her way; this is Friedrich's only chance. I'm going to get the Bath newspaper and look at the arrivals."
"So you think it's all ambition? And, in my word, there are some things that seem very similar to him. I can't forget that when she first knew what my father was going to do for her, she seemed quite disappointed that it wasn't anymore. Never in my life have I been so deceived by anyone."
"Among all the great diversity you have known and studied."
"My own disappointment and loss of her is very great; but as for poor James, he is unlikely to ever regain it."
"Your brother is certainly very pitiful at the moment; but we must not underestimate yours in our concern for his sufferings. I suppose you feel like you lose half of yourself with the loss of Bella: you feel a void in your heart that nothing else can fill. Society becomes a nuisance; and as for the amusements you used to participate in in Bath, the mere idea of it without them is abhorrent. For example, you wouldn't go to a ball for anything in the world right now. You feel like you no longer have a friend to talk to without reservation, whose consideration you can rely on, or whose advice you can rely on in all difficulties. Do you feel it all?"
"No," said Catherine after a short reflection, "I don't want to – should I? To tell the truth, even though I'm hurt and saddened that I can't love her anymore, that I'll never hear from her, maybe never see her again, I don't feel as much, very saddened as you might have thought."
"You feel, as you always do, which benefits human nature the most. Such feelings should be examined so that they know themselves."
Catherine felt so relieved by this conversation by some coincidence that she could not regret that she had been led, albeit so inexplicably, to mention the circumstances they had produced.
Chapter 219
Another brief call on Harley Street, where Eleanore received her brother's congratulations that they had traveled so far to Barton at no cost, and that Colonel Bridgerton would follow them to Cleveland in a day or two, rounded off the siblings' traffic in the city; – and a weak invitation from Esther to come to Norland whenever it should stand in their way, which was the least likely of all things, with a warmer, if less public, assurance from John to Eleanore, the speed with which he would come to see her in Delaford, was all that predicted a meeting in the country.
She was amused to note that all her friends seemed determined to send her to Delaford – a place she now wants to visit or live the least of anyone else; not only was it considered her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy gave her an urgent invitation to visit her there when they separated.
Very early in April and quite early in the day, the two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set off from their respective homes to meet on the street by appointment. For Charlotte and her child, they were to be on the road for more than two days, and Mr. Palmifer, who would travel faster with Colonel Bridgerton, was to join them soon after their arrival in Cleveland.
Marianne, as little as her bleak hours in London had been, and as eager as she had been for a long time to leave it, could not, when it mattered, say goodbye to the house where she had last enjoyed these hopes, and this trust in Warwick, which had now been extinguished forever without much pain. Nor could she leave the place where Warwick remained, busy with new commitments and new plans in which SHE could not have a share without shedding many tears.
Eleanore's satisfaction at the moment of removal was more positive. She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to focus on, she left no creature left behind from whom she would regret for a moment to be separated forever, she was glad to be freed from the persecution of Lucy's friendship herself, she was grateful that she had taken her sister unnoticed since his marriage to Warwick, and she looked hopefully at what a few months of rest in Barton could help restore Marianne's peace of mind and strengthen her own.
Your trip was carried out safely. The second day brought her to the cherished or forbidden county of Somerset, for as such Marianne took turns responding to it; and in the morning of the third they went to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious, modern built house on a sloping lawn. It didn't have a park, but the amusements were quite extensive; and like any other place of equal importance, it had its open bushes, and the closer forest path, a road of smooth gravel winding around a plantation, led forward, the lawn was littered with wood, the house itself under the protection of the fir, the mountain ash and the acacia, and a thick umbrella of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombard poplars, closed the offices.
Marianne entered the house with a heart that swelled with emotion because she was aware that she was only eighty miles from Barton and not thirty from Combe Magna; and before she had been within its walls for five minutes, while the others eagerly helped Charlotte show her child to the housekeeper, she re-equipped it and stole through the winding bushes that were just beginning to gain beauty to gain distance from Eminence; where, from his Greek temple, her eye, wandering across a wide strip of land to the southeast, could rest lovingly on the farthest ridges of hills on the horizon, imagining that Combe Magna could be seen from its peaks.
In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be in Cleveland; and when she returned to the house on another path and felt all the happy privilege of freedom in the countryside to wander from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she decided to spend almost every hour of every day while staying with the Palmifers, in the forbearance of such lonely forays.
She returned just in time to join the others while they were furnishing the house, on a trip through the closer premises; and the rest of the morning was easily spent loitering in the vegetable garden, examining the flowers on its walls and listening to the gardener's lamentations about the rot, dawdling through the greenhouse, where the loss of her favorite plants, carelessly exposed and pinched by the persistent frost, aroused Charlotte's laughter, - and when visiting her poultry farm, where, in the disappointed hopes of her milkmaid, of chickens leaving their nests or stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decline of a promising young brood, she found new sources of cheerfulness.
The morning was nice and dry, and Marianne had not included any change in the weather during her stay in Cleveland in her work schedule abroad. With great surprise, she was therefore prevented by a constant rain from going out again after eating. She had relied on an evening walk to the Greek temple and perhaps the entire grounds, and a cold or humid evening would not have stopped her; but a heavy and steady rain, even SHE could not wish for dry or pleasant hiking weather.
Their group was small, and the hours passed quietly. Mrs. Palmifer had her child and Mrs. Jennings her carpet work; they talked about the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Mideltown's appointments, and wondered if Mr. Palmifer and Colonel Bridgerton would come further than Reading that night. Eleanore, but little interested in it, joined their conversation; and Marianne, who had the talent to find her way to the library in every house, however it could be avoided by the family in general, soon got herself a book.
On Mrs. Palmifer's side, there was nothing missing that consistent and friendly good mood could do to make them feel welcome. The openness and cordiality of her behavior more compensated for the lack of memory and elegance that often made her lack of politeness deficient; her kindness, recommended by such a pretty face, was engaging; her stupidity, though obvious, was not disgusting because it was not conceited; and Eleanore could have forgiven her for everything except her laughter.
The two gentlemen came the next day for a very late dinner, which provided a pleasant addition to the company and a very welcome change from their entertainment, which a long morning with the same persistent rain had greatly reduced.
Eleanore had seen so little of Mr. Palmifer and seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself that she didn't know what to expect to meet him in his own family. However, she found him in his behavior towards all his visitors completely the gentleman and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him very suitable to be a pleasant companion, and was only prevented from always being because he felt too much about feeling as superior to people in general as he had to feel about Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. As for the rest of his character and habits, as far as Eleanore could perceive, they were not characterized by any characteristics unusual to his gender and lifetime. He was nice in his food, insecure in his hours; loved his child, although he tended to disdain him; and spent the mornings playing billiards, which should have been dedicated to the business. However, by and large, she liked him much better than she had expected, and did not regret in her heart that she could no longer like him – she did not regret being driven by the observation of his epicurus, his selfishness and his imagination, resting with complacency on the memory of Edward's generous temperament, simple tastes and shy feelings.
About Edward, or at least some of his concerns, she now received information from Colonel Bridgerton, who had recently been in Dorset'shire; and who immediately treated her as the altruistic girlfriend of Mr. Gastonois and his kind confidant, talked to her a lot about the rectory in Delaford, described its shortcomings and told her what he himself intended to do to remove it — his behavior towards her in this as in any other detail, his open joy to see her again after only ten days of absence, his willingness to speak to her and his respect for her opinion may well justify Mrs. Jennings' conviction of his affection, and perhaps Eleanore would not have believed from the outset that Marianne was his true favorite to make her herself suspicious. But as it was, such an idea had hardly ever occurred to her, except through the proposal of Mrs Jennings; and she couldn't help but think of herself as the nicest observer of the two; – she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behavior – and while his looks of anxious concern on Marianne's feelings lay in her head and throat, the beginning of a severe cold, because not expressed by words, completely escaped the observation of the latter lady; - SHE could discover in them the quick feelings and unnecessary fear of a lover.
Marianne had two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her stay, not only on the dry gravel of the bushes, but over the whole terrain, and especially in the most remote parts of it, where there was more wildness than inside the rest, where the trees were the oldest and the grass the longest and wettest, Marianne had – supported by the even greater unwiseness, Sitting in their wet shoes and stockings – inflicted with such a severe cold, albeit played or denied for a day or two– would be imposed by increasing complaints of everyone's concern and one's own attention. Recipes arrived from all sides, all of which, as usual, were rejected. Although severe and feverish, with body aches, coughs and sore throats, a good night's sleep should completely cure them;
Chapter 220
Before this time of his life, Mr. Mitchell had very often wished that instead of spending all his income, he had set aside an annual sum for the better care of his children and his wife if she survived him. He wanted it now more than ever. If he had done his duty in this regard, Linda would not have owed her uncle any more honor or prestige that could be bought from her now. The satisfaction of getting one of Britain's most worthless young men to become her husband might have rested in her right place.
He was seriously concerned that a matter of such little benefit to anyone would be passed on to the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his support and fulfill the obligation as soon as he could.
When Mr. Mitchell first married, thrift was thought to be completely useless, because of course they were supposed to have a son. The son, as soon as he was of age, was to participate in the cutting off of the Fideiß, and so the widow and the younger children would be cared for. Five daughters were born one after the other, but the son was yet to come; and Mrs. Mitchell had been sure many years after Linda's birth that he would. This event had been doubted recently, but then it was too late to save. Mrs. Mitchell had nothing to do with thrift, and her husband's love of independence alone had prevented her from exceeding her income.
Five thousand pounds were enclosed by marriage certificates for Mrs. Mitchell and the children. But in which ?? Ratio it should be divided among the latter, depended on the will of the parents. This was, at least with regard to Linda, a point that should now be settled, and Mr. Mitchell was able to respond without hesitation to the proposal before him. As a grateful acknowledgement of his brother's kindness, albeit the most succinctly expressed, he then delivered on paper his complete approval of everything that was done and his willingness to fulfill the obligations that had been made for him. He had never thought before that Waterhouse could be persuaded to marry his daughter, with so little inconvenience to him as under the current agreement. He would barely lose ten pounds a year among the hundreds they had to pay; for with her food and pocket money and the constant gifts of money that came to her through the hands of her mother, Linda's expenses within this sum had been very small.
That this would also happen on his part with such little effort was another very welcome surprise; because his wish now was to have as little trouble as possible in the business. When the first outbursts of anger that had triggered his search for her were over, he naturally returned to his old inertia. His letter was soon sent; because although he was hesitant in the company, he was quick in his execution. He asked for more details about what he owed his brother, but was too angry with Linda to send her a message.
The good news quickly spread throughout the house and with appropriate speed in the neighborhood. It was worn in the latter with decent philosophy. Certainly, it would have been more conducive to entertainment if Miss Linda Mitchell had come to town; or, as the happiest alternative, to have been withdrawn from the world, in a distant farmhouse. But there was a lot of talk about marrying her; and the good-natured desires for their well-being that had previously emanated from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost only a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because their misery was considered certain with such a husband.
It had been fourteen days since Mrs. Mitchell had been downstairs; but on that happy day, she sat down again at the head of her table, and in oppressive high spirits. No sense of shame dampened her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, who had been the first goal of her wishes since Jane sixteen, was now close to completion, and her thoughts and words revolved entirely around the companions of elegant weddings, fine muslin pants, new carriages and so on servants. She eagerly searched the neighborhood. for a proper situation for her daughter, and without knowing or considering how high her income might be, she rejected many as deficient in size and significance.
"Haye Park might be enough," she said, "if the Gouldings could leave it — or the big house in Stoke if the salon was bigger; but Ashworth is too far away! I couldn't bear to have them ten miles away from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are terrible."
Her husband allowed her to continue speaking without interruption while the servants remained. But when they withdrew, he said to her, "Mrs. Mitchell, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let's come to a proper understanding. In ONE house in this neighborhood. You will never have access. I will not promote the impudence of both by receiving them in Longbourn."
This declaration was followed by a long dispute; but Mr. Mitchell was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Mitchell realized with astonishment and horror that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He asserted that she should not receive any affection from him on this occasion. Mrs. Mitchell could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could go so far that he denied his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would hardly seem valid was beyond anything she thought possible. She was more receptive to the shame that her lack of new clothes at her daughter's wedding must reflect than to any sense of shame that she had burned out and lived with Waterhouse fourteen days before the wedding.
Elizabeth now most sincerely regretted that she had been made out of the necessity of the moment to acquaint Mr. Drury with her fears for her sister; for since their marriage would so soon give the flight the proper conclusion, they could hope to hide their unfavorable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot.
She was not afraid of further dissemination by his means. There were few people whose secrecy she would have relied on more securely; but at the same time there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have offended her so much - but not out of fear of personal disadvantages, because in any case a gap between them seemed unbridgeable. Had Linda's marriage been consummated on the most honorable terms, it would not be assumed that Mr. Drury would be connected to a family where every other objection would now be joined by an alliance and relationship of the next kind with a man he so rightly despised.
Before such a connection, she could not be surprised that he would shy away. The desire to earn her respect, which she had assured herself of his feelings in Derbyshire, could not reasonably survive such a blow as this. She was humiliated, she was saddened; she repented, even though she hardly knew what. She became jealous of his appreciation when she could no longer hope to benefit from it. She wanted to hear from him when there seemed to be the slightest chance of getting information. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him when it was no longer likely that they would meet.
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, he might know that the proposals she had proudly spurned just four months ago would now have been accepted most joyfully and gratefully! He was so generous, she did not doubt it, like the most generous of his family; but while he was mortal, there had to be a triumph.
She now began to understand that he was exactly the man who would suit her best in his disposition and talent. His understanding and temperament, although different from her own, would have fulfilled all her wishes. It was a union that must have benefited both; through their lightness and liveliness his spirit could have been softened, his manners could have been improved; and from his judgment, his information, and his knowledge of the world, it must have benefited even more.
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring crowd what marital bliss really was. In her family, a union of other directions was soon to form, which excluded the possibility of the others.
How Waterhouse and Linda should be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little lasting happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passion was stronger than their virtue, she could easily imagine.
* * * * *
Mr. Lockhart soon wrote to his brother again. He responded briefly to Mr. Mitchell's confirmations with an assurance of his eagerness to promote the well-being of any of his family; and concluded with pleas that the subject should never be mentioned to him again. The main purpose of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Waterhouse had decided to quit the militia.
"It was my great wish that he should do this," he added, "as soon as his marriage was established. And I think you will agree with me if you consider the removal from this corps to be extremely advisable for both him and my niece. It is Mr. Waterhouse's intention to go to the regulars; and among his former friends there are still some who are able and willing to help him in the army. He has a promise to become an ensign in General's regiment, which is now quartered in the north. It is an advantage that it is so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fair; and I hope among different people, where everyone can preserve their character, they will both be smarter. I wrote to Colonel Forster to inform him of our current arrangements and to ask him to satisfy Mr. Waterhouse's various creditors in and near Brighton. with the assurance of early payment, for which I have committed myself. And will you bother to give similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I say I will attach a list? He has given all his debts; I hope, at least, that he did not deceive us. Haggerston has our instructions, and everything will be ready in a week. They will then join his regiment unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I learned from Mrs. Lockhart that my niece is very anxious to see you all before she leaves the South. She is doing well and she asks to be dutifully reminded of you and your mother. who do you want me to add to a list? He has given all his debts; I hope, at least, that he did not deceive us. Haggerston has our instructions, and everything will be ready in a week. They will then join his regiment unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I learned from Mrs. Lockhart that my niece is very anxious to see you all before she leaves the South. She is doing well and she asks to be dutifully reminded of you and your mother. who do you want me to add to a list? He has given all his debts; I hope, at least, that he did not deceive us. Haggerston has our instructions, and everything will be ready in a week. They will then join his regiment unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I learned from Mrs. Lockhart that my niece is very anxious to see you all before she leaves the South. She is doing well and she asks to be dutifully reminded of you and your mother.
'E. GÄRTNER.'
Mr. Mitchell and his daughters saw all the benefits of Waterhouse's removal from the county as clearly as Mr. Lockhart could. But Mrs. Mitchell was not so pleased about it. That Linda was settled in the north, just when she was expecting the most pleasure and pride in her company, because she had by no means abandoned her plan to live in Hertfordshire, was a grave disappointment; and besides, it was such a shame that Linda was to be taken out of a regiment where she knew everyone and had so many favorites.
"She loves Mrs. Forster so much," she said, "it will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are also some of the young men she likes very much. The officers in the general's regiment may not be so pleasant."
His daughter's request, as such, could be considered to be readmitted to her family before she left for the north was initially absolutely rejected. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed, for the sake of their sister's feelings and consistency that she should be noticed by her parents at their wedding, urged him so earnestly, but so sensibly and so gently, to receive her and her husband Longbourn once they were married that he was made to think like this, how they thought, and to act as they wanted. And her mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she could show her married daughter in the neighborhood. before she was banished to the north. When Mr. Mitchell wrote to his brother again, he sent them his permission to come; and it was determined that once the ceremony was over, you should continue to Longbourn. Elizabeth, however, was surprised that Waterhouse agreed to such a plan, and had she only consulted her own inclination, a meeting with him would have been the ultimate goal of her wishes.
Chapter 221
One morning, about ten days after Mrs. Curcelle's death, Emma was called down to Mr. Winstone, who "couldn't stay for five minutes and especially wanted to talk to her." – He met her at the salon door, and as soon as she asked how she was doing, in the natural tone of his voice, she immediately sank to say unheard by her father:
"Can you come to Randalls at any time this morning? – If possible. Mrs. Winstone wants to speak to you. She has to see you."
"Isn't she doing well?"
"No, no, not at all – just a little excited. She would have ordered the carriage and come to you, but she has to see you alone, and you know that – (nods to her father) – Humph! – Can you come?"
"Definitely. At this moment, please. It is impossible to refuse what you are asking for in this way. But what can be going on? – Is she really not sick?"
"Rely on me – but don't ask any further questions. You'll know it all over time. The most irresponsible business! But still, silent!"
To guess what all this meant was impossible even for Emma. His appearance seemed to herald something really important; but since her friend was doing well, she made an effort not to be restless, and after agreeing with her father that she would now go for her walk, she and Mr. Winstone were soon out of the house together and traveling at a fast pace for Randalls.
"Well," Emma said, ?? when they were quite far behind the gates, "now, Mr. Winstone, let me know what happened."
"No, no," he replied earnestly. "Don't ask me. I promised my wife that I would leave everything to her. She will teach you better than I do. Don't be impatient, Emma; it's all going to come out too soon."
"Break it for me," Emma shouted, stopping in horror. " "Good God! – Mr. Winstone, tell me right away. - Something happened in Brunswick Square. I know it has. Tell me, I'm asking you to tell me what it is at this moment."
"No, you're actually wrong." —
'Sir. Winstone doesn't play with me. – Consider how many of my dearest friends are now in Brunswick Square. Which of them is it? – I implore you in all that is sacred, do not try to hide it."
"At my word, Emma." —
"Your word! – why not your honour! – why don't you say in your honor that it has nothing to do with any of them? Good heavens! – What can be broke to me that does not refer to one of this family?"
"In my honor," he said very seriously, "it doesn't. It's not in the least connected to a person named Hill."
Emma's courage returned and she moved on.
"I was wrong," he continued, "when I told you it was broke. I should not have used the expression. In fact, it's none of your business – it's just me – that is, let's hope. I'm not saying it's not an unpleasant affair – but it could be much worse. – If we go fast, we will soon be in Randalls."
Emma felt she had to wait; and now it required little effort. She therefore no longer asked questions, but only dealt with her own imagination, and this soon pointed out to her the probability that it was a matter of money – something that just came to light, of an unpleasant nature in the circumstances of the family, – something that had preferred the late event in Richmond. Her imagination was very active. Half a dozen biological children, perhaps – and poor Frank cut off! – That would not be a torment for them, although very undesirable. It inspired little more than an animating curiosity.
"Who is this gentleman on horseback?" she said as they moved on—more speaking to help Mr. Winstone keep his secret than with any other view.
"I don't know. – One of the Otways. – Not Frank; – it's not Frank, I assure you. You won't see him. He is now halfway to Windsor."
"Was your son with you?"
"Oh! yes – didn't you know?
For a moment he remained silent; and then added in a much more cautious and reserved tone
,
"Yes, Frank came by this morning just to ask us how we were doing."
They hurried on and were quickly at Randalls. "Well, my dear," he said as they entered the room, "I brought them, and now I hope you'll feel better soon. I'll leave you together. There is no point in delaying. I'm not far away if you need me." – And Emma heard him add much quieter before he furnished the room: "I kept my word. She doesn't have the slightest idea."
Mrs. Winstone looked and seemed so sick that Emma's discomfort grew; and as soon as they were alone, she eagerly
said,
"What is my dear friend? I think something very unpleasant has happened; – let me know what it is right away. I walked all this way in complete tension. We both abhor tension. Don't let mine last any longer. It will do you good to speak of your need, whatever it may be."
"Do you really have no idea?" said Mrs. Winstone in a trembling voice. "Can't you, my dear Emma – can't you guess what you're going to hear?"
"As far as It relates to Mr. Frank Curcelle, I guess."
"You're right. It refers to him, and I will tell you directly."" (Resumes her work and seems determined not to look up.) "He was here this morning, with a most extraordinary assignment. It is impossible to express our surprise. He came to talk to his father about a topic —to announce a bond—"
She stopped to breathe. Emma thought first of herself and then of Harriet.
"Indeed, more than a devotion," Mrs. Winstone continued; "An engagement – a positive engagement. – What do you want to say, Emma – what will anyone say when it becomes known that Frank Curcelle and Miss Saxon are engaged – no, that they have been engaged for a long time!"
Emma even winced in surprise; – and horrified she exclaimed:
"Jane Saxon! – Good God! Not serious? Don't you mean that?"
"You might be amazed," replied Mrs. Winstone, who still turned her eyes away and eagerly continued to say that Emma might have time to recover... "You may be amazed. But it's still like that. Since October, there has been a solemn engagement between them, which was concluded in Weymouth and kept secret from everyone. No creature but themselves knows – neither the Campbells nor their family nor his. I can't believe it. – I thought I knew him."
Emma barely heard what was being said. – Her opinion was divided between two ideas – her own previous conversations with him about Miss Saxon; and poor Harriet; – and for some time she could only exclamate and demand confirmation, repeated confirmation.
"Well," she finally said, trying to gather again; "This is a circumstance that I have to think about for at least half a day before I can even understand it. What! – engaged to her all winter – before any of them came to Highbury?"
"Engaged since October, – secretly engaged. – It hurt me a lot, Emma. It hurt his father equally. We can't excuse some of his behavior."
Emma thought for a moment and then replied, "I will not pretend not to understand you; and to give you all the relief in my power, rest assured that his attentions to me have not had such an effect as you fear."
Mrs. Winstone looked up and was afraid to believe; but Emma's expression was as firm as her words.
"So that you have less trouble believing this boast of my present complete indifference," she continued, "I will continue to tell you that in the early days of our acquaintanceship there was a time when I liked him, when I was very inclined to be bound to him – no, was bound – and how it ended is perhaps the miracle. Fortunately, however, it stopped. I really haven't cared about him for some time, at least for those three months. Believe me, Mrs. Winstone. That's the simple truth."
Mrs. Winstone kissed her with tears of joy; and when she was able to find a statement, she assured her that this protest had done her more good than anything else in the world could do.
"Sir. Winstone will be almost as relieved as I am," she said. We were unhappy on this point. It was our fervent wish that you could hang together – and we were convinced that it was. – Imagine what we felt for you."
"I escaped; and that I should escape may be a matter of grateful amazement for you and me. But that doesn't absolve him, Mrs. Winstone; and I have to say that I think he is very guilty. What right did he have to come to us with affection and faith and with such very unbound manners? What right did he have to strive to please, as he certainly did— to profile a young woman with persistent attention, as he certainly did — when he really belonged to someone else? – How could he know what mischief he could do? could he realize that he didn't want to fall in love with him? – very wrong, really very wrong."
"After something he said, my dear Emma, ?? I rather assume..."
"And how could she endure such behavior! Serenity with a witness! watch when repeated attentions are presented to another woman, in front of her face, and do not resent it. – This is a measure of serenity that I can neither comprehend nor respect."
"There were misunderstandings between them, Emma; he said it explicitly. He didn't have time to explain himself in detail. He was only here for a quarter of an hour and in a state of excitement that did not allow him to take full advantage of even the time he could stay - but they were misunderstandings, he said decisively. The present crisis did indeed seem to be conjured up by them; and these misunderstandings could very likely result from the inappropriateness of his behavior."
"Unseemliness! Oh! Mrs. Winstone – that's too quiet a rebuke. Much, much more than impropriety! - It sank it, I can't say how I think it sank it. So different than a man should be! None of this sincere integrity, this strict adherence to truth and principles, this contempt for cunning and pettiness that a man should show in every business of his life."
"No, dear Emma, ?? now I have to take on his role; for although he was wrong in this case, I have known him long enough to be responsible for the fact that he has many, very many good qualities; and-"
"Good God!" cried Emma, ?? without taking care of them. – "Mrs. Smallridge too! Jane is actually on the verge of becoming a governess! What could he mean by such terrible indecency? To tolerate her interfering – to tolerate her even thinking of such a measure!"
"He didn't know about it, Emma. In this article, I can fully absolve him. It was a private decision of hers that was not communicated to him – or at least not communicated in a convincing way. They burst at him, I don't know how, but through a letter or a message – and it was the discovery of what she was doing, this own project that led him to get in touch immediately and attribute everything to his uncle, throw yourself at his goodness and, in short, put an end to the miserable state of secrecy, that lasted so long."
Emma began to listen better.
"I will hear from him soon," Mrs. Winstone continued. "He told me as he said goodbye that he should write soon; and he spoke in a way that seemed to promise me many details that could not be given now. So let's wait and see this letter. It can bring a lot of relief. It may make some things understandable and excusable that cannot be understood now. Let us not be strict, let us not be in a hurry to condemn him. Let's be patient. I must love him; and now that I am satisfied on one point, the one material point, I am sincerely concerned that everything will turn out well, and ready to hope that it will work out. They must both have suffered greatly from such a system of secrecy and obfuscation."
"His sufferings," Emma replied dryly, "don't seem to have hurt him much. Well, and how did Mr. Curcelle take it?"
"Very favorable for his nephew – he gave his consent without difficulty. Imagine what the events of a week have done to this family! While poor Mrs. Curcelle was alive, there could have been no hope, no chance, no possibility – but hardly have her mortal remains come to rest in the family crypt when her husband is persuaded to do exactly the opposite of what she would have needed to do. What a blessing it is when undue influence does not survive the grave! – He gave his consent without much persuasiveness."
"Ah!" thought Emma, ??" he would have done just as much for Harriet."
"That was clarified last night, and Frank was out with the lights this morning. He stopped at Highbury, with the Bates, I think, for some time – and then came here; but was in such a hurry to get back to his uncle, whom he needs more than ever right now that, as I tell you, he could only stay with us for a quarter of an hour. – He was very excited – very much so – to a degree that made him look like a very different creature than anything I had ever seen him before, no previous suspicion – and there was every hint that he had felt very good."
"And do you really think the affair was kept so completely secret? – The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know about the engagement?"
Emma couldn't pronounce the name Dixon without blushing slightly.
"None; not one. He clearly said that it was not known to any being in the world except their two selves."
"Well," Emma said, ??" I suppose we will gradually come to terms with the idea, and I wish them all the best. But I will always consider it a very heinous way of proceeding. What was it other than a system of hypocrisy and fraud – espionage and betrayal? – To come to us with confessions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all! - Here we have been all winter and spring, completely betrayed, and believed ourselves all on the same footing of truth and honor, with two people in our midst who could have been carrying around feelings and words, comparing and sitting in judgment that were never meant for both. – They have to draw the consequences if they don't hear each other talking very pleasantly!"
"I'm very gentle on that head," Mrs. Winstone replied. "I'm very sure I never said anything from one to the other that neither of them could have heard."
"You're lucky. – Your only mistake was limited to my ear when you imagined that a certain friend of ours was in love with the lady."
"True. But since I always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Saxon, I could not have spoken of her badly under any mistake; and if I speak badly of him, I must have been sure."
At that moment, Mr. Winstone appeared a short distance from the window, obviously on guard. His wife gave him a look that invited him; and while coming to himself, he added, "Well, dearest Emma, ?? let me ask you to say and see everything that can calm his heart and make him feel satisfied with the match. Let's make the most of it – and in fact, almost anything can be said in their favor. It is not a connection to satisfy; but if Mr. Curcelle doesn't feel that, why should we do it? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, do I mean that he is attached to a girl of such consistency of character and such ?? has become accustomed to good judgment, as I have always trusted her to do – and am still inclined to give her merit nevertheless a great deviation from the strict rule of law.
"A lot indeed!" cried Emma sensitively. "If a woman can ever be excused for thinking only of herself, it's in a situation like Jane Saxon's. Of these, one can almost say that 'the world does not belong to them, nor the law of the world.'"
She met Mr. Winstone with a smiling face as he entered and shouted
,
"You played a very pretty prank on me, at my word! I suppose this was a means to play with my curiosity and train my talent for guessing. But you really scared me. I thought you had lost at least half of your possessions. And here it turns out that it is not a matter of condolences, but of congratulations. – I congratulate you, Mr Winstone, from the bottom of my heart on the prospect of having one of the most gracious and accomplished young women with us in England for your daughter."
One or two glances between him and his wife convinced him that everything was as right, as this speech proclaimed; and his happy effect on his mood was immediate. His face and voice regained its usual liveliness: he shook her hand warmly and gratefully and entered the conversation in a way to prove that he now only needed time and persuasion to consider the engagement to be nothing bad. His companions only proposed what could appease unwiseness or smooth out objections; and when they had discussed everything with each other on their way back to Hartfield and he had discussed it again with Emma, he was completely reconciled and not far from thinking it was the very best Frank could have done.
Chapter 222
Marianne got up the next morning at the usual time; to each request, she replied that she was better off and tried to prove herself through her usual occupations. But a day she spent sitting trembling over the fire with a book in her hand that she couldn't read, or lying tired and dull on a sofa, didn't speak much in favor of her amendment; and when she finally went to bed early, more and more uncomfortable, Colonel Bridgerton was only amazed at the serenity of her sister, who, although she cared for and cared for her all day, against Marianne's tendency to force her the right medication at night, like Marianne, trusted her in the certainty and effectiveness of sleep and felt no real concern.
However, a very restless and feverish night disappointed the expectations of both; and when Marianne, after standing up persistently, admitted that she could not sit up and voluntarily returned to her bed, Eleanore was very willing to accept Mrs. Jennings' advice and send it to the Palmifers pharmacist.
He came, examined his patient, and although he encouraged Miss Hargrove to expect her sister to recover in a few days, he nevertheless explained that her illness had a rotten tendency, and let the word "infection" come across his lips. Mrs. Palmifer immediately sounded the alarm about her baby. Mrs. Jennings, who from the beginning had been inclined to consider Marianne's complaint more serious than Eleanore, now took Mr. Harris' report very seriously and confirmed Charlotte's fears and caution and urged the need for her immediate removal with her child; and Mr. Palmifer, although he treated her fears as idle, his wife's fear and intrusiveness found too great to withstand him. Their departure has therefore been fixed; and within an hour of Mr. Harris' arrival, she set off with her little boy and his nurse for the home of a close relative of Mr. Palmifer, who lived a few miles across From Bath; where her husband, in response to her earnest request, promised to join her in a day or two; and where she almost as urgently had to accompany her with her mother. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart that led Eleanore to truly love her, explained her decision not to leave Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and to strive to give her a place through her own attentive care of the mother from whom she had taken her; and Eleanore found in her at every opportunity a very willing and active assistant who wanted to share all her efforts, and often through her better experience in nursing, material use. who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; where her husband, in response to her earnest request, promised to join her in a day or two; and where she almost as urgently had to accompany her with her mother. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart that led Eleanore to truly love her, explained her decision not to leave Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and to strive to give her a place through her own attentive care of the mother from whom she had taken her; and Eleanore found in her at every opportunity a very willing and active assistant who wanted to share all her efforts, and often through her better experience in nursing, material use. who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; where her husband, in response to her earnest request, promised to join her in a day or two; and where she almost as urgently had to accompany her with her mother. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart that led Eleanore to truly love her, explained her decision not to leave Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and to strive to give her a place through her own attentive care of the mother from whom she had taken her; and Eleanore found in her at every opportunity a very willing and active assistant who wanted to share all her efforts, and often through her better experience in nursing, material use. and where she almost as urgently had to accompany her with her mother. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart that led Eleanore to truly love her, explained her decision not to leave Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and to strive to give her a place through her own attentive care of the mother from whom she had taken her; and Eleanore found in her at every opportunity a very willing and active assistant who wanted to share all her efforts, and often through her better experience in nursing, material use. and where she almost as urgently had to accompany her with her mother. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart that led Eleanore to truly love her, explained her decision not to leave Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and to strive to give her a place through her own attentive care of the mother from whom she had taken her; and Eleanore found in her at every opportunity a very willing and active assistant who wanted to share all her efforts, and often through her better experience in nursing, material use.
Poor Marianne, sluggish and depressed by the nature of her illness and feeling sick in general, could no longer hope that she would be healthy again tomorrow; and the idea of what would have produced tomorrow without this unfortunate disease made every illness difficult; for on this day they were to begin their journey home; and, accompanied all the way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, her mother should have surprised her the following morning. The little she said was all in lament about this inevitable delay; although Eleanore tried to lift her spirits and make her believe, as she really believed herself THEN, that it would be a very short one.
The next day produced little or no change in the patient's condition; it certainly wasn't better, and aside from the fact that there was no change, it didn't seem to be any worse. Your party has now been further reduced; for Mr. Palmifer, although he was very reluctant to leave out of genuine humanity and good-naturedness, as if out of reluctance to appear frightened by his wife, was eventually persuaded by Colonel Bridgerton to keep his promise to follow her; and while he was preparing to leave, Colonel Bridgerton himself began to speak with much greater effort of walking as well. for to send the Colonel away, while his love was in such great turmoil because of her sister, would be to deprive them both of all comfort; and therefore immediately telling him that his stay in Cleveland was necessary for herself, that she wanted him to play piqued one evening while Miss Hargrove was upstairs with her sister, &c. she urged him so hard to stay that he, who satisfied the first wish of his own heart with a indulgence, could not even persuade him for long, to object; especially since Mrs. Jennings' request was warmly supported by Mr. Palmifer, who seemed relieved to leave behind a person who was so well able to help or advise Miss Hargrove in any emergency. could not even raise objections for a long time; especially since Mrs. Jennings' request was warmly supported by Mr. Palmifer, who seemed relieved to leave behind a person who was so well able to help or advise Miss Hargrove in any emergency. could not even raise objections for a long time; especially since Mrs. Jennings' request was warmly supported by Mr. Palmifer, who seemed relieved to leave behind a person who was so well able to help or advise Miss Hargrove in any emergency.
Marianne, of course, was kept unaware of all these precautions. Little did she know that she had been the means to send the owners of Cleveland away in about seven days of their arrival. Not surprisingly, she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmifer; and since she didn't mind either, she never mentioned her name.
Two days have passed since Mr. Palmifer's departure, and her situation has remained unchanged with little change. Mr. Harris, who visited her every day, still spoke boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Hargrove was just as confident; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had realized very early on that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Bridgerton, who was mainly used to listen to Mrs. Jennings' premonitions, was not in the mood to resist her influence. He tried to talk himself out of fears that seemed to make the pharmacist's other judgment absurd; but the many hours of each day, in which he was left all alone, were only too favorable to allow any melancholic idea, but by the morning of the third day,
the gloomy expectations of both had almost evaporated; because when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared that his patient was much better. Her pulse was much stronger and each symptom was more favorable than on the previous visit. Eleanore, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was quite cheerful; Rejoicing that in her letters to her mother she had followed her own judgment and not that of her friend, making the discomfort she delayed in Cleveland very easy; and almost fixated on when Marianne could travel.
But the day did not end as auspiciously as it had begun. — Towards evening Marianne became sick again, heavier, more restless and more uncomfortable than before. However, her sister, still optimistic, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue she had to let her bed be made; and when she carefully administered the prescribed liqueurs, she finally saw them sink with satisfaction into a slumber from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, although not as calm as Eleanore wanted to see him, lasted a considerable amount of time; and eager to observe the result of it for herself, she decided to sit with her all the time. Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of a change in the patient, went to bed unusually early; her maid, who was one of the most important nurses, restored herself in the housekeeper's room,
the tranquility of the latter was disturbed more and more; and her sister, watching with incessant attention her constant change of posture and hearing the frequent but inarticulate wailing sounds that came over her lips, almost wanted to wake her up from such an agonizing slumber when Marianne suddenly awoke by chance noise in the house, jumped up hastily and shouted with feverish ferocity:
"Is Mom coming?"
"Not yet," shouted the other, hiding her horror and helping Marianne lie down again, "but hopefully she will be here soon. It's a great way, you know, from here to Barton. "
But she must not walk around London," Marianne shouted in the same hasty manner. " I'll never see her when she walks through London."
Eleanore realized with horror that she was not quite herself, and as she tried to calm her down, she eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and faster than ever! and Marianne, who was still talking wildly about Mom, increased her anxiety so quickly to get her to immediately send to Mr. Harris and send a messenger for her mother to Barton. Consulting with Colonel Bridgerton on the best means to achieve the latter was a thought that immediately followed the dissolution of his achievement; and as soon as she called the maid to take her place with her sister, she hurried down to the salon, where she generally knew how to meet him at a much later hour than now.
There was no time to hesitate. Their fears and difficulties were imminent. Their fears, he had no courage, no self-confidence to try to eliminate them – he listened to them in quiet dejection; – but their difficulties were immediately circumvented, because with a willingness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service that was prepared in his Mind you, he offered himself as a messenger to pick up Mrs. Hargrove. Eleanore did not offer any resistance that was not easy to overcome. She thanked him with a brief, if fervent, gratitude, and while he wanted to hurry his servant with a message to Mr. Harris and a direct order for mail horses, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
The comfort of such a friend at this moment as Colonel Bridgerton – or such a companion for her mother – how grateful that was! – a companion whose judgment would guide her, whose visit she must relieve and whose friendship could calm her down! – as far as the shock of such a summons could be reduced for them, his presence, his manners, his support would diminish him.
He, meanwhile, whatever he felt, acted with all the firmness of a gathered mind, took all the necessary precautions with the utmost speed, and calculated with accuracy the time in which he would expect his return. Not a moment was lost due to any delays. The horses arrived even before they were expected, and Colonel Bridgerton squeezed her hand with only a solemn look, and a few words spoken too softly to reach her ear rushed into the carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the pharmacist and watch with her for the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering for both. Hour after hour passed in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side and in the cruelest fear on Eleanore's side before Mr. Harris appeared. Their fears once raised, paid for by their surplus for all their former security; and the servant who sat with her, for she did not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, tormented her even more with hints of what her mistress had always thought.
Marianne's thoughts were still disjointedly fixated on her mother, and when she mentioned her name, it hurt the heart of poor Eleanore, who blamed herself for playing around with so many sick days, and for some miserably immediate relief, imagined that all relief could soon be in vain, that everything had been delayed for too long, and imagined how her suffering mother came too late to see this dear child, or to see her reasonably.
She was about to send back to Mr. Harris, or if HE couldn't come to get another piece of advice when the former arrived, but only after five o'clock. However, his opinion made some small compensation for his delay, because although he acknowledged a very unexpected and unpleasant change in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and spoke of the relief that a new method of treatment must bring, with a confidence that was communicated to Eleanore to a lesser extent. He promised to come back in the course of three or four hours, leaving both the patient and her worried nurse more relaxed than he had found her.
With great concern and many accusations of not having been called to help, Mrs. Jennings heard about the incident in the morning. Their earlier fears, now restored with greater reason, left them no doubt about the event; and although she tried to give comfort to Eleanore, her conviction of her sister's danger did not allow her to offer her the comfort of hope. Her heart was really saddened. The rapid decay, the early death of such a young, beautiful girl as Marianne, must have hit a less interested person with concern. She had different demands on Mrs. Jenning's compassion. She had been her companion for three months, was still under her care, and was known to be seriously injured and unhappy for a long time. She also faced the plight of her sister, who was particularly popular; – and as for her mother, when Mrs. Mr.
Harris was on time on his second visit; – but he was disappointed in his hopes, which the last one would produce. His medication had failed; the fever was unabated; and Marianne, only quieter – no longer herself – remained in severe drowsiness. Eleanore, who captured everyone and especially his fears in an instant, suggested seeking further advice. But he thought it was unnecessary: he still had something to try, a new application whose success he was as convinced of as the last one, and his visit ended with encouraging assurances that caught his ear but could not penetrate the heart of Miss Hargrove. She was calm except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she remained until noon, barely touching from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her mood depressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupulously attributed the severity and danger of this attack not to the many weeks of previous malaise, which had caused Marianne's disappointment. Eleanore felt all the rationality of the idea, and she gave her reflections fresh misery.
Around noon, however, she began to fantasize – albeit with caution – a fear of disappointment that silenced herself towards her friend for a while – hoping that she could perceive a slight improvement in her sister's pulse; – she waited, observed and examined it again and again; – and finally, with an arousal that was harder to bury under external calm than all her previous distress, she dared to communicate her hopes. Although Mrs. Jennings was forced to acknowledge a temporary resuscitation during the investigation, she tried to stop her young friend from having even a thought about her continuation; – and Eleanore, who ignored any order of mistrust, told herself not to hope either. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and when she felt all his anxious fluttering, she bent over her sister to watch – she hardly knew what for. Half an hour passed, and the favorable symptom still blessed her. Others even rose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips flattered Eleanore with signs of improvement; and Marianne fixed her with a rational, if sluggish, look. Fear and hope now weighed on her alike, leaving her not a moment of calm until Mr. Harris arrived at four o'clock; – when his assurances, his congratulations on a recovery of her sister, which even exceeded his expectations, gave her confidence, comfort and tears of joy.
Marianne was materially better off in every way, and he declared her completely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her premonitions found in her late apprehension, allowed herself to trust in his judgment and admitted with unfeigned joy and soon with unambiguous cheerfulness the probability of a full recovery.
Eleanore could not be cheerful. Their joy was of a different kind and led to anything rather than happiness. Returning life, health, friends and her caring mother to Marianne was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort and expand it in fervent gratitude; – but it did not lead to any outward expressions of joy, no words, no smiles. Everything in Eleanore's chest was contentment, quiet and strong.
She stayed by her sister's side all afternoon with little interruption, calming every fear, satisfying every question of her weakened mind, providing every help, and watching almost every look and breath. The possibility of a relapse would, of course, occur in some moments to remind her of what anxiety is – but when she saw in her frequent and close examination that all the symptoms of recovery continued, and Marianne saw sinking at six o'clock into a calm, steady and seemingly comfortable sleep, she silenced any doubt.
The time was approaching when Colonel Bridgerton could be expected back. At ten o'clock, she hoped, or at least not much later, her mother would be freed from the terrible tension in which she now had to drive towards her. The colonel too! – perhaps hardly less an object of compassion! – Oh! – how slowly the time went by, which kept them in ignorance!
At seven o'clock, when Marianne was still sleeping sweetly, she joined Mrs. Jennings in the salon for tea. At breakfast she had been prevented from eating a lot by her fears and at dinner by her sudden setback; – and the present refreshment was therefore particularly welcome with such feelings of satisfaction that led them to it. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her in the end to rest a little before her mother's arrival and allow her to take her place with Marianne; but Eleanore had no feeling of fatigue, no ability to sleep at that moment, and she should not be kept away from her sister for an unnecessary moment. Mrs. Jennings accompanied her up the stairs to the hospital room to make sure that everything went well, leaving her there again to her care and thoughts.
The night was cold and stormy. The wind howled around the house, and the rain hit the windows; but Eleanore, of all luck in himself, did not look at it. Marianne overslept every explosion; and the travelers – they had a rich reward in store for any present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Eleanore would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the conviction that despite the ALMOST impossibility that they had already come, she moved into the adjacent dressing room and opened a shutter to convince herself of the truth. She immediately saw that her ears had not deceived her. Immediately the flickering lamps of a carriage could be seen. In her uncertain light, she thought she could see that it was pulled by four horses; and that, while telling the excess of the anxiety of her poor mother, gave an explanation to such an unexpected speed.
Never before in her life had it been so difficult for Eleanore to stay calm as at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother had to feel when the carriage stopped at the door – for her doubts – her fear – maybe her despair! – and what SHE had to tell! – with this knowledge, it was impossible to stay calm. All that remained was to be fast; and because she only stayed until she could leave Mrs. Jennings' maid with her sister, she hurried down the stairs.
As she passed an inner lobby, the hustle and bustle in the anteroom assured her that they were already in the house. She hurried to the salon – she entered it – and saw only Warwick.
Chapter 223
Her sister's wedding day came; and Jane and Elizabeth probably felt more for them than they did for themselves. The carriage was sent to them, and they were to return until dinner in it. Their arrival was feared by the elderly Miss Mitchell and especially by Jane, who gave Linda the feelings that would have accompanied her if she had been the culprit, and was miserable at the thought of what her sister had to endure.
They came. The family was gathered in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles adorned Mrs. Mitchell's face as the carriage drove to the door; her husband looked impenetrably serious; their daughters, alarmed, anxious, restless.
Linda's voice could be heard in the anteroom; The door was torn open and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forward, embraced her and greeted her with delight; Waterhouse, who followed his lady, shook hands with a loving smile; and wished them both joy with a zeal that betrayed no doubt about their happiness.
Their reception from Mr. Mitchell, to whom they then turned, was not quite as warm. His facial expression gained more severity; and he barely opened his lips. The young couple's relaxed confidence was actually enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted and even Miss Mitchell was shocked. Linda was still Linda; untamed, intrepid, wild, loud and fearless. She turned from sister to sister and demanded her congratulations; and when they finally all sat down, they eagerly looked around the room, noticed a small change in it and laughingly realized that she had not been there for a long time.
Waterhouse was by no means more desperate than herself, but his manners were always so pleasant that if his character and marriage had been exactly what they were supposed to be, his smile and easy-going manner while claiming their relationship, they would have delighted everyone. Elizabeth had not believed him before such an insurance; but she sat down and decided not to set any limits to the impudence of an impudent man in the future. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two that caused their confusion did not suffer a color change.
There was no lack of discourse. The bride and her mother both could not talk fast enough; and Waterhouse, who happened to be sitting near Elizabeth, began to inquire about his acquaintance in this neighborhood, with a good-humored ease that she could barely cope with in her answers. They all seemed to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was remembered with pain; and Linda voluntarily led to topics that her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
"Just remember that it's been three months," she exclaimed, "since I left; it seems to be only fourteen days, I explain; and yet enough has happened in that time. Oh my goodness! when I left, I certainly didn't think about getting married until I came back! although I thought it would be a lot of fun if I were.'
Her father raised his eyes. Jane was desperate. Elizabeth looked at Linda expressively; but she, who never heard or saw anything she wished to be aware of, happily continued, "Oh! Mom, do people here know I'm married today? I was afraid they couldn't; and we overtook William Goulding in his curriculum, so I was determined that he should know, and so I lowered the side window next to him and took off my glove and just let my hand rest on the window frame so that he could see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like something."
Elizabeth couldn't take it any longer. She got up and ran out of the room; and did not return until she heard them walking through the hall to the dining parkour. Then she joined them soon enough to see Linda walking to her mother's right hand with an anxious parade and hearing her say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I'm taking your place now, and you have to go deeper because I'm a married woman."
It was not to be assumed that time would bring Linda into the embarrassment from which she had been so completely free in the beginning. Their lightness and good mood increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbors, and to see herself "Mrs. Waterhouse" of each of them; and in the meantime, she went after dinner to show Mrs. Hill and the two maids her ring and brag about being married.
"Well, Mom," she said as they all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Isn't he a charming man? I'm sure my sisters must all envy me. I just hope they're half as lucky. They all have to go to Brighton. This is the place to get husbands. Too bad, Mom, we didn't all leave.'
'Very right; and if I had my will, we should do it. But my dear Linda, I don't like it at all that you digress like that. Does it have to be this way?'
'Oh God! yes; – there is nothing to it. I'll like it, of all things. She and Dad and my sisters need to come down and see us. We will be in Newcastle all winter and I dare say there will be some balls and I will make sure to find good partners for them all.'
'I would like it more than anything!' said her mother.
"And then when you leave, you can leave one or two of my sisters behind; and I dare say that I will find husbands for them before winter is over.'
"Thank you for my share of favor," Elizabeth said; 'but I don't particularly like your way of getting husbands.'
Your visitors should not stay with them for more than ten days. Mr. Waterhouse had received his assignment before leaving London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of fourteen days.
No one but Mrs. Mitchell regretted that her stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting her daughter and very often hosting parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; Avoiding the circle of the family was even more desirable for those who thought than for those who did not.
Waterhouse's affection for Linda was exactly what Elizabeth expected; not just Lindas for him. She had hardly used her present observation to be convinced, for the reason of things, that her escape had been brought about by the strength of her love rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without taking care of her violently, he would have burned through with her in the first place if she had not felt sure that his escape had become necessary due to the plight of circumstances; and if that was the case, he was not the young man who would resist the opportunity to have a companion.
Linda liked him extraordinarily. He was her dear Waterhouse at every opportunity; no one should compete with him. He has done everything in the world best; and she was sure that he would kill more birds on the first of September than anyone else in the country.
One morning, shortly after she arrived, while sitting with her two older sisters, she said to Elizabeth
,
"Lizzy, I don't think I ever told YOU about my wedding. You weren't there when I told mom and the others about it. Aren't you curious to hear how it was handled?'
'No really,' Elizabeth replied; "I don't think too little can be said on this subject."
'La! You are so strange! But I have to tell you how it turned out. We got married in St. Clemens, you know, because Waterhouse's apartment was in this community. And it was decided that we should all be there at eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others should meet us in the Church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was so in turmoil! I was so scared, you know, something was going to happen to postpone it, and then I should have been pretty distracted. And there was my aunt while I was getting dressed all the time, preaching and talking as if she were reading a sermon. However, I heard no more than a word out of ten, because I thought, as you can imagine, of my dear Waterhouse. I really wanted to know if he would marry in his blue coat."
"Well, and so, as usual, we had breakfast at ten; I thought it would never be over; because by the way, you should understand that my uncle and aunt were terribly uncomfortable the whole time I was with them. Believe me, I didn't go out the door once, even though I was there for fourteen days. Not a party or a scheme or anything. London was quite thin, but the Little Theatre was open. Well, and just as the carriage was at the door, my uncle was called to this terrible man, Mr. Stone, on business. And then, you know, once they get together, there's no end. Well, I was so scared that I didn't know what to do, because my uncle was supposed to give me away; and if we were past the hour, we couldn't get married all day. But luckily he came back in ten minutes, and then we all set off. But,
'Lord. Druri!' repeated Elizabeth in complete amazement.
"Oh yes! – he should get there with Waterhouse, you know. But graciously! completely forgotten! I shouldn't have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Waterhouse say? It should remain such a secret!'
"If it's secret," Jane said, "don't say another word on the subject. They can rest assured that I won't look any further."
'Oh! sure," Elizabeth said, though she was burning with curiosity; "We won't ask you any questions."
"Thank you," Linda said, "because if you did, I would certainly tell you everything, and then Waterhouse would be angry."
Asking for such encouragement, Elizabeth was forced to take it out of her power by running away.
But to live in ignorance about such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to search for information. Drury-san had been to her sister's wedding. It was exactly one scene, and exactly among people, where he seemed to have the least to do and where he was least tempted to go. Conjectures about its meaning, fast and wild, rushed into her brain; but she wasn't happy with anybody. Those who liked her best by putting his behavior in the noblest light seemed the most unlikely. She could not bear such tension; and hurriedly grabbed a piece of paper and wrote a short letter to her aunt demanding an explanation of what Linda had dropped if it was compatible with the intended secrecy.
"You can easily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to learn how a person who is not connected to any of us and is (comparatively) a stranger to our family should have been among you at such a time. Please write immediately and let me understand – unless it is for very valid reasons to remain in the secrecy that Linda seems necessary; and then I have to make an effort to be satisfied with ignorance.'
"But not that I WILL," she added to herself as she finished the letter; 'and my dear aunt, if you don't tell me in an honorable way, I'll certainly be reduced to tricks and tricks to find out.'
Jane's fine sense of honor did not allow her to speak privately with Elizabeth about what Linda had dropped; Elisabeth was happy about it; - until it turned out whether her research would be satisfied, she would have preferred to stay without confidants.
Chapter 224
A week had passed since Edmund was probably in town, and Esther had heard nothing from him. From his silence, three different conclusions could be drawn, between which their thoughts wavered; each of them is at times considered the most likely. Either his departure had been delayed again, or he had not yet had the opportunity to see Miss Dorset alone, or he was too happy to write a letter!
One morning, around this time, after Esther was now almost four weeks away from Mansfield, a point she failed to reconsider and calculate every day, as she and Susan prepared to go upstairs as usual, they were stopped by the police at the knock of a visitor they couldn't avoid. of Rebecca's vigilance when walking to the door, a duty that interested her more and more than anyone else.
It was the voice of a Lord; it was a voice where Esther was just fading when Mr. Dorset entered the room.
Common sense, such as theirs, will always act when it is really required; and she found that she had been able to call him to her mother, and to remember her memory of the name as that of "William's friend," although before she could not have believed that she would pronounce a syllable at such a moment. The awareness that he was only known there as William's friend was a certain support. However, after introducing him and taking her seat again, she was overwhelmed by the horror of what this visit could lead to, and she thought she was about to faint.
While she tried to keep herself alive, her visitor, who had initially approached her with such a lively face as ever, wisely and kindly kept his eyes away and gave her time to recover while devoting himself entirely to her mother and she addressed her and took care of her with the utmost courtesy and decency, at the same time with a level of kindness, at least in interest, that made his behavior perfect.
Mrs. Price's manners were also at their best. Warmed by the sight of such a friend of her son and dominated by the desire to appear advantageous before him, she overflowed with gratitude – simple, maternal gratitude – that could not be unpleasant. Mr. Price had dropped out, which she regretted very much. Esther had just recovered enough to feel like she couldn't regret it; for she was joined by many other sources of discomfort to the grave shame of the home in which he found her. She might scold herself for the weakness, but scolding away was not possible. She was ashamed, and she would have been even more ashamed of her father than of anyone else.
They talked about William, a topic on which Mrs. Price never tired; and Mr Dorset was as warm in his praise as even her heart could wish for. She felt like she had never seen such a pleasant man in her life; and was only amazed that, as tall and as pleasant as he was, he had not come down to Portsmouth for a visit to the port admiral or the commissioner, nor with the intention of going to the island, nor to see the shipyard. None of what she had previously seen as proof of importance or commitment to wealth had led him to Portsmouth. He had reached it late the night before, had come for a day or two, lived in the Crown, had accidentally met one or two naval officers known to him since his arrival, but had no intention of this kind.
When he had given all this information, it was not unreasonable to assume that Esther could be looked at and addressed; and she could bear his gaze and hear that he had spent half an hour with his sister the night before his departure from London; that she had sent her best and kindest loved ones, but had not had time to write; that he considered himself lucky to see Mary even for half an hour, after spending barely twenty-four hours in London after returning from Norfolk before leaving again; that her cousin Edmund had been in town, had been in town, as he heard, for a few days; that he hadn't seen him himself, but that he was fine, had left them all healthy in Mansfield and should dine with the Frasers like yesterday.
Esther also listened intently to the latter circumstance; no, it seemed to be a relief to her exhausted mind to be at any certainty; and the words "then everything is done by then" continued inwardly, without more signs of emotion than a slight blush.
After talking a little more about Mansfield, a topic she was most interested in, Dorset began to hint at the practicality of an early walk. "It was a beautiful morning, and at this time of year, a beautiful morning was switched off so many times that it was smartest for everyone not to delay their exercise"; and such hints had no effect, he soon went on to a positive recommendation to Mrs. Price and her daughters to go for their walk without wasting time. Now they came to an agreement. Mrs. Price, it seemed, hardly ever moved outdoors, except on Sundays; She knew that she rarely found time for a walk with her large family. "Wouldn't she then persuade her daughters to take advantage of such weather and give him the pleasure of attending them?" Mrs. Price was very committed and very accommodating. "Their daughters were very imprisoned; Portsmouth was a sad place; they didn't come out often; and she knew they had some errands to do in the city that they would love to run." And the result was that Esther, as strange as it was — strange, awkward, and unsettling — moved herself and Susan to the high street with Mr. Dorset within ten minutes.
It was soon pain for pain, confusion for confusion; for they were hardly in the main street when they met their father, whose appearance was no better because it was Saturday. He stopped, and Esther, as rude as he looked, had to introduce him to Mr. Dorset. She could have no doubt about how Mr. Dorset had to be beaten. He must be ashamed and disgusted overall. He must soon give it up and stop having the slightest inclination to the match; and yet, although she had wished so much that his affection was healed, this was a kind of healing that would be almost as bad as the complaint; and I think there is hardly a young lady in the UK who would not rather endure the misfortune of being sought after by a smart, pleasant man than have him driven away by the vulgarity of her closest relatives.
Mr. Dorset probably couldn't get his future father-in-law to think of him as a model in costume; but (as Esther immediately noted and to her great relief) her father was a very different man, a very different Mr. Price in his behavior than this highly respected stranger than he was in his own family at home. His manners, though not polished, were now more than passable: they were grateful, lively, masculine; his expressions were those of a clingy father and a reasonable man; his loud sounds did very well outdoors, and not a single oath could be heard. That was his instinctive compliment to the good manners of Mr. Dorset; and whatever the result, Esther's immediate feelings were infinitely calmed.
The conclusion of the courtesies of the two gentlemen was an offer from Mr. Price to bring Mr. Dorset to the shipyard, which Mr. Dorset, who wanted to accept as a favor what was intended as such, although he had seen the shipyard again and again, and hoping to be with Esther so much longer, he was very gratefully inclined, to make use of it when Miss Price was not afraid of fatigue; and since it was somehow established or inferred, or at least followed, that they were not afraid at all, they should all go to the shipyard; and without Mr. Dorset, Mr. Price would have gone straight there, without the slightest consideration for his daughters' high street errands. However, he made sure that they were allowed to go to the shops that they explicitly came out to visit; and it didn't stop them for long,
you should then immediately leave for the shipyard, and the walk – in Mr. Dorset's opinion – would have been done in a unique way if Mr. Price had been given the whole arrangement, like the two girls, he found, could have followed them and kept up with them or not as they could, while they continued together at their own hasty pace. Occasionally he could bring about an improvement, although by no means to the extent that he wished; he would absolutely not leave them; and at every intersection or crowd, when Mr. Price just shouted, "Come, girl; come on, fan; Come, Sue, take care of yourself; Take good care!" he would give them his special attention.
Once in the shipyard, he began to count on a happy traffic with Esther, as they were soon joined by a brother Lounger of Mr. Price, who had come to keep his daily overview of the progress of things and who had to prove himself a much more worthy companion than himself; and after a while, the two officers seemed very content to go around together and discuss matters of equal and never failing interest, while the young people sat down on a few beams in the yard ?? or found space on board a ship in the supplies they all looked at. Esther needed the most comfortable rest. Dorset couldn't have wished she was more tired or willing to sit down; but he could have wished her sister away. A bright girl Susan's age was the very worst third in the world: very different from Lady Schmidt, all eyes and ears; and there was no introduction to the main thing before her. He has to be content with just being pleasant in general and letting Susan do her share of the conversation, with the forbearance of occasionally giving a look or hint to the better informed and more conscious Esther. Norfolk was what he had the most to talk about: he had been there for some time, and everything there gained importance through his current plans. Such a man could not come from any place, from any society, without amusing something; his travels and acquaintances were beneficial, and Susan was entertained in a way that was completely new to her. For Esther, something more was told than the random friendliness of the parties he had been to. To their approval, the special reason why he went to Norfolk in the first place at this unusual time of year was given. It had been a real deal, compared to extending a lease that was about the well-being of a large and, he believed, hard-working family. He had suspected his agent of insidious dealings; the intention to bring it forward against the earners; and he had decided to go there himself and thoroughly investigate the merits of the case. He had left, had done even more good than he had anticipated, had been more useful than his original plan had included, and could now congratulate himself on it and feel that in fulfilling a duty he had secured pleasant memories for his own mind. He had introduced himself to some tenants he had never seen before; he had begun to make acquaintance with huts whose existence, although on his own estate, had previously been unknown to him. This was targeted and well targeted at Esther. It was pleasant to hear him speak properly; here he had acted as he should. To be the friend of the poor and oppressed! Nothing could be more grateful to her; and she was on the verge of casting an approving glance at him when everything was put off when he added something to the top, hoping to soon have an assistant, a friend, a guide in any useful or charitable plan for Everingham: someone who would make Everingham and everything around it a more valuable object than it had ever been before.
She turned away and wished he wouldn't say such things. She was willing to admit that he might have more good qualities than she had previously assumed. She began to feel the possibility that he could finally get well; but he was and should never be completely inappropriate for her and should not think of her.
Realizing that enough had been said about Everingham and that it would be good to talk about something else, he turned to Mansfield. He couldn't have voted better; this was a topic that brought back their attention and appearance almost instantly. It was a real blessing for her to hear or speak of Mansfield. Now separated from everyone who knew the place for so long, she felt it quite like the voice of a friend when he mentioned him, and led her to her loving exclamations in praise of his beauties and comforts, and through his honorable homage to his inhabitants, to satisfy her own heart in the warmest praise by speaking of her uncle, as everything that was smart and good, and from her aunt, as if she had the sweetest of all gentle minds.
He had a great affection for Mansfield himself; he said it; he rejoiced with the hope of spending a lot, a lot of time there; always there, or nearby. He built there this year especially on a very happy summer and autumn; he felt that it would be so: he relied on it; a summer and autumn that is infinitely superior to the last one. So lively, so varied, so social, but with indescribable superiority ratios.
"Mansfield, Sotherton, Thornton Lacey," he continued; "What a society will be in these houses! And to Michaeli, perhaps a fourth can be added: a small hunting box near everything that is so expensive; because as far as every partnership at Thornton Lacey is concerned, as Edmund Schmidt once suggested in a good mood, I hope to foresee two objections: two fair, excellent, irresistible objections to this plan."
Esther was doubly silenced here; although, when the moment was over, she could regret that she had not forced herself into the acknowledged understanding of half of its meaning, and encouraged him to say a little more about his sister and Edmund. It was a topic she had to learn to talk about, and the weakness that shied away from it would soon be quite unforgivable.
When Mr. Price and his friend had seen everything they wanted or had time for, the others were ready to return; and on her way back, Dorset-san created a minute of privacy to tell Esther that his only job in Portsmouth was to see her; that he had been run down for a few days because of hers, and only for hers, and because he could not stand a longer total separation. She felt sorry, really sorry; and yet, despite this and the two or three other things she wished he hadn't said, she found that he was better overall since she saw him; he was much gentler, more accommodating and more attentive to other people's feelings than he had ever been in Mansfield; she had never seen him so pleasantly – so close to being pleasant; his behavior toward her father could not offend her, and there was something particularly kind and right in the attention he paid to Susan. He was decidedly improved. She wished the next day was over, she wished he had only come for one day; but it wasn't as bad as she would have expected: the pleasure of talking about Mansfield was so great!
Before they separated, she had to thank him for another pleasure, one of a non-trivial nature. Their father asked him to do them the honor of taking his mutton with him, and Esther only had time for a horror shower before he declared himself prevented by a previous appointment. He was already engaged to dinner for both this day and the next day; he had met with an acquaintance at the Crown who would not be denied; however, he was to have the honor of serving them again tomorrow, etc., and so they separated – Esther in a state of real bliss, having escaped such a terrible evil!
It would have been terrible to have invited him to their family dinner and see all their shortcomings! Rebecca's cooking skills and Rebecca's waiting and Betsey's unrestrained eating at the table and wandering around at will were what Esther herself was not yet used to enough to often prepare her a bearable meal. She was only nice out of natural delicacy, but he had grown up in a school of luxury and enjoyment.
Chapter 225
"Harriet, poor Harriet!" – These were the words; therein lay the tormenting ideas that Emma could not get rid of and that for her constituted the real misery of the business. Frank Curcelle had behaved very badly himself – very bad in many ways – but it was not so much his behavior as her own that made her so angry with him. It was the scratch he had dragged her into because of Harriet that gave his insult the deepest color. - Poor Harriet! to be the betrayed of their misunderstandings and flattery a second time. Mr. Hill had spoken prophetically when he once said, "Emma, ?? you weren't a friend of Harriet Smith." – She was afraid that she would have done her nothing but a disservice. – It was true that she did not have to accuse herself of this example as in the former, in that he is the only and original author of the calamity; that he suggested such feelings that would otherwise never have occurred to Harriet; for Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and fondness for Frank Curcelle before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of promoting something that might have oppressed her. It could have prevented the indulgence and increase of such feelings. Their influence would have been enough. And now she was very aware that she should have prevented them. - She had the feeling that she had put her boyfriend's happiness at risk with very insufficient reasons. Common sense would have instructed her to tell Harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there are five hundred chances against one if he ever takes care of her. "But with common sense," she added, "I'm afraid I had little to do," because Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and fondness for Frank Curcelle before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of promoting something that might have oppressed her. It could have prevented the indulgence and increase of such feelings. Their influence would have been enough. And now she was very aware that she should have prevented them. - She had the feeling that she had put her boyfriend's happiness at risk with very insufficient reasons. Common sense would have instructed her to tell Harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there are five hundred chances against one if he ever takes care of her. "But with common sense," she added, "I'm afraid I had little to do," because Harriet had acknowledged her admiration and fondness for Frank Curcelle before she had ever given her a hint on the subject; but she felt completely guilty of promoting something that might have oppressed her. It could have prevented the indulgence and increase of such feelings. Their influence would have been enough. And now she was very aware that she should have prevented them. - She had the feeling that she had put her boyfriend's happiness at risk with very insufficient reasons. Common sense would have instructed her to tell Harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there are five hundred chances against one if he ever takes care of her. "But with common sense," she added, "I'm afraid I had little to do." It could have prevented the indulgence and increase of such feelings. Their influence would have been enough. And now she was very aware that she should have prevented them. - She had the feeling that she had put her boyfriend's happiness at risk with very insufficient reasons. Common sense would have instructed her to tell Harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there are five hundred chances against one if he ever takes care of her. "But with common sense," she added, "I'm afraid I had little to do." It could have prevented the indulgence and increase of such feelings. Their influence would have been enough. And now she was very aware that she should have prevented them. - She had the feeling that she had put her boyfriend's happiness at risk with very insufficient reasons. Common sense would have instructed her to tell Harriet that she must not allow herself to think of him, and that there are five hundred chances against one if he ever takes care of her. "But with common sense," she added, "I'm afraid I had little to do."
She was very angry with herself. If she hadn't also been angry with Frank Curcelle, it would have been terrible. As for Jane Saxon, she could at least free her feelings from any present concern about her. Harriet would be afraid enough; she no longer needed to be unhappy with Jane, whose suffering and illness, which of course had the same origin, also needed to be cured. Their days of insignificance and evil were over. РShe would soon be healthy and happy, and wealthy. РEmma could now imagine why her own attention had been disregarded. This discovery revealed many minor matters. Undoubtedly, it had been jealousy. РIn Jane's eyes, she had been a rival; and well everything she could offer in terms of help or appreciation could be rejected. Airing in the Hartfield car would have been the rack, and arrowroot from the Hartfield storage room must have been poison. She understood everything; and to the extent that her mind could detach itself from the injustice and selfishness of angry feelings, she acknowledged that Jane Saxon would have neither elevation nor happiness beyond her desert. But poor Harriet was such a captivating prot̩g̩! There was little sympathy left for any other body. Emma was sadly afraid that this second disappointment would be worse than the first. Considering the very high demands of the object, it should; and judging by its obviously stronger effect on Harriet's mind, which evokes restraint and self-control, it would do so. РHowever, she must tell the painful truth as soon as possible. Mr. Winstone's farewell words included an injunction on secrecy. "For the gift, the whole matter should remain completely secret. Mr. Curcelle had emphasized this as a sign of respect for the woman he had recently lost; and everyone admitted that it was nothing more than due decency." РEmma had promised it; but harriet must still be exempted. It was their overriding duty.
Despite her anger, she couldn't help but find it almost ridiculous that she had to perform from Harriet exactly the same embarrassing and delicate office that Mrs. Winstone had just gone through on her own. The message you like ?? had been told anxiously, she should now anxiously communicate to another. Her heart beat faster when she heard Harriet's footsteps and voice; this is how poor Mrs. Winstone had felt when she approached Randalls. Could the event of the revelation have the same similarity! - But unfortunately there could be no chance.
"Well, Miss Lodge!" shouted Harriet and eagerly came into the room – "isn't that the strangest news ever?"
"What news do you mean?" replied Emma, ?? Unable to guess, either by sight or by voice, whether Harriet could actually have received any clue.
"About Jane Saxon. Have you ever heard something so strange? Oh! You don't need to be afraid to attribute it to me, because Winstone-san told me. I just met him. He told me it was a big secret; and that's why I wouldn't think of mentioning it to anyone but you, but he said you knew."
"What did Mr. Winstone tell you?" – Emma still said perplexed.
"Oh! he told me everything; that Jane Saxon and Mr. Frank Curcelle will marry and that they have been privately engaged to each other for so long. How very strange!"
It was actually so strange; Harriet's behavior was so extremely strange that Emma didn't know how to understand it. Her character seemed completely changed. She seemed to suggest showing no excitement, disappointment, or particular concern about the discovery. Emma looked at her, unable to speak.
"Did you have any idea," Harriet exclaimed, "that he was in love with her? You may. but no one else...«
"At my word," emma said, ??" I begin to doubt that I have such a talent. Can you seriously ask me, Harriet, if I imagined him to hang on to another woman at the very moment when I encouraged you, tacitly, if not openly, to give in to your own feelings? the last hour in which Mr. Frank Curcelle had the slightest consideration for Jane Saxon. You can be sure that I should have warned you accordingly in this case."
"Me!" cried Harriet, coloring and amazed. "Why should you warn me? You think I don't care about Mr. Frank Curcelle."
"I am pleased to hear you speak so strongly on this issue," Emma replied with a smile; "But you don't want to deny that there was a time – and not very far away – when you gave me reason to believe that you cared about him?"
"He! – never, never. Dear Miss Lodge, how could you confuse me like that?" turns away with sorrow.
"Harriet!" cried Emma after a short break – "What do you mean? – Good heavens! What do you mean? – Do you understand each other! – Should I guess? –"
She couldn't speak a word anymore. – Her voice was lost; and she sat down and waited in terror for Harriet to answer.
Harriet, who stood at a distance and with her face turned away, did not immediately say anything; and when she spoke, her voice was almost as excited as Emma's.
"I didn't think it was possible," she began, "that you might have misunderstood me! I know we agreed never to call him by name – but considering how infinitely superior he is to everyone else, I wouldn't have thought it possible that I could mean any other person. Mr Frank Curcelle, indeed! I don't know who would ever look at him in each other's company. I hope I have a better taste than thinking of Mr. Frank Curcelle, who is by his side like no one. And that you were so wrong is amazing! – I am certain, but in order to believe that you completely approved of my attachment and wanted to encourage me, at first I almost thought it was too great a presumption to think of him. Had you not told me at first that wonderful things had happened;
"Harriet!" cried Emma and gathered resolutely – "Let's understand each other now, without the possibility of another error. Are you talking about – Mr. Hügel?"
"That's me, of course. I could never imagine another body – and that's why I thought you knew. When we talked about him, it was as clear as possible."
"Not quite," Emma replied with enforced serenity, "because everything you said at the time seemed to refer to another person. I could almost say you mentioned Mr. Frank Curcelle. I am sure there has been talk of the service that Mr. Frank Curcelle has rendered to you by protecting you from the Gypsies."
"Oh! Miss Lodge, how you forget that!«
"My dear Harriet, I remember exactly the content of what I said on that occasion. I have told you that I am not surprised by your stubbornness; that it was extremely natural in view of the service he had rendered to you: – and you agreed with this, expressed very warmly about your feeling of this service and even mentioned what you had felt when you saw him come to your rescue. – The impression of this is strongly imprinted in my memory."
"Oh dear," harriet exclaimed, "now I remember what you mean; but I thought of something completely different at the time. It wasn't the gypsies – I didn't mean Mr. Frank Curcelle. No! (with some cant) I thought of a much more precious circumstance – Mr. Hill's coming and asking me to dance when Mr. Alton didn't want to get up with me; and when there was no other partner in the room. That was the friendly action; this was noble benevolence and generosity; this was the ministry that gradually made me feel how superior it was to all other beings on earth."
"Good God!" cried Emma, ??" that was a most unfortunate – highly deplorable mistake! – What to do?"
"So you wouldn't have encouraged me if you had understood me? But at least I can't be worse off than I should have been if the other person had been the person; and now – it is possible – "
She paused for a few moments. Emma could not speak.
"I'm not surprised, Miss Lodge," she continued, "that you should feel a big difference between the two, both with me and with anyone. You have to think about me 500 million times more than the other. But I hope, Miss Lodge, that I accept – that if – as strange as it may seem – that. But you know that it was your own words, that more wonderful things had happened, that battles of greater inequality had taken place than between Mr. Frank Curcelle and me; and so it seems as if something like this could have happened before – and if I should be so happy, indescribable that – if Mr. Hill really should – if he doesn't mind inequality, I Hopefully, dear Miss Lodge, you will not resist it and try to put difficulties in the way. But you're too good for that, I'm sure."
Harriet stood at one of the windows. Emma turned around, looked at her in dismay, and hastily
said,
"Do you have any idea that Mr. Hill is returning your affection?"
"Yes," Harriet replied modestly, but not fearfully – "I have to say that."
Emma's eyes were immediately withdrawn; and she sat quietly and meditating for a few minutes in a firm posture. A few minutes were enough to introduce her to her own heart. A spirit like theirs, which had once opened up to suspicion, made rapid progress. She touched – she admitted – she acknowledged the whole truth. Why was it so much worse that Harriet was in love with Mr. Hill than with Frank Curcelle? Why was the evil magnified so terribly that Harriet had hope of returning? It shot through her at the speed of an arrow that Mr. Hill was not allowed to marry anyone but himself!
Her own behavior, as well as her own heart, was in front of her in the same few minutes. She saw everything with a clarity she had never blessed before. How inappropriate she had behaved towards Harriet! How ruthless, how unrefined, how irrational, how callous their behavior had been! What blindness, what madness had driven her! It hit her with terrible force, and she was ready to give him any bad name in the world. However, despite all these mistakes, a certain respect for herself – some concern for her own appearance and a strong sense of justice in Harriet – (no pity would be needed for the girl who believed Mr. Hill – but justice demanded that she should not be made unhappy by any coldness now) gave Emma the decision, to sit down and continue to endure with calm, even with obvious kindness. Indeed, it was appropriate for their own benefit that the utter extent of Harriet's hopes should be examined; and Harriet had done nothing to lose the respect and interest that had been so voluntarily formed and maintained – or to deserve to be offended by the person whose advice they had never properly led. she turned back to Harriet and renewed the conversation with a more welcoming accent; because as for the theme it first introduced, the wonderful story of Jane Saxon who was completely lost and lost. - None of them thought except Of Mr. Hill and himself. and Harriet had done nothing to lose the respect and interest that had been so voluntarily formed and maintained – or to deserve to be offended by the person whose advice they had never properly led. she turned back to Harriet and renewed the conversation with a more welcoming accent; because as for the theme it first introduced, the wonderful story of Jane Saxon who was completely lost and lost. - None of them thought except Of Mr. Hill and himself. and Harriet had done nothing to lose the respect and interest that had been so voluntarily formed and maintained – or to deserve to be offended by the person whose advice they had never properly led. she turned back to Harriet and renewed the conversation with a more welcoming accent; because as for the theme it first introduced, the wonderful story of Jane Saxon who was completely lost and lost. - None of them thought except Of Mr. Hill and himself.
Harriet, who had not been in any unfortunate reverie, was nevertheless very happy to be called by the now encouraging nature of such a judge and such a friend as Miss Lodge, who only wanted an invitation, to tell her story and hopes with great, if trembling, joy. Emma's trembling as she asked and listened was better hidden than Harriet's, but it was no less. Her voice was not uncertain; but their minds were in all the confusion that such a development of the self, such an outburst of threatening evil, such a confusion of sudden and confusing feelings had to cause. – She listened to Harriet with a lot of inner suffering, but with great external patience to detail. – Methodical or well arranged or very well presented, you couldn't expect that; but it contained,
Harriet was aware of a difference in his behavior since these two crucial dances. – Emma knew that he had found her far beyond his expectations on this occasion. Since that evening, or at least since Miss Lodge had encouraged her to think of him, Harriet had gradually realized that he was talking to her much more than usual and that he actually had a very different way of getting to her; a kind of kindness and loveliness! – Recently, she had become more and more aware of this. When they had all walked together, he had come and walked past her so many times and had spoken so delightfully! - He seemed to want to get to know her. Emma knew that was very much the case. She had observed the change many times, to almost the same extent. Harriet repeated appreciative and praising remarks from him – and Emma found that they were most likely to agree with what she had known about his opinion of Harriet. He praised her for being devoid of art or affect, for having simple, honest, generous feelings. She knew he saw such recommendations in Harriet; he had mentioned her to her more than once. Much of what lived in Harriet's memory, many small details of the resignation she had received from him, a look, a speech, a transfer from one chair to another, an implied compliment, a preference inferred, had gone unnoticed by Emma because it had not been suspected. Circumstances that could swell into a half-hour relationship and for those she had seen contained multiple evidence had passed unnoticed by her, who she now heard; but the two most recent events that need to be mentioned, When he first came in, he had said that he could not stay for five minutes – and he had told her during their conversation that although he had to go to London, it was very against his inclination to leave his home at all, which was much more (as Emma felt), when he had admitted to her. The overwhelming self-confidence toward Harriet that characterized this one article caused her great pain.
On the first of the two circumstances, after some reflection, she dared to ask the following question. "Isn't it? – Isn't it possible that when he inquires, as you thought, about the state of your affection, he alludes to Mr. Martin – he might have Mr. Martin's interests in mind? But Harriet vigorously dismissed the suspicion.
"Sir. Martin! Not really! – There was no trace of Mr. Martin. I hope I know better now than taking care of Mr. Martin or being suspected of it."
When Harriet had closed her evidence, she turned to her dear Miss Lodge to say if she had good reason to hope.
"I should never have presumed to think about it first," she said, "but for you. You told me to watch him carefully and let his behavior be my rule – and I did. But now I seem to feel that I could deserve it; and that if he chooses me, it won't be so wonderful."
The bitter feelings that this speech evoked, the many bitter feelings, necessitated the utmost effort on Emma's part to allow her to say in response:
"Harriet, I dare only explain that Mr. Hill is the last man in the world who would intentionally convey more of his feelings for her to any woman than he really does."
Harriet seemed ready to worship her friend for such a satisfying sentence; and Emma was saved from delight and tenderness only by the sound of her father's footsteps, which would have been a terrible penance at that moment. He came through the hall. Harriet was too excited to meet him. "She couldn't calm down – Mr. Lodge would be worried – she'd better go." – so she walked through another door with her friend's most readily encouragement – and the moment she left, this was the spontaneous outburst of Emma's feelings: "Oh God! that I would never have seen them!"
The rest of the day, the following night, was hardly enough for her to think. - She was confused in the confusion of everything that had collapsed on her in the last few hours. Every moment had brought a new surprise; and every surprise must be a humiliation to her. – How to understand all this! How could one understand the deceptions that she had carried out on herself and under which she had lived! – The mistakes, the blindness of their own head and heart! – She sat still, she walked around, she tried it in her own room, she tried it in the bushes – in every place, in every posture she realized that she had acted the weakest; that it had been imposed by others to a most humiliating degree; that she had imposed herself to an even more humiliating degree; that she was miserable and probably this day should only find the beginning of the misery.
Understanding their own heart, understanding it thoroughly, was the first effort. Up to this point, every moment of leisure granted to her by her father's demands on her and every moment of involuntary absence of mind was enough.
How long had Mr. Hill been as sweet to her as every feeling told him now? When did his influence, such an influence, begin? — When did he succeed in taking the place in their affection that Frank Curcelle had once taken for a short time? — she looked back; she compared the two – compared them as they had always been in their estimate since she became aware of the latter – and how they must have compared them at all times, right – oh! Fortunately, it would have occurred to her to make this comparison. She saw that there had never been a time when she didn't consider Mr. Hill infinitely superior, or when he didn't infinitely appreciate her dearest. She saw that by persuading herself to the contrary, imagining and acting, she had completely succumbed to deception,
this was the conclusion of the first series of reflections. This was the knowledge of herself, on the first question of the investigation that reached her; and without waiting long to reach it. - She was the saddest indignant; she was ashamed of every sensation except the one that was revealed to her – her affection for Mr. Hill. – Every other part of their mind was disgusting.
With unbearable vanity, she had believed in the mystery of everyone's feelings; proposed with unforgivable arrogance to order the fate of all. It was proved that she was generally mistaken; and she hadn't done nothing at all—for she had wreaked havoc. She had done evil to Harriet and herself, and she was too afraid of Mr. Hill. – If this were to come about as the most unequal of all connections, it would have to be accused of having begun to do so; she must believe that his attachment was caused only by a consciousness of Harriet; – and even if this were not the case, he would never have met Harriet if it had not been for her stupidity.
Mr. Hill and Harriet Smith! – It was an association to distance every miracle of this kind. – The bond of Frank Curcelle and Jane Saxon became commonplace, flimsy, old-fashioned in comparison, exciting, no surprise, no difference, no reason to be said or thought of. Hill and Harriet Smith! – Such a survey on their side! Such a humiliation from him! It was terrible for Emma, ?? to think of how it had to sink him into the general opinion in order to foresee the smile, the smile, the cheerfulness that it would provoke at its expense; the insult and contempt of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself. – Could it be? – No; It was impossible. And yet it was far, very far from impossible. - Was it a new circumstance for a man with first-class abilities to be tied up by very inferior powers? Was it new for one, maybe too busy to search,
Oh! she would never have brought Harriet forward! Had she left her where she should, and where he had told her to! – Had she not prevented her from marrying the impeccable young man who would have made her happy and decent in the line of life to which she should belong – everything would have been safe; none of these terrible sequels would have been.
How could Harriet ever have the presumption to raise her thoughts to Mr. Hill! – How she could dare to think of herself as the chosen one of such a man until she was really sure of it! But Harriet was less humble, had fewer scruples than before. – Their inferiority, whether in opinion or situation, seemed to be little noticeable. She seemed more reasonable that Mr. Alton would condescend to marry her when she now seemed to be from Mr. Hills. – Oh! Wasn't that also her own work? Who but herself had bothered to give Harriet an idea of self-assertion? Who but herself had taught her that she should rise up if possible and that her demands on a high secular establishment were high? – If Harriet, of being humble, had become vain, that was also her work.
Chapter 226
From this point on, the topic was frequently taken up by the three young people; and Catherine realized with some surprise that her two young friends were in complete agreement that Bella's lack of meaning and wealth would probably cause her great difficulty marrying her brother. Their conviction that the general would resist the connection for this reason alone, regardless of the objections that could be raised against her character, also directed her feelings to herself with a certain anxiety. She was as insignificant and perhaps no more than Bella; and if the heritage of the Alsina estate did not have enough size and wealth in it, which ?? Point of interest were his younger brother's demands to rest? The very painful reflections to which this thought led could only be dispelled by the dependence on the effect of that particular preference which, as she learned to understand both through his words and through his deeds, had been so happy from the beginning in general; and by remembering some highly generous and altruistic feelings about money that she had heard from him more than once and that led her to believe that his attitude towards such things was misunderstood by his children.
However, they were so firmly convinced that her brother would not have the courage to personally ask for his father's consent and repeatedly assured her that he had never in his life been less likely to come to Northanger than now. that she calmed down about the need for a sudden removal of her own. But since it could not be assumed that Captain Alsina, whenever he made his request, would give his father a proper idea of Bella's behavior, it seemed most expedient to her that Henry presented the whole thing to him as it really was, to allow the general to form a cool and impartial opinion and to formulate his objections on a fairer ground than the inequality of situations. She suggested it to him accordingly; but he didn't understand the measure as eagerly as she had expected. "No," he said, "my father's hands do not need to be strengthened, and Frederick's admission of folly does not have to be prevented. He has to tell his own story."
"But he will only tell half of it."
"A quarter would be enough."
A day or two passed and brought no news from Captain Alsina. His brother and sister didn't know what to think. Sometimes it seemed to them that his silence was the natural consequence of the presumed engagement, sometimes as completely incompatible with her. The general, though offended every morning by Frederick's negligence in writing, was free from any real concern for him and had no more urgent concern than making Miss Fenmore's time in Northanger enjoyable. He often expressed his discomfort about it, feared that the uniformity of everyday society and occupations would disgust her in the place, wished the Lady Frasers had been in the countryside, occasionally talked about having a big party for dinner, and once or twice they even began to calculate the number of young dancing people in the neighborhood. But on the other hand, it was such a dead season, no wild fowl, no game, and the Lady Frasers were not in the country. And it all ended up with him telling Henry one morning that the next time he went to Woodston, they would take him there unexpectedly one day and eat their mutton with him. Henry felt very honored and very happy, and Catherine was very pleased with the plan. "And when do you think, sir, can I look forward to this pleasure? I have to be in Woodston on Monday to attend the community meeting and will probably be forced to stay for two or three days," when he told Henry one morning that the next time he went to Woodston, they would one day surprisingly take him there and eat their mutton with him. Henry felt very honored and very happy, and Catherine was very pleased with the plan. "And when do you think, sir, can I look forward to this pleasure? I have to be in Woodston on Monday to attend the community meeting and will probably be forced to stay for two or three days," when he told Henry one morning that the next time he went to Woodston, they would one day surprisingly take him there and eat their mutton with him. Henry felt very honored and very happy, and Catherine was very pleased with the plan. "And when do you think, sir, can I look forward to this pleasure? I have to be in Woodston on Monday to attend the community meeting and will probably be forced to stay for two or three days."
"Well, we will take our chance at some point. There is no need to fix. Thou shalt not get out of the way at all. Whatever you have in the house will suffice. I think I can answer for the young ladies who consider a bachelor table. Let me see; Monday will be a busy day with you, we will not come on Monday; and Tuesday will be a busy one with me. I am expecting my surveyor from Brockham tomorrow morning with his report; and after that I can't decently miss out on visiting the club. I really couldn't face my acquaintance if I stayed away now; for since I am known to be in the country, it would be taken extremely resentfully; and it is a rule with me, Miss Fenmore, never to offend. to any of my neighbors, if a small sacrifice of time and attention can prevent this. They are a group of very worthy men. They get half a dollar from Northanger twice a year; and I eat with them whenever I can. Tuesday we can therefore say, is out of the question. But on Wednesday, I think, Henry, you can expect us; and we will be with you early so that we have time to look around. Two and three-quarters of an hour will take us to Woodston, I suppose; we will be in the carriage at ten; So you can look for us on Wednesday at about a quarter to one."
A ball herself could not have been more welcome for Catherine than this little excursion, so strong was her desire to get to know Woodston; and her heart was still bouncing with joy when Henry came to the room where she and Eleanor were sitting about an hour later, in boots and in a thick coat, and said, "I have come, young ladies, in a very moralizing tension, to observe that our pleasures in this world always have to be paid for and that we often buy them with great disadvantage, by giving ready money for a design for the future that may not be rewarded. Experience me in this present hour. Since I am supposed to hope for the satisfaction of seeing you in Woodston on Wednesday, which can prevent bad weather or twenty other reasons, I have to leave right away, two days before I intended it.
"Go away!" said Catherine with a very long face. "And why?"
"Why! How to ask the question? Because there must be no time lost to scare my old housekeeper to death, because of course I have to go and prepare dinner for you."
"Oh! Not seriously!"
"Yes, and unfortunately also – because I would have much preferred to stay."
"But after what the general said, how can you think of such a thing? When he so explicitly asked you not to bother, because everything would be enough."
Henry just smiled. "I'm sure it's pretty unnecessary for your and my sister. You need to know; and the general put so much emphasis on it that you didn't provide anything out of the ordinary: moreover, if he hadn't said half as much, he always has such an excellent dinner at home that it couldn't mean sitting on a mediocre one for a day."
"I wish I could argue like you, for the sake of him and me. See you later. Since tomorrow is Sunday, Eleanor, I will not return."
He left; and since it was always a much easier operation for Catherine to doubt her own judgment than Henry's, she was very soon forced to agree with him, however uncomfortable his actions might be. But the inexplicability of the general's behavior preoccupied her very much. That he was very picky in his food, she had already discovered through her own observation without outside help; but why he should say one so positively and mean the other was highly inexplicable! How were people to be understood at this pace? Who but Henry could have known what his father was up to?
From Saturday to Wednesday, however, they should now do without Henry. This was the sad finale of any reflection: and Captain Alsina's letter would certainly come in his absence; and on Wednesday she was very sure that she would get wet. Past, present and future were all equally bleak. Her brother was so unhappy and her loss to Bella so great; and Eleanor's spirits were always affected by Henry's absence! What was there that interested or amused them? She was fed up with the forests and the shrubs – always so smooth and so dry; and the abbey itself was now no more than any other house for them. The painful memory of the madness it had helped to nourish and perfect was the only feeling that could spring from a contemplation of the building. What a revolution in their ideas! She who had longed so much to be in an abbey! Now, nothing delighted her imagination as much as the unpretentious comfort of a well-connected rectory, something like Fullerton, but better: Fullerton had his flaws, but Woodston probably didn't have any. If Wednesday ever comes!
It came, exactly when it could reasonably be searched for. It came – it was fine – and Catherine stepped into the air. At ten o'clock Chaise and Four brought the trio out of the abbey; and after a pleasant drive of almost twenty miles, they reached Woodston, a large and populous village, in a not unpleasant situation. Catherine was ashamed to say how pretty she thought it was, as the general seemed to consider an apology for the flatness of the land and the size of the village necessary; but in her heart she preferred every place she had ever been, and looked with great admiration at every tidy house that surpassed the rank of a hut and all the little grocers' shops they passed. At the other end of the village, quite away from the rest, stood the rectory, a newly built stately stone house, with its semi-circular swing and green gates; and when they drove to the door, Henry with the friends of his loneliness, a large Newfoundland puppy and two or three terriers, was ready to receive them and do much of them.
When she entered the house, Catherine's mind was too busy for her to notice much or say much; and until she was asked by the general for her opinion, she had very little idea of the room she was sitting in. When she looked around, she immediately noticed that it was the most comfortable room in the world; but she was too cautious to say, and the coldness of her praise disappointed him.
"We don't call it a good house," he said. "We don't compare it to Fullerton and Northanger – we think of it as a mere rectory, small and cramped, as we admit, but decent perhaps and habitable; and are not inferior to the general public as a whole; or in other words, I think there are few rural rectories in England that are half as good. However, it can allow for improvement. It is far from me to say otherwise; and something in reason – an ejected arc perhaps – but among us, if I reject something more than the other, then it is a patched bow."
Catherine did not hear enough of this speech to understand or be angry about it; and other topics eagerly raised and supported by Henry, at the same time as a tray full of refreshments was introduced by his servant, the general was soon brought back to his complacency and Catherine to all her usual lightness of mood.
The room in question was of a spacious, well-proportioned size and nicely furnished as a dining room; and when they left it to walk across the grounds, she was first led to a smaller apartment, which strangely belonged to the landlord and was unusually cleaned on that occasion; and then into what the salon was to become, with its appearance, although unfurnished, Catherine was so delighted that she satisfied even the general. It was a nicely shaped room, the windows reached to the floor, and the view was pleasant, if only over green meadows; and she expressed her admiration at the moment with all the honest simplicity with which she felt it. "Oh! Why don't you equip this room, Mr Alsina? Too bad it's not mounted! It's the nicest room I've ever seen; It is the most beautiful room in the world!
"I trust," said the general with a most satisfied smile, "that it will be set up very quickly: it is just waiting for the taste of a lady!"
"Well, if it were my house, I shouldn't sit anywhere else. Oh! What a cute little cottage between the trees – even apple trees! It's the most beautiful cottage!"
"You like it – you accept it as an object – it's enough. Henry, remember that Robinson talked about it. The hut remains."
Such a compliment recalled the whole consciousness of Catherine, and silenced her directly; and although she was explicitly approached by the General for her choice of the predominant color of the paper and curtains, nothing but an opinion could be drawn from her on this subject. However, the influence of fresh objects and fresh air was of great use in dispelling these embarrassing associations; and after reaching the decorative part of the premises, which consisted of a walk around two sides of a meadow where Henry's genius had begun to work about half a year ago, she was sufficiently recovered to find it more beautiful than any place of entertainment she had ever had been in, although no shrub was higher than the green bench in the corner.
A walk on other meadows and through a part of the village, with a visit to the stables to see some improvements, and a charming game with a litter of puppies that could just roll around, brought them to four o'clock Catherine would hardly have thought that there could be three. At four they should have dinner and at six they should start the return journey. Never before had a day passed so quickly!
She could not help but notice that the fullness of dinner did not seem to cause the slightest astonishment in the general; yes, he even looked for cold meat on the side table that wasn't there. The observations of his son and daughter were of a different kind. They had rarely seen him eat so heartily at a table other than his own, and never before had they upset him so little because the melted butter was oiled.
At six o'clock, after the general had taken his coffee, the car received her again; and as pleasing as his behavior had been throughout the visit, she was convinced of his expectations that Catherine Woodston would have equipped with little if she had been as sure of his son's wishes as or when she could come back to them.
Chapter 227
While Admiral Field took this walk with Anne and expressed his desire to bring Captain Cambridge to Bath, Captain Cambridge was already on his way there. Before Mrs. Field had written, he had arrived, and the next time Anne went out, she saw him.
Mr. Hightower took care of his two cousins?? and Mrs. Clay. They were on Milsom Street. It started to rain, not much, but enough to wish women shelter, and quite enough to make Miss Hightower very desirable to be brought home in Lady Galloway's carriage waiting at a distance; she, Anne and Mrs. Clay went to Molland's, while Mr. Hightower went to Lady Galloway to ask her for help. Soon he joined them again, with success, of course; Lady Galloway would love to take her home and pick her up in a few minutes.
The carriage of your ladyship was a barouche and held no more than four comfortably. Miss Carteret was with her mother; Consequently, it was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all three Camden Place ladies. There could be no doubt about Miss Hightower. Whoever had any inconvenience, she didn't have to suffer any, but it took a little while to clear up the point of politeness between the other two. The rain was just a trifle, and Anne sincerely preferred to walk with Mr. Hightower. But even the rain was only a small thing for Mrs. Clay; she barely dropped him, and her boots were so thick! much thicker than Miss Annes; and, in short, her courtesy made her as anxious to walk with Mr. Hightower as anne could be, and it was discussed between them with such polite and determined generosity that the others were obliged to pay for it for them; Miss Hightower claimed that Mrs. Clay had already had a bit of a cold, and Mr. Hightower decided on appeal that his cousin Anne's boots were quite thick.
Accordingly, it was determined that Ms. Clay should ride in the carriage; and they had just reached this point when Anne, as she sat near the window, most decisively and clearly described Captain Cambridge walking down the street.
Their startleness was perceptible only to themselves; but she immediately felt like she was the biggest simplicity brush in the world, the most inexplicable and absurd! For a few minutes she saw nothing in front of her; it was all confusion. She had lost her way, and when she had come to her senses again, she found that the others were still waiting for the carriage and Mr. Hightower (always courteous) had just left for Union Street on behalf of Mrs. Clay.
She now felt a great inclination to go to the outside door; she wanted to see if it was raining. Why should she suspect another motive? Captain Cambridge must be out of sight. She left her place, she would leave; One half of her shouldn't always be as much smarter than the other half, or the other should always suspect being worse than she was. She would see if it was raining. However, she was immediately sent back by the entry of Captain Cambridge himself to a group of gentlemen and ladies who were obviously his acquaintances and whom he must have joined just below Milsom Street. He was more obviously struck and confused by her sight than she had ever observed before; it looked all red. For the first time since their reunion, she felt she was betraying the slightest sensitivity of the two. She had him in the preparation of the last moments in the advantage. All the overwhelming, dazzling, confusing first effects of strong surprise were over with her. Nevertheless, she had enough to feel! It was excitement, pain, pleasure, something between joy and misery.
He spoke to her and then turned away. The character of his kind was embarrassment. She couldn't have called it cold, friendly, or as safe as she was embarrassed.
After a short pause, however, he approached her and spoke again. Mutual inquiries about common issues passed: probably none of them were much smarter for what they heard, and Anne continued to fully feel that he felt less comfortable than before. They had spoken to each other through the many togethernesses with a considerable dose of apparent indifference and serenity; but he couldn't do it now. Time had changed it, or Lois had changed it. There was some kind of consciousness. He looked very good, not as if he had suffered health or soul, and he spoke of Uppercross, of the Cumberlands, even of Lois, and even had a temporary expression of his own sublime meaning when he called them; but still, Captain Cambridge did not feel comfortable, not easy, unable to pretend to be.
It wasn't surprising, but it saddened Anne to find that Elizabeth didn't know him. She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw him, that there was complete inner recognition on both sides; she was convinced that he was ready to be recognized as an acquaintance and expected it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister avert with unchanging coldness.
Lady Galloway's carriage, for which Miss Hightower became very impatient, now stopped; the servant came in to announce it. It started raining again, and overall there was a delay and a hustle and bustle and a chat that had to make it clear to the whole small crowd in the store that Lady Galloway was calling to bring Miss Hightower. Finally, Miss Hightower and her friend, unsupervised but by the servant (because no cousin came back), walked away; and Captain Cambridge, who was watching her, turned back to Anne and offered her his services with gestures rather than words.
"I am very attached to you," was her answer, "but I do not go with her. The car would not accommodate so many.
"But it's raining."
"Oh! very little, nothing I look at."
After a short pause, he said, "Although I only came yesterday, I've already properly equipped myself for Bath, you see," (points to a new umbrella); " I wish you would make use of it if you are determined to leave; although I think it would be wiser to let me get you a chair."
She was very attached to him, but rejected everything and reiterated her belief that the rain would not bring anything at this time, adding, "I'm just waiting for Mr. Hightower. He'll be right here, I'm sure."
She had barely spoken the words when Mr. Hightower came in. Captain Cambridge remembered him perfectly. There was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps of Lyme and admired Anne in passing, except in the attitude, appearance and nature of the privileged relative and friend. He came in eagerly, seemed to see and think of her, apologized for his stay, was saddened to make her wait, and wanted to take her away without further loss of time and from increasing rain; and at another moment they walked away together, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed look and a "Good morning to you!" was all she had time for when she died.
As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Cambridge's company began to talk about them.
"Mr. Hightower doesn't like his cousin, I suppose?"
"Oh! no, that's clear enough. You can imagine what is going to happen. He is always there; half of life in the family, I believe. What a very handsome man!"
"Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who once ate with him in Valais, says he is the most pleasant man she has ever been with."
"She's pretty, I think; Anne Hightower; very pretty when you look at them. It's not fashionable to say that, but I confess I admire her more than her sister."
"Oh! me too."
"And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all crazy about Miss Hightower. Anne is too tender for her."
Anne would have been especially attached to her cousin if he had walked all the way to Camden Place by her side without saying a word. She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, although nothing could surpass his concern and care, and even though his themes were mainly those that were usually always interesting: praise, warm-hearted, just and discriminating, of Lady Russell and hints exceedingly rational against Mrs. Clay. But at the moment she could only think of Captain Cambridge. She could not understand his present feelings, whether he was really suffering from disappointment or not; and up to that point, she couldn't quite be herself.
She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; But alas! Oh! she had to admit to herself that she was not yet wise.
Another circumstance she absolutely needed to know was how long he wanted to stay in Bath; he hadn't mentioned it, or she couldn't remember it. Maybe he's just passing through. But it was more likely that he should come to stay. In this case, Lady Russell would most likely see him somewhere, as everyone in Bath had to meet everyone. Would she remember him? How would all that be?
She had already had to tell Lady Russell that Lois Cumberland would marry Captain Bean. It had taken her a lot to meet Lady Russell's surprise; and now, if she happened to be thrown into company with Captain Cambridge, her imperfect knowledge of the matter could add another shade of prejudice against him.
The next morning Anne was out with her boyfriend, and in the first hour in an incessant and anxious way, looking in vain for him; but eventually, as she walked down Pulteney Street, she recognized him on the right sidewalk at such a distance that he had most of the street in view. There were many other men around him, many groups went the same way, but he was unmistakable. She looked at Lady Russell instinctively; but not of a crazy idea that she recognized him as quickly as she did herself. No, it was not to be assumed that Lady Russell would notice him until they almost faced each other. However, she looked at her anxiously from time to time; and when the moment approached that had to point this out to him, even though she did not dare to look again (because her own face, which she knew was not suitable to be seen), she was still fully aware that Lady Russell's eyes were pointed exactly in the direction of him – in short, that she was watching him attentively. She could understand the kind of fascination he had to have of Lady Russell's thoughts, the difficulty it had to have for her to avert her gaze, the amazement she had to feel that eight or nine years should have passed on him, and in foreign realms and also in active service, without robbing him of a personal grace!
Lady Russell finally pulled her head back. "Well, how would she speak of him?"
"You will wonder," she said, "what my eye has fixed for so long; but I took care of some window curtains that Lady Alicia and Mrs Frankland told me about last night. They described the salon window – curtains of one of the houses on this side of the path and this part of the street as the most beautiful and best hung of all in Bath, but could not remember the exact number, and I tried to figure out which one could be; but I confess that I can't see any curtains nearby that match their description.
Anne sighed and blushed, smiling out of pity and contempt at either her friend or herself. The part that provoked her the most was that with all this waste of foresight and caution, she should have missed the right moment to see if he saw her.
A day or two went by without producing anything. The theater or the rooms in which he would most likely stay were not chic enough for the Hightowers, whose evening amusements lay only in the elegant stupidity of private parties to which they became more and more involved; and Anne, tired of this state of stagnation, tired of knowing nothing, and imagining that she was stronger because her strengths were not put to the test, was looking forward impatiently to the concert evening. It was a concert for the benefit of a person sponsored by Lady Galloway. Of course, they have to be there. It was supposed to be really good, and Captain Cambridge loved music very much. If she could talk to him for just a few minutes, she imagined she would be satisfied; and as for the power to address him, she was full of courage when the opportunity arose. Elizabeth had turned away from him, Lady Russell overlooked him; their nerves were strengthened by these circumstances; she felt that she owed him attention.
She had once partially promised Mrs. Smith that she would spend the evening with her; but with a short, hasty phone call, she apologized and postponed it with the more decisive promise of a longer visit the next day. Mrs. Smith agreed in a very good mood.
"Absolutely," she said; "Don't tell me everything until you come. Who is your party?"
Anne named them all. Mrs. Smith did not answer; but when she left, she said with a half-serious, half-mischievous expression, "Well, I sincerely desire that your concert be heard, and don't let me down tomorrow if you can come; for I am beginning to suspect that I may not have many visits from you anymore."
Anne was frightened and confused; but after standing in limbo for a moment, he was committed, and did not regret being obliged to rush away.
Chapter 228
Eleanor, who returned with a horrified look at his sight, obeyed the first impulse of her heart by immediately turning to leave the room, and her hand was already in the castle when his action was interrupted by his hasty advance, saying, with commanding rather than pleading tone:
"Miss Hargrove, for half an hour – for ten minutes – I ask you to stay."
"No, sir," she replied firmly, "I will NOT stay. Your matter cannot be with ME.
"If they had told me," he shouted violently, "that Mr. Palmifer and all his relatives were after the devil, it wouldn't have stopped me from the door. My business is with you, and only with you."
"With me!" – in the greatest astonishment – "well, sir, – be quick – and if you can – less violent."
"Sit down, and I will be both."
She hesitated; she didn't know what to do. The possibility that Colonel Bridgerton could arrive and find her there came to her mind. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity was no less than her honor. After pondering for a moment, she came to the conclusion that prudence required speed and that her approval would best promote her, she went to the table in silence and sat down. He sat down on the opposite chair, and for half a minute neither of them said a word.
"Hurry up, sir," Eleanore said impatiently, "I have no time to lose."
He sat in a posture of deep meditation and did not seem to hear it.
"Your sister," he said abruptly a moment later, "is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. Thank God! – But is it true?
Eleanor did not want to speak. He repeated the question with even greater zeal.
"Tell me for God's sake, is she out of danger or not?"
"We hope it is."
He got up and walked through the room.
"If I had known this half an hour ago – but since I've been here," he said with forced liveliness as he returned to his seat, "what does that mean? – For once, Miss Hargrove – it will be the last time, maybe – let's be happy together. – I'm up for happiness. – Tell me honestly" – a deeper glow spread his cheeks – "Do you think I'm more of a villain or a fool?"
Eleanore looked at him with greater amazement than ever. She began to think that he must be in alcohol; - the strangeness of such a visit, and such manners, otherwise seemed incomprehensible; and with that impression, she immediately stood up and said
,
"Mr. Warwick, I advise you now to return to Combe – I have no leisure to stay with you any longer.
"I understand you," he replied with an expressive smile and a completely calm voice; "Yes, I'm very drunk. - A pint of porter with my cold beef in Marlborough was enough to overwhelm me."
"In Marlborough!" cried Eleanore, increasingly perplexed, to understand what he was getting at.
"Yes, - I left London at eight o'clock this morning, and the only ten minutes I've spent outside my carriage since that time got me lunch in Marlborough."
The consistency of his demeanor and the intelligence of his gaze as he spoke convinced Eleanore that whatever other unforgivable stupidity might bring him to Cleveland, he had not been brought there by a rush, she said after a brief reflection:
"Mr Warwick, you MUST feel, and I do– that after everything that has happened – you need a very special apology for coming here in this way and for imposing yourself on my attention. – What do you mean by that? it?" -
"I mean," he said with serious energy, "if I can, so that you hate me a little less than now, open my whole heart to you and convince you that I have always been a fool, but not always a sling, to get something like forgiveness from Ma – from your sister."
"Is that the real reason for your coming?"
"It's with my soul," was his response with a warmth that brought the whole former Warwick to her memory, and against her will led her to think he was sincere.
"When that's all, you can already be satisfied - because Marianne TUT - she has forgiven you FOR A LONG time."
"Does she have that?" he shouted in the same zealous tone. "Then she forgave me before she should have done it. But she should forgive me again, and for more reasonable reasons?"
Eleanore bowed in her approval.
only my vanity was increased by it. Unconcerned about her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving in to feelings to which I had always given in too much, I tried by all means to please her without any intention of returning her affection."
At this point, Miss Hargrove turned her eyes to him with the most angry contempt and interrupted him by saying
,
"It's hardly worth telling Mr. Warwick, or listening to me any longer. Nothing can follow such a beginning."
— But one thing can be said of me: even in this horrific state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I was meditating because THEN I did not know what loving was. But did I ever know? - It may well be doubted; for if I had really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings of vanity, of stinginess? - or even more, could I have sacrificed them? - But I did. In order to avoid comparatively poverty, which would have deprived their affection and their society of all their horrors, by rising to prosperity, I have lost everything that could make him a blessing. Could I have sacrificed my feelings of vanity, of stinginess? – or, even more, could I have sacrificed them? – But I did. In order to avoid comparatively poverty, which would have deprived their affection and their society of all their horrors, by rising to prosperity, I have lost everything that could make him a blessing. Could I have sacrificed my feelings of vanity, of stinginess? – or, even more, could I have sacrificed them? – But I did. In order to avoid comparatively poverty, which would have deprived their affection and their society of all their horrors, by rising to prosperity, I have lost everything that could make him a blessing.
"So you believed," said Eleanore, a little appeased, "once felt connected to her?"
with great care to provide a possible opportunity to make me contemptuous and miserable forever. But finally my decision was made, and I had decided, as soon as I could win them alone, to justify the attentions I had given her so ?? had constantly given it, and openly assure her of an affection, which I had already tried so hard to advertise. But in the meantime – in the meantime of the few hours that were to pass before I had the opportunity to talk to her alone – a circumstance occurred – an unfortunate circumstance that destroyed my whole decision and thus all my comfort. A discovery has taken place." – here he hesitated and looked down. "Mrs. Smith, I imagine, had somehow been informed by a distant relative whose interest was to rob me of her favor, of an affair,
"I have," Eleanore replied, dying. likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard everything.
whose affection for me – (may I say it?) was hardly less warm than theirs; and whose mind – Oh! how infinitely superior!" "
But your indifference to this unfortunate girl – I must say, as uncomfortable as it may be for me to discuss such an issue – your indifference is no excuse for your cruel neglect. Don't think excused by any weakness, any natural lack of understanding on their side, in the wanton cruelty that is so evident on your side. They?? must have known that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire and always pursuing cheerful, always happy plans, you were reduced to extreme poverty. "
But with my soul, I did NOT know," he replied warmly; " I did not remember that I had failed to give it my direction; and common sense might have told her how to figure it out."
"Well, sir, and what did Mrs. Smith say?"
The night following this affair - the next morning I was supposed to leave - I spent thinking about my future behavior. The fight was big – but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my deep conviction of her affection for me – none of this was enough to outweigh this fear of poverty or to overcome these misconceptions about the need for wealth, which I was naturally prone to, and an expensive society that had increased. I had every reason to feel safe with my current wife when I wanted to address her, and I persuaded myself to believe that I had no choice but to exercise general caution. However, a heavy scene awaited me before I could leave Devonshire. It was therefore necessary to apologize that I broke this engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it personally, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be terrible, and I even doubted whether I could see her again and stick to my resolution. On this point, however, I underestimated my own magnanimity, as the event explained; for I went, I saw them and saw them miserable, and left them miserable, and left them in the hope of never seeing them again.
"Why did you call, Mr. Warwick?" said Eleanore reproachfully; "a note would have served any purpose. - Why was it necessary to call?"
I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took away my strength to pretend. Her sadness, her disappointment, her deep regret when I told her that I had to leave Devonshire so quickly – I will never forget it – combined with such confidence, such trust in me! – Oh God! – how heavy-hearted sling I was!"
Both remained silent for a few moments. Eleanor spoke first.
"Did you tell her to return soon?"
"I don't know what I told her," he replied impatiently; "Less than the past deserves, no doubt, and in all likelihood much more than the future justified. I can't imagine it. – It doesn't work. – Then your dear mother came to continue tormenting me, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank God! it HAS tortured me. I was unhappy. Miss Hargrove, you cannot imagine the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe myself such a grudge for the stupid, villainous folly of my own heart that all my past sufferings under it are now just triumph and jubilation. Well, I left, left everything I loved, and went to those to whom I was at best indifferent. My journey to the city – traveling with my own horses,
He stopped.
"Well, sir," said Eleanore, who, despite feeling sorry for him, grew impatient on his departure, "and that's all?"
"Ah! – no – have you forgotten what happened in the city? – That infamous letter – did she show it to you?"
"Yes, I saw every note that happened."
"When the first of her reached me (as it happened immediately, because I was in town all the time), I felt that what I can't express in general expression is in a simpler one maybe too easy to express any emotion – my feelings were very, very painful. – Every line, every word was – in the hackneyed metaphor that her dear author, if she were here, would forbid – a dagger in my heart. Knowing that Marianne was in town was – in the same language – a thunderbolt. – Thunderbolts and daggers! – what a rebuke she would have given me! – their tastes, their opinions – I think they are better known to me than my own, and I'm sure they are more expensive."
Eleanore's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, now became softer again; – but she felt obliged to examine such thoughts last with her companion.
"That's not right, Mr. Warwick. – Remember that you are married.
I felt that I loved her infinitely much more than any other woman in the world, and that I used her in a shameful way. But between Miss Grey and me everything was settled. A retreat was impossible. All I had to do was avoid you both. I did not send Marianne an answer to avoid her further attention; and for some time I was even determined not to call Berkeley Street; - but eventually I thought it was wiser to influence the atmosphere of a cool, mutual acquaintance than anything else, and watched you all safely out of the house one morning, leaving my name." I did not send Marianne an answer to avoid her further attention; and for some time I was even determined not to call Berkeley Street; - but eventually I thought it was wiser to influence the atmosphere of a cool, mutual acquaintance than anything else, and watched you all safely out of the house one morning, leaving my name." I did not send Marianne an answer to avoid her further attention; and for some time I was even determined not to call Berkeley Street; - but eventually I thought it was wiser to influence the atmosphere of a cool, mutual acquaintance than anything else, and watched you all safely out of the house one morning, leaving my name."
"Watched us out of the house!"
— If he had not told me that you and your sister should be there, I would have found it too safe to trust him. The next morning brought a short note from Marianne – still loving, open, unadulterated, trusting – everything that could make MY behavior highly hateful. I couldn't answer it. I tried – but couldn't formulate a sentence. But I thought of her every moment of the day, I think. If you CAN pity me, Miss Hargrove, pity my situation as it was THEN. Head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play another woman's happy lover! – Those three or four weeks were worse than anything else. Well, finally, as I do not need to tell you, you have been forced upon me; and what a cute figure I made! – what an agonizing evening! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, called me Warwick in such a tone! – Oh God! – holds out her hand to me and asks me for an explanation, with these enchanting eyes pointed at my face in such eloquent concern! mean; now it's over. – What an evening! I ran away from all of you as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. – THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her; – the last way it seemed to me. It was a horrible sight! - but if I imagined her really dying today, it was a certain comfort to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me as I traveled, in the same look and color." with those enchanting eyes pointed at my face in such eloquent concern! – and Sophia, jealous like the devil on the other hand, looking at everything that was – Well, it doesn't mean; now it's over. – What an evening! I ran away from all of you as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. – THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her; – the last way it seemed to me. It was a horrible sight! - but if I imagined her really dying today, it was a certain comfort to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me as I traveled, in the same look and color." with those enchanting eyes pointed at my face in such eloquent concern! – and Sophia, jealous like the devil on the other hand, looking at everything that was – Well, it doesn't mean; now it's over. – What an evening! I ran away from all of you as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. – THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her; – the last way it seemed to me. It was a horrible sight! - but if I imagined her really dying today, it was a certain comfort to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me, while I traveled, in the same look and the same color." – Such an evening! I ran away from all of you as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. – THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her; – the last way it seemed to me. It was a horrible sight! - but if I imagined her really dying today, it was a certain comfort to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me, while I traveled, in the same look and the same color." – Such an evening! I ran away from all of you as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. – THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her; – the last way it seemed to me. It was a horrible sight! - but if I imagined her really dying today, it was a certain comfort to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me as I traveled, in the same look and color." it was a kind of comfort for me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who had last seen her in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me as I traveled, in the same look and color." it was a kind of comfort for me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who had last seen her in this world. She was in front of me, constantly in front of me as I traveled, in the same look and color."
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Warwick, who first picked himself up, broke it off like this:
"Well, let me hurry and disappear. Surely your sister is doing better, safely out of danger?"
"We are convinced of this."
"Your poor mother too!
"But the letter, Mr. Warwick, your own letter; do you have anything to say about that?"
I could have endured her misery, but her passion – her wickedness – in any case, she must be appeased. And in short, what do you think of my wife's letter style? – delicate – delicate – truly feminine – isn't it?"
"Your wife! - The letter was in your own handwriting."
they think I'm an unscrupulous guy, this letter will only make them think I'm a rag.' Such was my reasoning when, in a kind of desperate negligence, I copied my wife's words and separated myself from Marianne's last relics. Her three notes - unfortunately they were all in my wallet, otherwise I would have denied their existence and hoarded them forever - I had to hang them up and couldn't even kiss them. And the strand of hair – which I had always carried around with me in the same wallet, which was now searched by Madam with the most flattering ferocity – the dear curl – everything, every souvenir was snatched from me." and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes - unfortunately they were all in my wallet, otherwise I would have denied their existence and hoarded them forever - I had to hang them up and couldn't even kiss them. And the strand of hair – which I had always carried around with me in the same wallet, which was now searched by Madam with the most flattering ferocity – the dear curl – everything, every souvenir was snatched from me." and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes - unfortunately they were all in my wallet, otherwise I would have denied their existence and hoarded them forever - I had to hang them up and couldn't even kiss them. And the strand of hair – which I had always carried around with me in the same wallet, which was now searched by Madam with the most flattering ferocity – the dear curl – everything, every souvenir was snatched from me."
"They are very wrong, Mr. Warwick, very reproachful," Eleanore said, while her voice, despite herself, betrayed her compassionate feeling; "They shouldn't talk like that, neither of Mrs. Warwick nor of my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced upon you. Your wife is entitled to your courtesy, at least to your respect. She has to hang on to you, otherwise she wouldn't have married you. Treating her unkindly, speaking disdainfully of her, is no atonement for Marianne – and I cannot assume that it is a relief for your own conscience."
"Don't tell me anything about my wife," he said with a heavy sigh. "She doesn't deserve your compassion. – She knew I didn't appreciate her when we got married. Well, we were married and came down to Combe Magna to be happy and then returned to town to be gay. – And now you pity me, Miss Hargrove? – or did I say all this for free? – Am I – even if only one degree – in your opinion less guilty than before? - My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away some of my guilt?"
"Yes, you've certainly removed something – a little. – On the whole, you have proved to be less flawed than I had believed you. You have proven your heart to be less evil, much less evil. But I hardly know – the misery you've inflicted – I don't know what could make it worse."
"When your sister recovers, do you want to repeat to your sister what I told you? to believe that a better knowledge of my heart and my present feelings would elicit a more spontaneous, natural, gentle, less dignified forgiveness from her. Tell her about my misery and remorse – tell her that my heart has never been volatile to her, and if you want her to be more dear to me than ever at this moment.
"I will tell her everything necessary to justify her.
His heart softened when he saw mine suffering; and so much of his ill will was gone that he almost shook my hand as he said goodbye, while reminding me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt when I heard that your sister was dying – and also dying, thinking me was the greatest villain on earth, despising me, hating me in her last moments – because how could I have said what terrible projects were not imputed? A person I was convinced would keep me capable of anything – which I felt terrible! – My decision was soon made, and this morning at eight o'clock I was sitting in my carriage. Now you know everything." What I felt when I heard that your sister was dying – and also dying, thinking me was the greatest villain on earth, despising me, hating me in her last moments – because how could I have said what terrible projects were not imputed? A person I was convinced would keep me capable of anything – which I felt terrible! – My decision was soon made, and this morning at eight o'clock I was sitting in my carriage. Now you know everything." What I felt when I heard that your sister was dying – and also dying, thinking me was the greatest villain on earth, despising me, hating me in her last moments – because how could I have said what terrible projects were not imputed? A person I was convinced would keep me capable of anything – which I felt terrible! – My decision was soon made, and this morning at eight o'clock I was sitting in my carriage. Now you know everything."
Eleanor gave no answer. Their thoughts were silently focused on the irreparable damage that too early independence and its consequent habits of idleness, waste and luxury had left in the mind, character, happiness of a man who, for every benefit of his person and talents, united a naturally open and honest being and a soulful, loving temperament. The world had made him extravagant and vain – extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had entangled him in a real bond that had to be sacrificed to extravagance, or at least its consequence, necessity. Any false inclination to lead him to evil had also led him to punishment. The attachment, from which he had torn himself outwardly to honor, to feeling, to any better interest, now that it was no longer allowed, dominated every thought; and the connection for the sake of which he had left her sister to misery without scruples would probably prove to be a source of misfortune of a far more incurable nature for him. From such reverie she was recalled after a few minutes by Warwick, who pulled himself out of an equally painful reverie, got ready to leave and said:
"There is no point in staying here; I have to go."
"Are you going back to town?"
"No – to Combe Magna. I have something to do there; from there in a day or two to the city. Goodbye."
He stretched out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection.
"And you think something better of me than you?" he said, dropped it and leaned against the mantelpiece as if forgetting to leave.
Eleanore assured him that she was doing it — that she forgave, felt sorry, wished him well — was even interested in his happiness — and added some gentle advice on how best to encourage the behavior. His response was not very encouraging.
"To do this," he said, "I have to rub myself through the world as best I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question actions, it can be the remedy – it can be on my guard – at least it can be something worth living for. Marianne is certainly lost to me forever. If I were even free again – "
Eleanore held him back with a rebuke.
"Well," he replied, "goodbye again. I will now leave and live in fear of an event."
"What do you think?"
"Your sister's marriage."
"You're very wrong. It can never be lost to you more than it is now."
"But it will be won by someone else. And if that someone is just the one I could least bear of all the others – but I won't stay to deprive myself of all your compassionate kindness by showing where I have the most hurts that I can least forgive. Goodbye, God bless you!"
And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
Chapter 229
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving a response to her letter as soon as possible. As soon as she was in possession, when she hurried into the grove where she could be least disturbed, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; because the length of the letter convinced her that it contained no denial.
»Gracechurch Street, 6 September.
'MY DEAR NIECE,
'I have just received your letter and will spend this whole morning answering it, as I foresee that a SMALL letter will not matter what I have to say to you. I must confess that I am surprised by your application; I didn't expect it from YOU. But don't be angry with me, because I just wanted to let you know that I didn't think such research was necessary from YOUR side. If you don't want to understand me, forgive my impudence. Your uncle is as surprised as I am – and nothing but the belief that you are a participant would have allowed him to act as he did. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I need to be clearer.
"On the very day I returned home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visit. Drury-san called and stayed with him for several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity wasn't as terribly shaken as yours seems to be. He came to tell Mr. Lockhart that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Waterhouse were, and that he had seen and talked to them both; Again and again Waterhouse, once Linda. As far as I know, he left Derbyshire just one day after us and came to town with the decision to hunt her. The stated motive was his conviction that it was thanks to him that Waterhouse's worthlessness was not so well known that it was impossible for any young woman with character to love him or entrust himself to him. He generously attributed the whole thing to his false pride, and confessed that he had previously thought it was under him to expose his private actions to the world. His character should speak for itself. He therefore called it his duty to step forward and strive to remedy an evil that had been caused by himself. If he HAD A DIFFERENT motive, I'm sure it would never embarrass him. He had been in town for a few days before he could discover it; but he had something to direct his search, and that was more than we had; and this awareness was another reason for his decision to follow us. He had been in town for a few days before he could discover it; but he had something to direct his search, and that was more than we had; and this awareness was another reason for his decision to follow us. He had been in town for a few days before he could discover it; but he had something to direct his search, and that was more than we had; and this awareness was another reason for his decision to follow us.
"There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was governess of Miss Drury some time ago and for some reason was relieved of her disapproval, although he did not say what. She then took a large house on Edward Street and has been living from renting out accommodation ever since. He knew that this Mrs. Younge was well acquainted with Waterhouse; and he went to her for information about him as soon as he arrived in town. But it took him two or three days to get what he wanted from her. She probably wouldn't abuse her trust without bribery and corruption, because she really knew where to find her boyfriend. Waterhouse had actually gone to her on her first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive her at her home, they would have settled with her. Finally, however, our friendly friend provided the desired direction. They were in the street. He saw Waterhouse and then insisted on seeing Linda. His first goal with her, he admitted, had been to persuade her to give up her current shameful situation and return to her friends as soon as they could be made to receive her and offer him his support as much as possible. But he found Linda determined to stay where she was. She didn't care about any of her friends; she did not want any help from him; she didn't want to hear about leaving Waterhouse. She was sure they would get married at some point, and it didn't say much when. Since she felt that way, all he had left was to secure and advance a marriage that he easily learned in his very first conversation with Waterhouse that it had never been HIS intention. He confessed to leaving the regiment because of some very urgent honor debts; and had scruples not to blame all the negative consequences of Linda's escape solely on her own stupidity. He wanted to resign his commission immediately; and about his future situation he could guess very little about it. He had to go somewhere, but he didn't know where to go, and he knew he shouldn't have anything to live with.
'Lord. Drury asked him why he didn't marry your sister right away. Although Mr. Mitchell was not considered very rich, he could have done something for him, and his situation must have been favored by marriage. But in response to this question, he noted that Waterhouse still had the hope of making his fortune more successful by marrying in another country. In such circumstances, however, he was probably not immune to the temptation of immediate relief.
"They met several times because there was a lot to discuss. Waterhouse, of course, wanted more than he could get; but in the end was reduced to be reasonable.
"After everything was settled between YOU, Mr. Drury's next step was to introduce your uncle to it, and he called Gracechurch Street for the first time the night before I got home. But Mr. Lockhart was not to be seen, and Mr. Drury found out when asked that your father was still with him, but would leave the city the next morning. He did not consider your father to be a person he could consult as well as your uncle, and therefore willingly postponed him to the time after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and by the next day it was only known that a gentleman had come by on business.
"He came back on Saturday. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and as I said, they talked a lot with each other.
"They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him. Before Monday, not everything had been clarified: The express was immediately sent to Longbourn. But our visitor was very persistent. I imagine, Lizzy, that persistence is, after all, the real flaw of his character. He has been accused of many mistakes at different times, but THIS is the real one. Nothing should be done that he did not do himself; although I'm sure (and I don't speak it out of gratitude, so don't say anything about it), your uncle would have preferred to do the whole thing.
"They fought with each other for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or the lady involved deserved. But eventually your uncle had to give in and, instead of being allowed to benefit his niece, only had to accept the probable merit, which went very against the grain; and I really believe that your letter this morning gave him great pleasure because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers and give the praise where appropriate. But Lizzy, this must not go further than you or at most Jane.
"You know pretty well, I suppose, what was done for the young people. His debts are to be paid, which I believe amount to considerably more than a thousand pounds, paid another thousand in addition to their own to YOU and bought his commission. The reason why all this should be done by him alone was the one given above. It was thanks to him, his restraint and lack of proper attention, that Waterhouse's character had been so misunderstood, and that he was consequently received and perceived as he was. Perhaps there was some truth to it; although I doubt that HIS restraint or the restraint of ANY can be responsible for the event. But despite all these beautiful speeches, my dear Lizzy, you can be absolutely sure that your uncle would never have given in if we had not trusted him with a DIFFERENT INVOLVEMENT in the matter.
'When all this was decided, he returned to his friends who were still in Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London again when the wedding took place, and all money matters should then get the final conclusion.
"I think I've told you everything now. It's a relationship that you tell me to surprise you a lot; I hope it will at least not cause you any displeasure. Linda came to us; and Waterhouse had constant access to the house. He was exactly what he had been when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I wouldn't tell you how little I was satisfied with her behavior while she stayed with us, if I hadn't noticed through Jane's letter last Wednesday that her behavior when coming home was exactly the same and therefore I too now say you can't cause you new pain. I spoke to her repeatedly in the most serious way, presenting to her all the wickedness of her act and all the misfortune she had brought upon her family. When she heard me, it was luck, because I'm sure she wasn't listening. I was sometimes quite provoked,
'Lord. Drury came back on time and, as Linda told you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day and was supposed to leave the city on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity to say (which I was never brave enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour towards us was as pleasant in every way as it was when we were in Derbyshire. I all like his understanding and opinions; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and that, if he marries CAREFULLY, his wife may teach him. I thought he was very smart; he hardly ever mentioned your name. But cunning seems to be in fashion.
"Please forgive me if I was very presumptuous, or at least don't punish me so much that you exclude me from P. I will never be completely happy until I have been to the whole park. A low Phaeton with a nice little pony pair would be just the thing.
"But I don't have to write anymore. The children already wanted me that half hour.
"Sincerely,
'M. GÄRTNER.'
The contents of this letter sent Elizabeth into an exaggeration in which it was difficult to determine whether joy or pain had the greatest share. The vague and unexplained suspicions that the uncertainty of what Mr. Drury might have done to pass on her sister's match, which she had feared to promote, as an effort of kindness too great to be likely, and at the same time feared to be just, out of the pain of obligation, have turned out to be true beyond the extreme! He had deliberately followed them into the city, he had taken upon himself all the effort and humiliation that accompanied such research; where it had been necessary to beg a woman whom he had to detest and despise, and where he was forced to meet the man, meet frequently, argue with him, convince him and finally bribe him, whom he always wanted to avoid the most, and whose mere name it was punishment for him to pronounce him. He had done all this for a girl he could neither respect nor appreciate. Her heart whispered that he had done it for her. But it was a hope that was soon dashed by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was not enough to rely on his affection for her — a woman who had already rejected him — to overcome such a natural feeling as disgust at the relationship with Waterhouse. Brother-in-law of Waterhouse! Any kind of pride must rebel against the connection. Certainly, he had done a lot. She was ashamed to think about how much. But he had given a reason for his interference that did not require extraordinary faith. It was reasonable that he felt he was wrong; he had generosity, and he had the means to exercise it; and although she would not present herself as his main motivation, she might believe that a remaining partisanship for her could support his efforts on a matter where her peace of mind must be materially affected. It was painful to know exceedingly painfully that they were beholden to a person who could never receive anything in return. They owed him the restoration of Linda, her character, everything. Oh! how heartily she grieved for every indecent sensation she had ever been encouraged, every cheeky speech she had ever addressed to him. For herself, she was humiliated; but she was proud of him. Proud that he was able to surpass himself in a matter of compassion and honor. Again and again she read her aunt's recommendation about him. It was barely enough; but she liked it. She even felt a certain pleasure,
she was awakened by her seat, and her reflections by someone's approach; and before she could take any other path, she was overtaken by Waterhouse.
"I'm afraid I'm interrupting your lonely hike, my dear sister?" he said as he joined her.
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; 'but it does not follow that the interruption must be undesirable.'
"I would be really sorry if it were. We were always good friends; and now we're doing better.'
'True. Are the others coming out?'
'I don't know. Mrs. Mitchell and Linda take the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I learn from our uncle and aunt that you have actually seen Pemberley."
"I almost envy you for the pleasure, and yet I think it would be too much for me, otherwise I could take it with me on my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she always liked me a lot. But of course she didn't mention my name to you."
"Yes, it has."
'And what did she say?'
"The fact that you went to the army and feared it didn't end well. At such a distance, you know, things are strangely misrepresented.'
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped that she had silenced him; but he said soon after
,
"I was surprised to see Drury in town last month. We drove past each other several times. I wonder what he can do there.'
"Maybe he's preparing for his wedding to Miss de Bourgh," Elizabeth said. 'It must be special to get him there at this time of year.'
'Undoubtedly. Did you see him when you were in Lambton? I thought I had heard of the Lockharts you had."
'Yes; he introduced us to his sister.'
'And do you like them?'
'A lot.'
"I've actually heard that she's doing unusually better this year or two. When I last saw it, it wasn't very promising. I am very happy that you liked it. I hope it will develop well."
"I dare say she will; she has the most difficult age behind her."
"Did you walk past the village of Kympton?"
'I don't remember we did that.'
"I mention it because it's the livelihood I should have had. A delightful place! – Excellent rectory! It would have suited me in every way."
"How could you have liked preaching sermons?"
"Excellent good. I should have seen it as my duty, and the effort would soon have been nothing. One should not complain; – but of course it would have happened to me! The peace, the retreat of such a life would have corresponded to all my ideas of happiness! But it shouldn't be. Have you ever heard Drury mention this when you were in Kent?"
"I heard from an authority that I thought was GOOD that it was only given to you to a limited extent and at the request of the current patron."
'You have. Yes, there was something to it; I told you from the beginning, you might remember."
"I HAVE also heard that there was a time when preaching was not as palatable to you as it seems now; that you have actually declared your decision not to accept orders and that the business has been compromised accordingly.'
'You did! and it was not entirely without foundation. You may remember what I told you on this point when we first talked about it.'
They were now almost at the door of the house because she had gone quickly to get rid of him; and for the sake of his sister, she did not want to provoke him and replied only with a good-humored smile:
"Come, Mr. Waterhouse, we are brother and sister, you know. Let's not argue about the past. I hope that we will always agree in the future.'
She stretched out her hand; he kissed it with loving gallantry, although he hardly knew what he should look like, and they entered the house.
Chapter 230
The Price's were on their way to church the next day when Mr. Dorset reappeared. He came not to stop, but to join them; he was asked to go with them to the garrison chapel, which was exactly what he had intended, and they all went there together.
The family was now seen as having an advantage. Nature had given them a not inconsiderable amount of beauty and dressed them every Sunday in their cleanest skins and best clothes. Sunday always brought Esther that comfort, and on that Sunday she felt it more than ever. Her poor mother now didn't look so unworthy of being Lady Schmidt's sister as she was, but too suitable to look like one. It often hurt her deeply to think of the contrast between them; to think that where nature had made so little difference, circumstances should have done so much, and that her mother, as handsome as Lady Schmidt and a few years younger than her, should have looked so much more worn and faded, so bleak, so sloppy, so shabby. But Sunday made her a very credible and reasonably cheerful-looking Mrs. Price, who came abroad with a fine family of children,
In the chapel they had to separate, but Mr. Dorset was careful not to be separated from the female branch; and after the chapel he went on with them and made one in the family celebration on the ramparts.
Mrs. Price took her weekly walk on the ramparts every beautiful Sunday throughout the year, always right after the morning service and until dinner. It was her public place: there she met her acquaintance, heard some news, talked about the wickedness of the servants of Portsmouth and raised her mood for the following six days.
That's where they went; Mr. Dorset is very pleased to consider Miss Price's as his special protégé; and before they were there for a long time, somehow, it wasn't to say how, Esther couldn't have believed it, but he walked between them with an arm of each under his, and she didn't know how to prevent it or end it up. She was uncomfortable for a while, but still there were joys in the day and in the view she would feel.
The day was unusually beautiful. It was really March; but it was April with its mild air, brisk, gentle wind, and bright sun that was occasionally cloudy for a minute; and everything looked so beautiful under the influence of such a sky, the effects of the shadows chasing each other on the ships in Spithead and the island behind it, with the ever-changing hues of the sea now dancing in its joy at high tide and running against the ramparts with such a fine sound, created overall such a combination of stimuli for Esther, which gradually made her almost indifferent to the circumstances in which she felt them. Yes, if she had been without his arm, she would soon have known that she needed him, because she needed strength for a two-hour walk of this kind, which, as was generally the case, came after a week of previous inaction. Esther gradually felt the effect of being excluded from her usual regular exercise; since she had been in Portsmouth, she had lost ground in health; and without Mr. Dorset and the beauty of the weather, it would soon have gone up.
The beauty of the day and the view, he felt like herself. They often stopped with the same feeling and taste, leaning against the wall for a few minutes to see and admire; and considering that he was not Edmund, Esther had to admit that he was open enough to the charms of nature and could express his admiration very well. She had a few tender reveries every now and then, which he could sometimes use to look her in the face unnoticed; and the result of these looks was that her face, although as enchanting as ever, blossomed less than it should be. She said she was doing very well and didn't want to be accepted otherwise; But all in all, he was convinced that her current stay could not be comfortable and therefore not healing for her, and he became more and more worried that she might be back in Mansfield.
"You've been here for a month, I think?" he said.
"No; not quite a month. Tomorrow has only been four weeks since I left Mansfield."
"They are an extremely accurate and honest calculator. I should call it a month."
"I didn't arrive here until Tuesday evening."
"And it's going to be a two-month visit, isn't it?"
"Yes. My uncle spoke of two months. I suppose it won't be less."
"And how are you to be transported back? Who is coming for you?"
"I don't know. I haven't heard of it from my aunt yet. Maybe I can stay longer. It may not be convenient for me to be picked up at the very end of the two months."
After a short reflection, Mr. Dorset replied, "I know Mansfield, I know his way, I know his mistakes to you. I know the danger that you will be so forgotten that your comforts will give way to the imaginary comfort of a single being in the family. I am aware that you can be left here week after week if Sir Thomas cannot do everything to come on his own or send your aunt's maid for you without requiring the slightest change in arrangements he may have made for the next quarter of a year. That won't work. Two months is a plentiful allowance; I think six weeks is enough. I think of your sister's health," he said, addressing Susan, "for which I think the closure of Portsmouth is unfavorable. She constantly needs air and exercise. If you know her as well as I do, I'm sure you'll agree that she does, and that she should never be banished from the open air and freedom of the country for long. Therefore, if you find"(again turned to Esther) "that you feel uncomfortable and that there are any difficulties on your return to Mansfield without waiting for the end of the two months, this must not be considered consequential, if you feel less strong or more comfortable than usual at all, and will only tell my sister to give her only the slightest hint, she and I will come down immediately and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and pleasure with which this would happen. You know everything that would be felt on this occasion." "You find that you feel uncomfortable and that there are any difficulties on your return to Mansfield without waiting for the end of the two months that must not be considered consequential if you feel less strong or comfortable than usual at all, and will only tell my sister, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will come down immediately and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and pleasure with which this would happen. You know everything that would be felt on this occasion." "You find that you feel uncomfortable and that there are any difficulties on your return to Mansfield without waiting for the end of the two months that must not be considered consequential if you feel less strong or comfortable than usual at all, and will only tell my sister, give her only the slightest hint, she and I will come down immediately and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and pleasure with which this would happen. You know everything that would be felt on this occasion." You and I will come down immediately and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and pleasure with which this would happen. You know everything that would be felt on this occasion." You and I will come down immediately and take you back to Mansfield. You know the ease and pleasure with which this would happen. You know everything that would be felt on this occasion."
Esther thanked him, but tried to laugh about it.
"I mean it completely seriously," he replied, "as you know perfectly. And I hope you will not cruelly conceal any tendency to malaise. In fact, thou shalt not; it is not in your power; Only as long as you clearly say in every letter to Mary, 'I'm fine,' and I know you can't speak or write lies, only as long as you will be considered."
Esther thanked him again, but was so touched and distressed that it was impossible for her to say much or even be sure of what to say. That was towards the end of her walk. He took care of them to the end, leaving them only at the door of their own house when he knew they were going to dinner, so pretending to be waited for them elsewhere.
"I wish you weren't that tired," he said, while still holding Esther after everyone else was in the house — "I wish I had left you in stronger health. Can I do something for you in the city? I almost have the idea to go back to Norfolk soon. I'm not happy with Maddison. I'm sure he still wants to force it on me, if possible, and get my own cousin into a certain mill that I design for someone else. I have to communicate with him. I have to let him know that I will not be tricked on the south side of Everingham any more than I am on the north side: that I will be master of my own property. I wasn't explicit enough with him before. The calamity that such a man wreaks on a good, both in terms of his employer's credit and the well-being of the poor, is unimaginable. I have a great desire to return directly to Norfolk and immediately put everything on a foundation from which it is not possible to deviate later. Maddison is a smart guy; I do not want to suppress him as long as he does not try to repress me; but it would be easy to be deceived by a man who has no creditor right to deceive me, and even worse than simply if he gave me a hard-hearted, fierce guy as a tenant instead of an honest man, he had already made half a promise. Wouldn't it be worse than easy? Should I go? Do you guess so?" to whom I have already made half a promise. Wouldn't it be worse than easy? Should I go? Do you guess so?" to whom I have already made half a promise. Wouldn't it be worse than easy? Should I go? Do you advise that?"
"I guess! You know very well what's right."
"Yes. If you tell me your opinion, I always know what is right. Your judgment is my legal principle."
"Oh no! Don't say that. We all have a better leader within ourselves if we took care of it than any other human being can be. Goodbye; I wish you a pleasant journey tomorrow."
"Can't I do anything for you in the city?"
"Nothing at all; I am very attached to you."
"Don't you have a message for anyone?"
"My love for your sister, if you will allow me; and when you see my cousin, my cousin Edmund, I wish you were kind enough to say that I think I'll hear from him soon."
'Determined; and if he is lazy or careless, I will write his apologies myself."
He couldn't say more, because Esther would no longer be held. He squeezed her hand, looked at her and was gone. He left to spend the next three hours as best he could with his other acquaintance until the best dinner a large inn had to offer was ready for her, and she immediately turned to her simpler one.
Their general diet had a very different character; and if he had guessed how many privations she had to endure besides the movement in her father's house, he would have been surprised that her appearance was not affected much more than he found it. She had grown Rebecca's puddings and Rebecca's hashish so little, which, like all of them, were brought to the table with such side dishes of half-cleaned plates and not half-cleaned knives and forks that she was very often forced to postpone her heartiest meal until she could send her brothers to cookies and rolls in the evening. After growing up in Mansfield, it was too late in the day to be hardened in Portsmouth; and although Sir Thomas, if he had known everything, would have considered his niece in the most promising way, both mentally and physically starved, to be a much fairer value for Mr. Dorset.
Esther was depressed all the rest of the day. Although she was pretty sure she wouldn't see Mr. Dorset again, she couldn't help but be depressed. It was a farewell to someone who had the nature of a friend; and although, in one light, glad to have left him, it seemed as if she was now abandoned by all; it was a kind of renewed separation from Mansfield; and she couldn't think that he was returning to town and was often with Mary and Edmund, without feelings so similar to envy that she hated herself for having them.
Her depression had no relief from anything going on around her; one or two of her father's friends spent the long, long evening there, as always happened when he was not with them; and from six o'clock to half past nine there were hardly any interruptions of noise or grog. It was very low. The miraculous recovery she still believed in Dorset-san came closest to her to give comfort to what came to her mind. Regardless of what other circle she had just seen him in, nor how much the contrast might be due to, she was quite convinced that he was surprisingly gentler and more considerate toward others than he used to be. And if on a small scale, doesn't it have to be on a large scale? As concerned about her health and well-being, as emotional as he now expressed himself and really seemed,
Chapter 231
Until now, when her loss was imminent, Emma had never known how much her happiness depended on being first with Mr. Hill, first on interest and affection. – Satisfied that it was so, and the feeling that it was due to her, she had enjoyed it without reflection; and only in fear of being repressed did she find how unspeakably important it had been. – For a long, very long time, she felt that she had been the first; for since he had no female connections of his own, there had only been Bella whose demands could be compared to hers, and she had always known exactly how much he loved and appreciated Bella. She herself had been the first with him for many years. She didn't deserve it; she had often been negligent or perverse, had disregarded his advice or even deliberately opposed him, unconsciously for half of his merits, and arguing with him because he did not want to acknowledge her false and outrageous assessment of her own – but nevertheless he had loved her out of family attachment and habit and thorough excellence and from one girl on with the desire to: to do it, watched over her to improve her, and a fear that she was doing the right thing that no other creature had ever shared. Despite all her mistakes, she knew she was dear to him; couldn't she say, very sweet? - However, when the hints of hope that must follow here presented themselves, she could not presume to give in to them. Harriet Smith perhaps did not consider himself unworthy of being loved by Mr. Hill in a special, exclusive and passionate way. She couldn't. She could not flatter herself with the thought of blindness in his attachment to her. She had recently received proof of her impartiality. – How shocked he had been by her behaviour towards Miss Bates! How direct, how strongly he had spoken to her on this subject! – Not too strong for the insult. – But much, far too strong to spring from a gentler feeling than upright justice and clear-sighted benevolence. – She had no hope, nothing worthy of the name hope, that he could have this kind of affection for himself that was now in question; but there was a hope (sometimes weak, sometimes much stronger) that Harriet might have been wrong and overestimated his respect for her. but he remained single all his life. If she could be sure that he would never marry at all, she believed she was completely satisfied. hills all over the world; Donwell and Hartfield would not lose any of their precious intercourse of friendship and trust, and their peace would be fully secured. – A marriage would actually not be enough for her. It would be incompatible with what she owed her father and what she felt for him. Nothing should separate her from her father. She wouldn't get married, even if Mr. Hill asked her to.
It must be her burning wish that Harriet could be disappointed; and she hoped that if she could see them together again, she could at least determine what the chances were. – She should see them from now on with the closest observation; and as miserable as she had misunderstood even those she was watching, she did not know that she could be blinded here. - He was expected back every day. The power of observation would soon be given – terribly soon it became apparent when their thoughts were in one direction. In the meantime, she decided not to see Harriet. – It would not do any of them any good, it would not help the topic to talk about it further. She was determined not to be persuaded as long as she could doubt, and yet had no authority to resist Harriet's trust. Talking would only irritate. She therefore wrote to her kindly but firmly to ask that she would not come to Hartfield now; Acknowledging as their conviction that all further confidential discussions on a topic should be better avoided; and hoped that if a few days were allowed to pass before they saw each other again, except in the company of others – she only objected to a tete-a-tete – they might be able to pretend to have forgotten yesterday's conversation. Harriet acquiesced and agreed and was grateful.
This point was just agreed when a visitor arrived to distract Emma's thoughts a little from the one topic that had occupied her for the past twenty-four hours, sleeping or waking – Mrs. Winstone, who had visited her chosen daughter-in-law and took Hartfield on her way home, almost as committed to Emma as to herself to tell all the details of such an interesting interview.
Mr. Winstone had accompanied her to Mrs. Bates and done his share of this essential attention most handsomely; but after getting Miss Saxon to join her in a breeze, she now came back with much more to say, and much more to say with satisfaction, than a quarter of an hour she spent on Mrs. Bates' course, with all the burden of awkward feelings, could have done.
A little curiosity that Emma had; and she made the most of it while her friend was talking. Mrs. Winstone had set out quite excitedly to pay the visit; and first and foremost, he had wished not to leave at all at the moment, instead to be allowed to write only to Miss Saxon and postpone this solemn call until a little time had passed and Mr. Curcelle could reconcile with the engagement; because, taking everything into account, she thought that such a visit could not be made without leading to reports: – but Mr. Winstone had thought otherwise; he was very anxious to applaud Miss Saxon and her family, and did not understand that this could arouse any suspicion; or if it were the case that it was of any consequence; because "such things," he noted, "always came around." Emma smiled and felt that Mr. Winstone had a very good reason for it. In short, they had left – and very great had been the obvious despair and confusion of the lady. She had barely been able to speak a word, and every look and every action had shown how much she suffered from consciousness. The old lady's quiet, deeply felt contentment and the enraptured joy of her daughter – who even proved too cheerful to speak as usual – had been a pleasing but almost poignant scene. They were both so truly respectable in their happiness, so disinterested in every sensation; thought so much of Jane; so much of each body and so little of itself that every friendly feeling was at work for her. Miss Saxon's recent illness had given Mrs. Winstone a good reason to invite her to ventilate; she had withdrawn and refused at first, but under pressure she had given in; and in the course of her ride, Mrs. Winstone, through gentle encouragement, had overcome so much of her embarrassment that she was made to converse on the important subject. Excuses for her seemingly thankless silence at her first reception and the warmest expressions of gratitude she always felt to herself and Mr. Winstone must necessarily open up the cause; but by the time these effusions were settled, they had talked a lot about the present and future state of engagement. Mrs. Winstone was convinced that such a conversation must be the greatest relief for her companion, who had been immersed in her own thoughts for so long, and was very pleased with everything she had said on the subject. to get them to talk about the important topic. Excuses for her seemingly thankless silence at her first reception and the warmest expressions of gratitude she always felt to herself and Mr. Winstone must necessarily open up the cause; but by the time these effusions were settled, they had talked a lot about the present and future state of engagement. Mrs. Winstone was convinced that such a conversation must be the greatest relief for her companion, who had been immersed in her own thoughts for so long, and was very pleased with everything she had said on the subject. to get them to talk about the important topic. Excuses for her seemingly thankless silence at her first reception and the warmest expressions of gratitude she always felt to herself and Mr. Winstone must necessarily open up the cause; but by the time these effusions were settled, they had talked a lot about the present and future state of engagement. Mrs. Winstone was convinced that such a conversation must be the greatest relief for her companion, who had been immersed in her own thoughts for so long, and was very pleased with everything she had said on the subject. must necessarily open the cause; but by the time these effusions were settled, they had talked a lot about the present and future state of engagement. Mrs. Winstone was convinced that such a conversation must be the greatest relief for her companion, who had been immersed in her own thoughts for so long, and was very pleased with everything she had said on the subject. must necessarily open the cause; but by the time these effusions were settled, they had talked a lot about the present and future state of engagement. Mrs. Winstone was convinced that such a conversation must be the greatest relief for her companion, who had been immersed in her own thoughts for so long, and was very pleased with everything she had said on the subject.
"Given the misery she had suffered while concealing for so many months," Mrs. Winstone continued, "she was energetic. That was one of their expressions. "I don't want to say I haven't had some happy moments since I got engaged; but I can say that I have never known the blessing of a quiet hour:' – and the trembling lip, Emma, ?? the one I pronounced was a confirmation that I felt in my heart."
"Poor girl!" said Emma. "So she thinks she's wrong because she agreed to a private engagement?"
"Wrong! No one, I believe, can blame her more than she is inclined to blame herself. "The result," she said, "has been a state of eternal suffering for me; and that's how it should be. But after all the punishment that misconduct can entail, it is still no less misconduct. Pain is not atonement. I can never be blameless. I have acted against my whole sense of justice; and the happy turn that everything has taken, and the kindness that I receive now, is what my conscience tells me should not be.' "Don't believe, Madam," she continued, "that I would have been misinformed. Don't drop any thought about the principles or care of the friends who raised me. The mistake was entirely my own; and I assure you that despite all the apologies that the present circumstances seem to give,
"Poor girl!" Emma said again. "She loves him excessively, I suppose. It must have been only out of attachment that she could be made to enter into the engagement. Their affection must have overwhelmed their judgment."
"Yes, I have no doubt that she is very attached to him."
"I'm afraid," Emma replied with a sigh, "that I must have often helped make her unhappy."
"On your side, my dear, it was done very innocently. But she probably had some of this in mind when she alluded to the misunderstandings he had previously hinted at us. A natural consequence of the evil in which she had become entangled," she said, "was to make her unreasonable. The awareness of having done wrong had exposed her to a thousand riots and made her moody and irritable to an extent that must have been hard for him to bear – that had been. "I didn't make the concessions," she said, "what I should have done because of his temperament and his mood – his delightful mood and this cheerfulness, this playful kind that I would certainly do under all other circumstances, still enchanted me as they were at first." Then she began to speak of you and of the great kindness you showed her during her illness; and with a blush that showed me the context, I asked me to thank you at every opportunity – I could not thank you too much – for every wish and effort to do your good. She was aware that you had never received adequate confirmation from yourself."
"If I didn't know her happy now," Emma said seriously, "which she must be despite all the small disadvantages of her conscientious conscience, I could not bear this thanksgiving; – because, oh! Mrs. Winstone, if there was an account of the evil and good I did, Miss Saxon! They are very kind to bring me these interesting details. They bring them to bear best. I'm sure she's very good – I hope she will be very happy. It's fitting that wealth is on his side, because I think the merit will be entirely on their side."
Such a conclusion could not go unanswered by Mrs. Winstone. She thought well of Frank in almost every way; and besides, she loved him very much, and her defense was therefore serious. She spoke with a lot of reason and at least as lovingly – but she had too much to catch Emma's attention; it had soon gone to Brunswick Square or Donwell; she forgot to try to listen; and when Mrs. Winstone ended with, "We haven't gotten the letter we're so excited about, you know, yet, but I hope it's coming soon," she had to pause before the answer and finally respond by chance before she could even remember which letter they were so excited about.
"Are you okay, my Emma?" was Mrs. Winstone's farewell question.
"Oh! perfect. I'm always fine, you know. Make sure you let me know the letter as soon as possible."
Mrs. Winstone's messages provided Emma with more material for unpleasant reflection by strengthening her appreciation and compassion and sense of past injustice toward Miss Saxon. She bitterly regretted that she had not sought a closer acquaintance with her and blushed over the feelings of envy, which had certainly been the cause to some extent. Had she followed Mr. Hill's well-known wishes by giving Miss Saxon the attention she deserves in every way; she had tried to get to know her better; she had done her part for intimacy; She had tried to find a friend there instead of harriet Smith; in all likelihood, she must have been spared any pain that beset her now. — birth, talent and upbringing had distinguished her equally as a companion to be received with gratitude; and the other – what was it? – Suppose even that they had never become intimate friends; that she had never been accepted into Miss Saxon's trust in this important matter – which was very likely – but since she knew her as she should and as she could, she had to face the heinous suspicion of an inappropriate attachment to Mr. Dixon, which she had not only made so foolish and harbored herself, but also so unforgivably communicated; an idea she feared very much had become, through the recklessness or negligence of Frank Curcelle, an object of material need for the tenderness of Jane's feelings. Of all the sources of evil that surrounded the former, she was convinced since her arrival in Highbury that she herself must have been the worst. She must have been an eternal enemy. They could never have been all three together without stabbing Jane Saxon's peace in a thousand cases; and on Box Hill, it may have been the agony of a ghost that would no longer bear.
The evening of that day in Hartfield was very long and melancholic. The weather added what gloom it could. A cold thunderstorm set in, and nothing from July appeared except in the trees and shrubs devastated by the wind, and the length of the day that only made such gruesome sights visible all the longer.
The weather affected Mr. Lodge, and he could only be kept reasonably comfortable by his daughter's almost incessant attention and by efforts that had never cost her half as much before. It reminded her of her first lost Tete-a-Tete on the evening of Mrs. Winstone's wedding anniversary; but Mr. Hill had come in shortly after tea and had dispelled any melancholic imagination. Oh! Such delightful evidence of Hartfield's appeal, as conveyed by these types of visits, may soon be over. The picture she had painted of the hardships of the approaching winter had proved to be false; no friends had left her, no joys had been lost. - But her current premonitions, she feared, would not experience a similar contradiction. The prospect in front of her now was threatening to an extent that could not be completely banished – that perhaps could not even be partially brightened. If everything that could take place among her friends took place, Hartfield must be relatively abandoned; and she left to cheer up her father only with the spirits of ruined happiness.
The child to be born in Randalls must be a bond there that is even more expensive than themselves; and Mrs. Winstone's heart and time would be consumed. You should lose them; and probably to a large extent also her husband. Frank Curcelle would not return to them; and it was reasonable to assume that Miss Saxon would soon no longer belong to Highbury. They would get married and settle either in or near Enscombe. Everything that was good would be withdrawn; and if these losses were compounded by the loss of Donwell, what would remain cheerful or reasonable company within its reach? Mr. Hill no longer comes to his evening consolation! – He no longer comes in around the clock, as if he were ever willing to change his own home, because there is! – How was it to bear? And if, for Harriet's sake, he were lost to them; if he would later be remembered as finding everything he wanted in Harriet's company; if Harriet was to be the chosen one, the first, the dearest, the girlfriend, the wife from whom he expected the best blessings of existence; What could add to Emma's misery if not the thought, which was never far from her, that it had all been her own work?
When it came to that, she could not abstain from a startle or a deep sigh, or even walk up and down the room for a few seconds – and the only source from which something like comfort or serenity could come was in the determination of her own better behavior and the hope that, how inferior in spirit and cheerfulness the following and every future winter of her life might be from the past, she would still be more reasonable and more familiar with herself, and leave her less to regret when it was gone.
Chapter 232
Eleanore remained for some time after he left her, some time after the sound of his carriage had faded, too much depressed by a lot of ideas that were very different in themselves, but whose general consequence was sadness to think even of her sister.
Warwick, whom she had detested half an hour ago as the most worthless of all people, Warwick, despite all his mistakes, aroused a certain compassion for the suffering they caused, which made them think of him as now separated from their family forever, with a tenderness, a regret, more in proportion to how she soon acknowledged in herself – to his desires than to his merits. She felt that his influence on her opinion was increased by circumstances that should not reasonably have any weight; of this person of unusual attraction, this open, loving and lively way, which was no merit to possess; and of this still burning love for Marianne, who was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it would take so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.
When she finally returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awakened, refreshed by such a long and sweet sleep that fulfilled her hopes. Eleanore's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Warwick's visit, Marianne's safety and the expected arrival of her mother put her in an excitement that kept away any fatigue and only made her afraid to betray her sister. However, the time when this fear could afflict her was short, because within half an hour after Warwick had left the house, she was again called down the stairs by the sound of another carriage Tense, she immediately ran into the hall and reached the outside door just in time to receive and support her as she entered.
Mrs. Hargrove, whose horror as they approached the house had almost led to the conviction that Marianne was no more, had no voice to inquire about her, not even for Eleanore; but SHE, who waited neither for greeting nor question, immediately gave the joyful relief; – and her mother, who caught it with all her usual warmth, was overwhelmed in a moment by her happiness as much as she had been by her fears before. She was carried to the salon between her daughter and her friend – and there she hugged Eleanore again and again, shed tears of joy, although she was still unable to speak, and turned away from her from time to time to shake hands with Colonel Bridgerton with a glance that immediately expressed her gratitude and conviction, that he shared the bliss of the moment with her. However, he shared it in a silence that was even greater than her own.
Once Mrs. Hargrove recovered, her first wish was to see Marianne; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, who had grown more dear to her heart than ever through absence, misfortune and danger. Eleanore's delight when she saw what everyone in the congregation felt was only slowed down by the fear that Marianne might be deprived of sleep; – but Mrs. Hargrove could be calm, could even be level-headed when a child's life was at stake, and Marianne, who was content to know her mother was around her and was aware of being too weak for a conversation, willingly submitted to the silence and tranquility prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. Hargrove WOULD sit with her all night; and Eleanore went to bed at her mother's request. But the rest, which seemed to require a night completely sleepless, and many hours of the most tiring fear, were held back by the irritation of the spirits. Warwick, "poor Warwick"," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not have heard his justification for the world, and now accused, now acquitted, of having judged him so harshly before. But her promise to tell her sister was invariably painful. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death. Warwick, "poor Warwick"," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not have heard his justification for the world, and now accused, now acquitted, of having judged him so harshly before. But her promise to tell her sister was invariably painful. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death. Warwick, "poor Warwick"," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not have heard his justification for the world, and now accused, now acquitted, of having judged him so harshly before. But her promise to tell her sister was invariably painful. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death. she would not have heard his justification for the world, and now accused, now acquitted, of having judged him so harshly before. But her promise to tell her sister was invariably painful. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death. she would not have heard his justification for the world, and now accused, now acquitted, of having judged him so harshly before. But her promise to tell her sister was invariably painful. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death. She feared the performance, feared its effect on Marianne; doubted whether she could ever be happy with another after such a statement; and for a moment he wished Warwick a widower. When she then remembered Colonel Bridgerton, she reprimanded herself, felt that for his sufferings and steadfastness far more than for those of his rival, the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything but Mrs. Warwick's death.
The shock of Colonel Bridgerton's procurement of Barton had been greatly alleviated to Ms. Hargrove by her own prior warning; because her anxiety about Marianne was so great that she had already decided to leave for Cleveland the same day without waiting for more news, and had completed her journey so far before his arrival that the Careys were now expected at any moment to take Margaret away, as her mother did not want to take her to where there might be an infection.
Marianne continued to recover every day, and the radiant cheerfulness of Mrs. Hargrove's appearance and mood proved that, as she repeatedly explained, she was one of the happiest women in the world. Eleanore could neither hear the explanation nor testify to her evidence without sometimes wondering if her mother ever remembered Edward. But Mrs. Hargrove, who relied on the moderate portrayal of her own disappointment that Eleanore had sent her, was led by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase her. Marianne was restored to her from a danger into which, as she now began to feel, she had contributed her own false judgment in promoting the unfortunate attachment to Warwick to bring her; – and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy that she had not thought of from Eleanor. So she was told,
"Finally we are alone. My Eleanore, you don't know all my happiness yet. Colonel Bridgerton loves Marianne. He told me himself."
Her daughter, who alternately felt pleased and tormented, surprised and not surprised, was very quiet attention.
"You are never like me, dear Eleanore, or I would wonder about your serenity now. If I had sat down to wish my family well, I would have set Colonel Bridgerton's marriage to one of you as the most desirable goal. And I think Marianne will be the happiest of them with him."
Eleanore was half inclined to ask her why she thought so, because she was convinced that none could be stated based on an unbiased consideration of her age, character, or feelings — but her mother always had to let herself be carried away by her imagination on any interesting topic, and so instead of a question, she gave it away with a smile.
"He opened my whole heart yesterday on the trip. It came out quite unexpectedly, quite unintentionally, my own, and he perhaps, who thought that mere friendship, as the world is going on now, would not justify such a warm sympathy – or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose – gave way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his seriousness, tender, constant affection for Marianne. He loves her, my Eleanore, from the first moment he saw her."
Here, however, Eleanore perceived - not the language, not the professions of Colonel Bridgerton, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active imagination, which shaped everything adorable to her as she chose.
"His appreciation for her, which infinitely surpasses anything Warwick has ever felt or faked, is much more warm, sincere or consistent – whatever we want to call it – and has outlasted all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy fondness for this worthless boy man! – and without selfishness – without awakening hope! – if he could have seen her happy with another – Such a noble spirit! – Such openness, such sincerity! No one can be deceived in Him."
"Colonel Bridgerton's character," Eleanore said, "as an excellent man, is well established."
"I know," her mother replied earnestly, "or after such a warning, I would be the last to encourage or even rejoice in such affection. But his coming for me, as he did, with such an activity, such willing friendship is enough to prove him as one of the most worthy men."
"His character, however," Eleanore replied, "does not rest on ONE act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne would have led him if humanity had not been given. With Mrs. Jennings, with the Mideltowns, he has done it for a long time and intimately known; they love and respect him equally; and even my own knowledge of him, although only recently acquired, is very substantial; and I appreciate and cherish him so much that I will, if Marianne can be happy with him, be as willing as you are to consider our connection to be the greatest blessing in the world for us. What answer did you give him?
"Oh, my dear, I couldn't speak of hope to him or to myself at the time. Perhaps Marianne was dying at that moment. But he didn't ask for hope or encouragement – no application to a parent.But after a while I said, because at first I was quite overwhelmed – that if she lived as I trusted her, my greatest happiness would be in promoting her marriage, and since our arrival, since our wonderful safety, I have repeated it to him in more detail, I have given him every possible encouragement, time, very little time, I tell him, will do everything – Marianne's heart should not be wasted forever with a man like Warwick. – Its own merits must soon secure it."
"Judging by the colonel's mood, however, you have not yet made him immediately confident."
"No. – He believes that Marianne's affection is too ingrained for her to change in a long time, and even if she assumes that her heart is free again, he is too insecure to believe that he could with such an age and predisposition difference, but he is completely wrong, his age is only so far above hers, that it is beneficial to consolidate his character and principles, and his nature, I firmly believe, is just the right thing to make your sister happy. And his person, including his manners, are all in his favor. My bias does not blind me; he is certainly not as beautiful as Warwick - but at the same time there is something much more pleasant his facial expression. It was always something, if you remember, sometimes in Warwick's eyes that I didn't like."
Eleanore could NOT remember it; but her mother, without waiting for her consent, continued:
"And his manners, the manners of the Colonel, not only do I like better than Warwick's ever, but they are of a kind that I know is more tightly attached to Marianne. Their gentleness, their sincere attention to other people and their masculinity of unstudied simplicity corresponds to their real predisposition much more than the liveliness – often contrived and often outdated by the other. I am very sure that Warwick would have turned out to be really gracious, as he himself proved the opposite, Marianne would never have been as happy with HIM as she will be with Colonel Bridgerton."
She took a break. – Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her objection was not heard and therefore gave no impetus.
"In Delaford she will be in close proximity to me," Mrs. Hargrove added, "even if I stay in Barton; and in all likelihood – because I hear it's a big village – there MUST actually be some small house or cottage nearby, that would suit us just as well as our current situation."
Poor Eleanore! – here was a new plan to bring them to Delaford! – but her spirit was stubborn.
"His fortune too! – because in my lifetime everyone takes care of THAT; – and although I don't know or want to know what it really is, I'm sure it has to be a good one."
Here they were interrupted by the entry of a third person, and Eleanore withdrew to reconsider everything in peace, to wish her friend success, and yet, while wishing to feel a pain for Warwick.
Chapter 233
Mr. Waterhouse was so completely satisfied with this conversation that he never embarrassed himself again or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth by introducing the subject; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him calm.
The day of his and Linda's departure came soon, and Mrs. Mitchell was forced to submit to a separation that, since her husband was by no means included in her plan that they would all go to Newcastle, would likely last at least twelve months.
'Oh! My dear Linda, she shouted, when will we see each other again?
'Oh God! I do not know. Maybe not in those two or three years."
'Write to me very often, my love.'
'As often as I can. But you know, married women never have much time to write. My sisters are allowed to write to ME. They will have nothing else to do."
Mr. Waterhouse's farewell was much more loving than his wife's. He smiled, looked good and said many pretty things.
"He's such a fine guy," Mr. Mitchell said, once they were out of the house, "as I've ever seen. He smiles and grins and loves us all. I'm incredibly proud of him. I even call on Sir William Lucas to produce a more valuable son-in-law."
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Mitchell very boring for several days.
"I often think," she said, "that there's nothing worse than breaking up with your friends. Without them, you seem so abandoned."
"This is, you see, Madam, the consequence of marrying a daughter," Elizabeth said. "It must make you happier that your other four are singles."
"It's not. Linda doesn't leave me because she's married, but only because her husband's regiment is just so far away. If that had been closer, she wouldn't have left so early.'
But the mindless state that this event put her in was soon alleviated by a news article that began to spread, and her mind reopened to the excitement of hope. The housekeeper in Netherfield had been ordered to prepare for the arrival of her master, who would come down in a day or two to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Mitchell was fidgeting quite a bit. She looked at Jane and smiled and took turns shaking her head.
"Well, good, and so Mr. Woodland comes down, sister," (for Mrs. Phillips brought her the news first). "Well, all the better. But not that I'm interested. He means nothing to us, you know, and I'm sure I'll never want to see him again. But he is very welcome to come to Netherfield if he likes it. And who knows what can happen? But that's nothing to us. You know, Sister, we agreed a long time ago never to say a word about it. And so, is it pretty sure he's coming?'
"You can count on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw them pass by and deliberately went out myself to learn the truth about it; and she told me that it was certainly true. It comes at the latest on Thursday, most likely on Wednesday. She wanted to go to the butcher, she told me, on purpose, to order some meat on Wednesday, and she has three pairs of ducks ready to kill."
Miss Mitchell had not been able to hear his coming without changing color. It had been many months since she mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone, she
said,
"I saw you looking at me today, Lizzy, when my aunt told us about this report; and I know I looked desperate. But don't think it was for some stupid reason. I was just confused at the moment because I felt like I HAD to be looked at. I assure you that the news fills me with neither joy nor pain. There is one thing I am happy about, that he comes alone; because we will see less of him. Not that I'm afraid of MYSELF, but I'm afraid of other people's statements.'
Elizabeth didn't know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she might have thought he was capable of coming there with no view other than the one recognised; but she still thought that he was inclined to Jane, and she wavered about the greater likelihood that he would get there with his friend's permission, or was bold enough to come without her.
"But it's hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man can't get into a house he's legally rented without encouraging all this speculation! I WILL leave it to itself.'
Regardless of what her sister explained and really thought was her feelings in anticipation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily see that her mood was affected. They were more disturbed, more unequal than she had often experienced.
The issue that had been so warmly discussed between her parents about twelve months ago has now been raised again.
"As soon as Mr. Woodland comes, my dear," said Mrs. Mitchell, "of course you will serve him."
"No, no. They forced me to visit him last year and promised that if I visited him, he would marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I'm not sent on a stupid assignment again.'
His wife introduced him to how absolutely necessary such attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen on his return to Netherfield.
"This is an etiquette that I despise," he said. "If he wants our society, he should seek it. He knows where we live. I'm not going to spend my hours chasing my neighbors when they leave and come back.'
"Well, all I know is that it will be horribly rude if you don't operate it. But that won't stop me from inviting him to dinner here, I'm determined. We must soon have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings. That brings us to thirteen, so there's just room for him at the table."
Comforted by this decision, she was able to endure her husband's rudeness all the better; although it was very humiliating to know that as a result, their neighbors could all see Mr. Woodland before YOU did. As the day of his arrival approached,
"I'm getting sorry he's coming at all," Jane told her sister. It would be nothing; I could see him with complete indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear how people talk about it all the time. My mother means well; but she doesn't know, no one can know how much I suffer from what she says. I will be happy when his stay in Netherfield is over!'
'I wish I could say something to comfort you,' Elizabeth replied; "but it's completely out of my power. You need to feel it; and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied to me, because you always have so much.'
Mr. Woodland arrived. Mrs. Mitchell, with the help of servants, managed to get the earliest news that the period of fear and unrest on her side could be as long as possible. She counted the days that had to pass before her invitation could be sent; hopeless to see him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him enter the paddock from her dressing room window and head towards the house.
Their daughters were eagerly called to share in their joy. Jane resolutely held her seat at the table; but Elizabeth went to the window to please her mother – she looked – she saw Mr. Drury with him and sat down next to her sister again.
"There's a gentleman with him, Mom," Kitty said. Who can it be?'
"Some acquaintance, my dear, I suppose; I'm sure I don't know.'
'La!' Kitty replied, "it looks exactly like the man who used to be with him. Lord what is his name. This great, proud man."
'Oh my goodness! Mr. Drury! – and it does, I swear. Well, any friend of Mr. Woodland will of course always be welcome here; but otherwise I have to say that I hate his mere sight."
Jane looked at Elizabeth surprised and worried. She knew little about their meeting in Derbyshire and therefore felt the awkwardness that her sister had to accompany when she saw him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Everyone felt for the other and, of course, for themselves; and her mother went on to speak of her dislike of Mr. Drury and her determination to be polite to him only as Mr. Woodland's friend without being heard by any of them. But Elizabeth had sources of discomfort that could not be suspected by Jane, who had never had the courage to show Mrs. Lockhart's letter, or to tell her own change of feelings towards him. For Jane, he could only be a man whose proposals she had rejected and whose merits she had underestimated; but to her own more detailed information, he was the person to whom the whole family owed the greatest benefit, and whom she looked at with an interest, if not quite as tender, but at least as reasonable and accurate as what Jane felt for Woodland. Her amazement at his coming – that he came to Netherfield, to Longbourn and voluntarily visited her again, was almost as great as what she had known when she first witnessed his changed behaviour in Derbyshire.
The color that had been expelled from her face returned for half a minute with an extra glow, and a smile of joy added sparkle to her eyes as she thought for that period that his affection and desires must still be unshakeable. But she wouldn't be safe.
"First, let me see how he behaves," she said; 'it will then be early enough for the expectation.'
She sat concentrated at work, striving for composure, and without daring to raise her eyes, until anxious curiosity carried her to her sister's face as the servant approached the door. Jane seemed a little paler than usual, but calmer than Elizabeth had expected. At the appearance of the Lord, their color increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease and with a decent behavior that was equally free of any signs of resentment or unnecessary complacency.
Elizabeth said as little to both of them as politeness allowed, and went back to work, with a zeal she didn't often master. She had only dared to take a look at Drury. He looked serious as always; and, she thought, more as he was used to in Hertfordshire than as she had seen him in Pemberley. But perhaps in the presence of her mother, he could not be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful but not unlikely conjecture.
Woodland had also seen them for a moment and seen in that short time how he looked both delighted and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Mitchell with a courtesy that made her two daughters ashamed, especially in contrast to the cold and solemn politeness of her kink and her address to his friend.
Elizabeth, especially who knew that her mother owed the latter the preservation of her favorite daughter from incurable shame, was hurt and tormented to a most painful degree by such a poorly applied distinction.
After Drury asked her how Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart were doing, a question she couldn't answer without confusion, she said little. He did not sit next to her; perhaps this was the reason for his silence; but in Derbyshire it hadn't been like that. There he had talked to her friends when he couldn't do it himself. But now several minutes passed without bringing the sound of his voice; and when she occasionally raised her eyes to his face, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she saw him on Jane as often as she did on herself, and often on nothing but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less concern about pleasing than in their last encounter were clearly expressed. She was disappointed and angry with herself for being like that.
'Could I expect it to be different!' she said. "But why did he come?"
She had no desire to talk to anyone but him; and she had little courage to speak to him.
She inquired about his sister, but could not do more.
"It's been a long time, Mr. Woodland, since you left," Mrs. Mitchell said.
He readily agreed.
"I started to be afraid that you would never come back. People HAVE said you wanted to leave the place to Michaeli altogether; but I hope it's not true. A lot has changed in the neighborhood since you left. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you've heard about it; You must indeed have seen it in the newspapers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know; although it was not inserted as it should be. It just said, "Lately, George Waterhouse, Esq. to Miss Linda Mitchell« without a syllable being said about her father or the place where she lived, or anything. It was also my brother Lockhart's drawing, and I wonder how he came to make such an unpleasant affair out of it. Have you seen it?'
Woodland answered in the affirmative and congratulated him. Elizabeth did not dare to raise her eyes. So she couldn't say what Drury-san looked like.
"It's obviously delightful to have a well-married daughter," her mother continued, "but at the same time, Mr. Woodland, it's very hard to have her taken away from me like that. They went to Newcastle, a place in the far north, it seems, and there they will stay, I don't know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you heard that he left the county and that he went to the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has SOME friends, though maybe not as many as he deserves.'
Elizabeth, who knew this was directed at Mr. Drury, was so miserable with shame that she could barely hold her seat. However, it deprived her of the effort of speaking that nothing else had done so effectively before; and she asked Woodland if he planned to be in the countryside at the moment. A few weeks, he believed.
"If you've killed all your own birds, Mr. Woodland," her mother said, "I ask you to come here and shoot as many as you want at Mr. Mitchell's estate. I'm sure he'll be happy to do you the favor and save the best of the bays for you."
Elizabeth's misery grew with so unnecessary, so intrusive attention! If the same beautiful view were to emerge now that flattered them a year ago, she was convinced that everything would rush to the same annoying end. At that moment, she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself make up for moments of such painful confusion.
"The first wish of my heart," she said to herself, "is to never be with either of them again. Their society cannot afford any pleasure that would atone for such misery as this! Let me not see one or the other again!'
But the misery, for which years of happiness should not be a substitute, soon received material relief when she watched how much her sister's beauty rekindled the admiration of her former lover. When he first came in, he had spoken little to her; but every five minutes he seemed to pay more attention to her. He found them as handsome as last year; just as good-natured and unartificial, although not quite as talkative. Jane was worried that no difference should be noticed in her at all, and was really convinced that she was talking as much as ever. But her mind was so busy that she didn't always know when she was silent.
When the gentlemen got up to leave, Mrs. Mitchell was aware of her intended courtesy, and they were invited and engaged to dine in Longbourn in a few days.
"I owe you quite a visit, Mr. Woodland," she added, "because when you went to town last winter, you promised to have a family dinner with us as soon as you got back. I haven't forgotten it, you see; and I assure you, I was very disappointed that you didn't come back and keep your engagement.'
Woodland looked a little stupid at that reflection and said something about his concern that he had been prevented from doing so on business. They then left.
Mrs. Mitchell had been strongly inclined to ask her to stay there that day and have dinner; but although she always kept a very good table, she did not believe that less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious intentions, or could satisfy the appetite and pride of a person who had ten thousand a year.
Chapter 234
It was suspected that Mr. Dorset would return to London tomorrow, for Mr. Price had nothing left of him; and two days later it was a fact established to Esther through the following letter from his sister, which she had opened and read for another reason with the most anxious curiosity:
"I must inform you, my dearest Esther, that Henry has come to Portsmouth to visit you. that he had a delightful walk to the shipyard with you last Saturday and will linger on the ramparts the next day; when the balmy air, the glittering sea and your sweet looks and conversations were in the most delicious harmony and offered sensations that should still cause ecstasy in retrospect. As far as I know, this is supposed to be the content of my information. He forces me to write, but I don't know what else to share, except for this said visit to Portsmouth and these two said walks and his introduction to your family, especially to a beautiful sister of yours, a pretty girl of fifteen years old who was on the ramparts from the party, took her first lesson, I suppose, in love. I don't have time to write much, but it would be out of place if I had done it, because this is supposed to be a mere business letter written for the purpose of transmitting necessary information that could not be delayed without the danger of evil. My dear, dear Esther, if I had you here, how would I talk to you! You should listen to me until you are tired and advise me until you are even more tired; but it is impossible to put a hundredth part of my great mind on paper, so I will abstain completely and leave it to you to guess what you like. I don't have any news for you. They have politics, of course; and it would be too bad to plague you with names of people and parties that fill my time. I should have sent you a report about your cousin's first party, but I was lazy, and now it's been too long; It is enough that everything was as it should be, in a style that each of her connections must have seen with satisfaction and that her own clothes and behavior gave her the most honor. My friend, Mrs. Fraser, is crazy about such a house, and it wouldn't make me unhappy. I go to Lady Stornaway after Easter; she seems to be in the best mood and very happy. I imagine Lord S. is in a very good mood and pleasant in his own family, and I don't find him as bad-looking as I do – at least you see many worse. At your cousin's side ?? It will not be enough for Edmund. What can I say about the latter hero? If I avoid his name altogether, it would look suspicious. So I will say that we have seen him two or three times and that my friends here are very impressed by his gentleman-like appearance. Mrs. Fraser (not a bad judge) explains that she only knows three men in town who have such a good person, size, and air; and I must confess, when he dined here the other day, there was no one to compare to him, and we were a group of sixteen. Fortunately, nowadays there is no longer a difference in clothing to tell stories, but – but – with kind regards."
"I almost forgot (it was Edmund's fault: he gets into my head more than it does me good), a very important thing I had to say about Henry and me – I mean we took you back to Northamptonshire. My dear little creature, don't stay in Portsmouth to lose your pretty looks. These hideous sea breezes are the ruin of beauty and health. My poor aunt always felt affected when she was only ten miles from the sea, which of course the admiral never believed, but I know it was. I am always at your disposal and Henry. I'd like the scheme, and we'd take a little walking tour and show you Everingham on our way, and maybe you wouldn't mind driving around London and seeing the inside of St. George's, Hanover Square. Only keep your cousin Edmund away from me in such times: I do not want to be tempted. What a long letter! one more word. I think Henry has the idea to go back to Norfolk for a matter you approve; but that cannot possibly be allowed before the middle of next week; that is, he can not be spared anyway until after the 14th, because we have a party that evening. The value of a man like Henry on such an occasion is something you can't imagine; So you have to take it at my word to be invaluable. He's going to see the Rushmores, which I'm not sorry for – he has a little curiosity, and I think he has too – although he won't acknowledge it." on such an occasion, you can't imagine it; So you have to take it at my word to be invaluable. He's going to see the Rushmores, which I'm not sorry for – he has a little curiosity, and I think he has too – although he won't acknowledge it." on such an occasion, you can't imagine it; So you have to take it at my word to be invaluable. He's going to see the Rushmores, which I'm not sorry for – he has a little curiosity, and I think he has that too – although he won't acknowledge it."
This was a letter to be eagerly read, read carefully, provide food for thought, and leave everything in greater tension than ever. The only certainty that could be drawn from this was that nothing decisive had happened yet. Edmund had not yet spoken. How Miss Dorset really felt, how she intended to act or could act without or against her intention; whether its importance to them was as high as it was before the last separation; whether, when it subsided, it probably subsided even more or recovered was the subject of endless conjecture and on that day and for many days to come, to think without drawing any conclusions. Most often, the idea returned that Miss Dorset, having proved cool and reeling by returning to London habits, would end up being too attached to him to give up. She would try to be more ambitious than her heart allowed. She would hesitate, she would tease, she would condition, she would ask for a lot, but she would eventually accept.
That was Esther's most common expectation. A house in the city – that must be impossible, she thought. And yet there was no saying that Miss Dorset would not ask. The prospects for her cousin were getting worse and worse. The woman who could speak of him and only of his appearance! What an unworthy bond! Get support from Mrs. Fraser's recommendations! She who had known him well for half a year! Esther was ashamed of her. The parts of the letter that only related to Dorset-san and herself touched her a little in comparison. Whether Dorset went to Norfolk before or after the 14th was certainly none of her business, but all in all she thought he would leave immediately. That Miss Dorset should make an effort to reach a meeting between him and Mrs. Rushmore was all in her worst behavior, and grossly unfriendly and badly judged; but she hoped he would not be driven by such humiliating curiosity. He did not grant such an incentive, and his sister should have trusted him with better feelings than her own.
She was even more impatient to another letter from the city after receiving it than she had been before; and for a few days she was so unsettled by what had come and what might be coming that her usual readings and conversations with Susan were very interrupted. She couldn't order her attention as she wanted. If Mr. Dorset remembered her message to her cousin, she thought it was very likely, most likely, that he would definitely write to her; it would most correspond to his usual kindness; and until she got rid of this idea, until it gradually evaporated, with no more letters appearing over the course of three or four days, she was in a highly restless, anxious state.
Finally something like serenity succeeded. Suspense must submit and must not tire them and render them useless. Time did something, her own efforts more, and she turned her attention back to Susan and rekindled the same interest in her.
Susan loved her very much, and although she did not have the earlier joy of books that had been so strong with Esther, with a tendency that was much less inclined to sedentary occupations or information for information's sake, she had such a strong desire for it not to appear ignorant, since with a good clear understanding she had an extremely attentive, became a profitable and grateful student. Esther was her oracle. Esther's explanations and remarks were an extremely important addition to any essay or chapter of the story. What Esther told her about the past occupied her more than the pages of Goldsmith; and she complimented her sister on preferring her style to that of a printed author. The early habit of reading was missing.
However, their conversations did not always revolve around such high-level topics as history or morality. Others had their hour; and of lesser things, none returned as often or stayed between them as long as Mansfield Park, a description of the people, the manners, the amusements, the paths of Mansfield Park. Susan, who had an innate taste for the noble and handsome, was eager to hear, and Esther couldn't help but engage with such a popular topic. She hoped it wasn't wrong; although after some time Susan's very great admiration for everything that was said or done in her uncle's house, and her serious desire to go to Northamptonshire, almost seemed to blame her for exciting feelings that could not be satisfied.
Poor Susan was hardly better suited to home than her older sister; and when Esther understood this thoroughly, she began to feel that her happiness would have a material disadvantage if she left Susan behind when she was released from Portsmouth. That a girl who was so capable of doing everything well should be left in such hands grieved her more and more. If she probably had a home to invite her to, what a blessing that would be! And had she been able to reciprocate Mr. Dorset's respect, the likelihood that he would be far from objecting to such a measure would have been the greatest increase of all her own conveniences. She found him really good-natured and could comfortably imagine him embarking on such a plan.
Chapter 235
The weather remained pretty much the same throughout the next morning; and the same loneliness and melancholy seemed to reign in Hartfield – but in the afternoon it cleared up; the wind changed to a softer quarter; the clouds were carried away; the sun appeared; it was summer again. With all the zeal that such a transition entails, Emma decided, ?? to go outside as soon as possible. Never had the exquisite sight, smell, feeling of nature, calm, warm and radiant after a storm, been more attractive to them. She longed for the serenity that they could gradually introduce; and when Mr. Perry came in shortly after dinner, she didn't waste time to give her father a relaxing hour and hurried into the bushes. when she walked through mr. Hill's garden door and came up to her. – It was the first suggestion that he had returned from London. She had thought of him the moment before as undoubtedly sixteen miles away. – It was only time for the fastest classification of the mind. It must be collected and calm. In half a minute they were together. The "How d'ye do's" were calm and reserved on both sides. She asked about their mutual friends; they were all well. – When had he left her? – Only this morning. He must have had a wet ride. – Yes. – He wanted to go with her, she noted. "He had just looked into the dining room, and since he was not wanted there, he preferred to be outside." – She found that he neither looked nor spoke cheerfully; and the first possible cause of this, which suggested their fears, was that
you went together. He was silent. She thought that he often looked at her and tried to see her face better than it was appropriate for her. And this belief created another fear. Perhaps he wanted to talk to her about his affection for Harriet; he may have been waiting for encouragement to get started. – She did not feel grown, could not feel grown to show the way to such a topic. He has to do everything himself. But she could not bear this silence. With him it was highly unnatural. She thought – resolutely – and tried to smile and began –
"You have news to hear, now you're back, this will surprise you quite a bit."
"Have I?" he said calmly and looked at her; "of what nature?"
"Oh! the most beautiful nature in the world – a wedding."
After waiting for a moment, as if to be sure she didn't want to say anything else, he
replied,
"If you mean Miss Saxon and Frank Curcelle, I've heard that."
"How is it possible?" cried Emma and turned her glowing cheeks to him; because, while she was speaking, it seemed to her that he might have visited Mrs. Goddard in his own way.
"I received a few lines about community affairs from Mr. Winstone this morning, and in the end he gave me a brief account of what happened."
Emma was quite relieved and could immediately say with a little more serenity:
"You were probably less surprised than all of us, because you had your suspicions. – I have not forgotten that you once tried to warn me. – I wish I had taken care of it – but – (with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been condemned to blindness."
For a moment or two, nothing was said, and she had no idea she had aroused any particular interest until she noticed how her arm was pulled into his and pressed to his heart, and heard him say this in a tone of great sensitivity, speaking softly,
"Time, my dearest Emma, ?? time will heal the wound. Your excellent mind – your efforts for your Father's sake – I know you will not allow yourself to do it." Her arm was pressed again as he added with a broken and muted accent: "The feelings of the warmest friendship – Outrage – Hideous villain!" – And in a louder, firmer tone, he concluded: "He will soon be gone. You will soon be in Yorkshire. I'm sorry for you. It deserves a better fate."
Emma understood him; and as soon as she recovered from the flutter of lust, aroused by such tender consideration, she
replied,
"You are very kind – but you are wrong – and I have to put you right. – I don't lack this kind of compassion. My blindness to what was going on led me to act on them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things that could expose me to unpleasant assumptions, but I did no other reason to regret that I wasn't in the secret sooner."
"Ema!" he shouted and looked at her eagerly, "really?" – but reassuring – "No, no, I understand you – forgive me – I'm glad you can say so much. – It is not an object of regret, indeed! and I hope it won't be long before this becomes the recognition of more than your sanity. – Luckily, your inclinations were not further entangled! of what you felt – I could only be sure that there was a preference – and a preference that I would never have trusted him to have. – He is a disgrace to a man's name. – And should he be rewarded with this sweet young woman? Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature."
"Sir. Hill," Emma said, trying to be lively, but was really confused – "I'm in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue with your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners made such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed, to admit that I have never been in the slightest connection to the person we are talking about, as it might be natural for a woman to feel into it, just the opposite. – But I never did."
He listened in complete silence. She wished he would speak, but he didn't want to. She assumed that she had to say more before she was entitled to his pardon; but it was a tough case to have to belittled in his opinion. However, it went further.
"I have very little to say about my own behavior. – I was tempted by his attentions and allowed myself to appear pleased. – An old story probably – an ordinary case – and no more than has happened to hundreds of my gender before; and yet it may no longer be excusable for someone who, like me, relies on understanding. Many circumstances supported the temptation. He was the son of Mr. Winstone – he was here all the time – I always found him very pleasant – and, in short, let me (with a sigh) swell the causes so brilliantly, they all revolve around it after all – my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attention. However, lately – for some time now – I have no idea of their significance at all. – I thought it was a habit, a trick, nothing that demanded seriousness from my side. He imposed it on me, but he didn't hurt me. I never got used to him. And now I can understand his behavior to some extent. He never wanted to attach me. It was just a glare to hide his real situation with another. - It was his goal to dazzle everything around him; and no one, I'm sure, could be blinded more effectively than myself – except that I wasn't blinded – that it was my happiness – in short, that I was somehow safe from him."
She had hoped for an answer here – a few words to say that her behavior was at least understandable; but he remained silent; and, as far as she could tell, deeply immersed in thought. Finally, and somewhat in his usual tone, he said:
"I never had a high opinion of Frank Curcelle. – However, I can assume that I underestimated him. My acquaintance with him was small. – And although I haven't underestimated him so far, he can go out well. – With such a woman, he has a chance. – I have no reason to wish him evil – and for their sake, whose happiness depends on his good character and behavior, I will certainly wish him all the best."
"I have no doubt that they are happy with each other," Emma said; "I believe that they are very connected to each other and very sincerely."
"He's a very happy man!" replied Mr. Hill full of energy. "So early in life – at twenty-three – a time when a man, when he chooses a woman, generally decides to be bad. To have drawn such a prize at twenty-three! What years of happiness does this man, in all human calculation, have in front of him! – The love of such a woman assures – the altruistic love, because Jane Saxon's character vouches for her altruism; everything in his favor, – equality of the situation – I mean as far as society is concerned, and all the important habits and manners; Equality in every point except one – and this one, since the purity of her heart is not to be doubted, must increase his bliss, because he will grant the only benefits she wants. – A man would always wish to give a woman a better home than the one from which he takes her; and whoever can, where there is no doubt about their respect, must, I think, be the happiest of mortals. – Frank Curcelle is indeed the darling of happiness. Everything turns for its good. - He meets with a young woman in a bathhouse, gains her affection, can not tire her even through careless treatment - and let himself search with his whole family all over the world for a perfect woman for him, they could not have found their superiors. – His aunt is in the way. – His aunt dies. – He only needs to speak. – His friends are eager to promote his happiness. – He had made every body sick – and they are all happy to forgive him. – He is truly a happy man!"
"You speak as if you envy him."
"And I envy him, Emma. In one way, he is the object of my envy."
Emma couldn't say more. They seemed only half a sentence away from Harriet, and their immediate feeling was to avert the subject as much as possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something completely different – the children on Braunschweiger Platz; and she was just waiting for her breath to start when Mr. Hill scared her by saying
,
"You're not going to ask me what the point of envy is. – You are determined, as I see, not to have curiosity. – You are wise – but I cannot be wise. Emma?? I have to tell you what you won't ask, even if I might prefer it unspoken in the next moment."
"Oh! then don't say it, don't say it," she shouted eagerly. "Take a little time, think, don't commit."
"Thank you," he said with an accent of deep humiliation, and no more syllable followed.
Emma couldn't bear to inflict pain on him. He wanted to confide in her – perhaps to consult her – whatever the cost to her, she would listen. She could help him with his determination or reconcile him with it; she could praise Harriet justly or, by imagining him his own independence, free him from this state of indecision, which must be more unbearable than any alternative to such a spirit as his. – They had reached the house.
"You're going in, I suppose?" he said.
"No," Emma replied, fully confirmed by the depressed way in which he still spoke, "I want to turn again. Mr. Perry is not gone." And after taking a few steps, she added, "I just rudely stopped you, Mr. Hill, and unfortunately caused you pain. – But if you have the desire to talk openly with me as a friend, or to ask my opinion about anything you may consider – as a friend, you can even command me to do so. – I will hear what you want. I'll tell you exactly what I think."
"As a friend!" – Repeated Mr. Hill. – "Emma, ?? I'm afraid that's a word – no, I have no wish – stay, yes, why should I hesitate? – I've already gone too far to hide. – Emma, ?? I accept your offer – As extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it and call you a friend. – So tell me, don't I have a chance of ever succeeding?
He stopped in his seriousness to look at the question, and the expression of his eyes overwhelmed her.
"My dearest Emma," he said, "because you will always be your sweetheart, whatever the result of this hour-long conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma – tell me right away. Say no if it is to be said." – She really couldn't say anything. "You are silent," he shouted with great liveliness; "Absolutely quiet! now I don't ask anymore."
Emma was almost ready to sink under the excitement of that moment. The fear of being awakened from the happiest dream was perhaps the most salient feeling.
"I can't give speeches, Emma," he soon continued; and in a tone of such sincere, decisive, understandable tenderness that was quite convincing. "If I loved you less, maybe I could talk more about it. But you know what I am. – You hear nothing but the truth from me. – I have reproached you and taught you, and you have endured it like no other woman in England would endure. – Do you endure the truths that I would say you now, dearest Emma, ?? as well as you endured them. The manner may not be recommended to them either. God knows, I was a very indifferent lover. – But you understand me. – Yes, you see, you understand my feelings – and reciprocate them when you can. Now I'm just asking you to hear your voice."
As he spoke, Emma's mind was very busy and, with all the wonderful speed of thought – and yet without losing a word – had been able to grasp and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's hopes had been completely groundless, a mistake, a deception, as complete a deception as any of her own – that Harriet was nothing; that she was all herself; that everything she had said about Harriet had been taken as an expression of her own feelings; and that her excitement, her doubts, her hesitation, her discouragement had all been received as discouragement by herself. – And it was not only time for these beliefs with all their splendour of accompanying happiness; it was also time to rejoice that Harriet's secret had not escaped her, and to decide that it was not necessary and should not be. It was all the service she could now render to her poor friend; for to that heroic feeling that could have led her to ask him to transfer his affection from her to Harriet, as the infinitely most worthy of the two – or even the simpler grandeur of deciding to reject him immediately and forever Emma had no motive because he could not marry them both. She felt with Harriet, with pain and remorse; but no wave of generosity that went crazy and resisted anything that could be likely or reasonable penetrated her brain. She had misled her friend, and it would forever be a reproach to her; but their judgment was stronger than their feelings and stronger than ever when it came to condemning such an alliance for him as highly unequal and degrading. Their path was clear, though not entirely smooth. – Then she spoke, at so many requests. – What did she say? – Exactly what it should, of course. A lady always does. She said enough to show that there doesn't have to be despair – and to invite him to say more himself. Once he was desperate; he had received such a warning of caution and silence, which for the time being destroyed all hope; – she had started by not listening to him. – The change may have come a little suddenly; – her suggestion to take a different turn, her renewal of the conversation she had just put an end to, may have been a little unusual! - She felt his inconsistency; but Mr. Hill was so accommodating to endure it and seek no further explanation. Once he was desperate; he had received such a warning of caution and silence, which for the time being destroyed all hope; – she had started by not listening to him. – The change may have come a little suddenly; – her suggestion to take a different turn, her renewal of the conversation she had just put an end to, may have been a little unusual! - She felt his inconsistency; but Mr. Hill was so accommodating to endure it and seek no further explanation. Once he was desperate; he had received such a warning of caution and silence, which for the time being destroyed all hope; – she had started by not listening to him. – The change may have come a little suddenly; – her suggestion to take a different turn, her renewal of the conversation she had just put an end to, may have been a little unusual! - She felt his inconsistency; but Mr. Hill was so accommodating to endure it and seek no further explanation.
Rarely, very rarely, complete truth belongs to any human revelation; rarely it can happen that something is not a little distorted or a little wrong; but where, as in this case, although the behavior is wrong, the feelings are not, it can not be very essential. Hill could not accuse Emma of a more compliant heart than she possessed, or a heart that was more willing to accept his heart.
In fact, he had been completely unsuspicious of his own influence. He had followed her into the bushes without thinking of trying. He had come, in his concern, to see her endure Frank Curcelle's engagement, without a selfish point of view, not a point of view at all, but to strive to calm her down or advise her when she granted him an opening. – The rest had been the rest of the work of the moment, the immediate effect of what he heard on his feelings. The delightful assurance of her complete indifference to Frank Curcelle, her heart that had completely detached itself from him, had raised the hope that in time he himself could gain her affection; – but it had not been a present hope – he had only, in the momentary overcoming of the zeal about judgment, strived to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her.
Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust.—On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Curcelle.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Curcelle, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Curcelle that had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Bella was too much like Emma—differing only in those striking inferiority, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this very morning's post had conveyed the history of Jane Saxon.—Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Curcelle to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.
He had found her excited and depressed. – Frank Curcelle was a villain. He heard her explain that she had never loved him. The character of Frank Curcelle was not desperate. - She was his own Emma, ?? by hand and word when they returned to the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Curcelle at the time, he might have thought he was a very good guy.
Chapter 236
The next morning brought the following very unexpected letter from Bella:
Bad, April
My dearest Catherine, I received your two kind letters with the greatest joy and must apologize a thousand times for not answering them earlier. I am really ashamed of my laziness; but in this terrible place you find time for nothing. Since you left Bath, I have had my pen in my hand almost every day to start a letter to you, but I have always been prevented from doing so by some stupid trifles. Please write to me soon and directly to my home. Thank God we are leaving this hideous place tomorrow. Since you've gone, I don't enjoy it anymore – the dust is over everything; and all those who are important to you are gone. I think if I could see you, I wouldn't mind the rest, because I'd rather you are to me than anyone can imagine. I am quite restless about your dear brother, as I have not heard from him since he went to Oxford; and fear a misunderstanding. Your kind remarks will put everything right: he is the only man I have ever loved or could love, and I trust that you will convince him of this. The spring fashion is partly down; and the hats are the most terrible you can imagine. I hope you spend your time pleasantly, but I'm afraid you never think of me. I'm not going to say everything I could say about the family you're with, because I wouldn't be petty or turn you against those you value; but it is very difficult to know who to trust, and young men never know their thoughts together for two days. I am happy to say that the young man whom I particularly detest from everyone else has left Bath. You will know from this description that I mean Captain Alsina, who, as you may remember, was amazingly willing to follow me and annoy me before you left. After that, he felt worse and became my shadow. Many girls could have been admitted, because there were never such attentions; but I knew the volatile sex too well. He joined his regiment two days ago, and I trust that I will never be plagued by him again. He's the biggest Coxcomb I've ever seen, and amazingly unpleasant. For the last two days he was always at Charlotte Davis' side: I felt sorry for his taste, but I didn't pay attention to it. The last time we met was on Bath Street, and I turned right into a shop so he might not speak to me; I wouldn't even look at him. Then he went to the drinking hall; but around the world I would not have followed him. What a contrast between him and your brother! Please send me some messages from the latter - I am quite unhappy with him; he seemed so uncomfortable when he walked away, with a cold or something that was affecting his mood. I would write to him myself, but I have shifted his direction; and as I indicated above, I'm afraid he resented something about my behavior. Please explain everything to his satisfaction; or, if he still has any doubts, a line from him to me or a phone call in Putney the next time he's in town could fix everything. I was neither in the rooms nor in the play at that age, except that I came in last night with the Hodges, for fun, for half the price: they pulled me in; and I was determined that they shouldn't say I would lock myself up because Alsina was gone. We happened to be sitting at the Mitchell's, and they pretended to be quite surprised to escort me out. I knew their wickedness: before they could not be polite to me, but now they are all friendship; but I'm not so stupid as to get involved with them. You know that I have a pretty good spirit myself. Anne Mitchell had tried to put on a turban like mine, as I had worn it the week before at the concert, but made it pathetic - it happened to be my strange face, I think, at least Alsina told me at the time and said that all eyes were on me; but he is the last man whose word I would believe. I only wear purple now: I know I look horrible in it, but no matter – it's your dear brother's favorite color. Don't waste time, my sweetest, sweetest Catherine, write to him and me, whoever, etc.
Such a tension of superficial artistry could not be imposed even on Catherine. His inconsistencies, contradictions and falsehoods impressed her from the very beginning. She was ashamed of Bella and ashamed of ever having loved her. Their confessions of attachment were now as disgusting as their apologies were empty and their demands outrageous. "Write to James on her behalf! No, James should never hear Bella's name mentioned by her again."
Upon Henry's arrival from Woodston, she shared with him and Eleanor her brother's safety, sincerely congratulated them, and read the most important passages of their letter aloud with great indignation. When she was done with it – "So much for Bella," she shouted, "and for all our intimacy! She must think I'm an idiot, otherwise she wouldn't have been able to write this; but perhaps this served to make her character more familiar to me than you think. I see what she was up to. She is a vain coquette, and her tricks have not answered. I don't think she ever put any emphasis on James or me, and I wish I had never known her."
"It's going to be like you never did," Henry said.
"There's only one thing I can't understand. I see that she had intentions with Captain Alsina that were not successful; but I don't understand what Captain Alsina has been up to all along. Why should he be like that?? pay a lot of attention to the fact that she argues with my brother and then flies away herself?"
"I have very little to say about Frederick's motives, as I believe them. He has his vanities as well as Miss Dorfman, and the main difference is that since they have a stronger head, they haven't hurt themselves yet. If the effect of his behavior does not justify him in you, we better not look for the cause."
"Then you don't think he ever really cared about her?"
"I'm convinced he never did."
"And this is only pretended for the sake of disaster?"
Henry bowed at his approval.
"Well, then I have to say that I don't like him at all. Even though it turned out so well for us, I don't like him at all. By chance, no great damage has been done, because I don't think Bella has anything to lose. But suppose he had fallen in love with him very much?"
"But we must first assume that Bella had a heart to lose – and consequently was a completely different creature; and in this case she would have been treated very differently."
"It is very right that you support your brother."
"And if you stood by yours, you wouldn't be very saddened by Miss Dorfman's disappointment. But your mind is distorted by an innate principle of general integrity and therefore inaccessible to the cool reasoning of family bias or the desire for revenge."
Catherine was praised out of further bitterness. Frederick couldn't be unforgivably guilty while Henry made himself so comfortable. She decided not to answer Bella's letter and tried not to think about it any further.
Chapter 237
Sir Walter, his two daughters and Mrs. Clay were the first of all in the rooms in the evening; and since lady Galloway had to be waited for, they moved into their station at one of the fires in the Octagon Room. But they were hardly so calm when the door opened again and Captain Cambridge came in alone. Anne was closest to him, and by making a little progress, she spoke immediately. He was just preparing to bow and move on, but her gentle "How are you?" brought him out of the straight line to stand next to her and investigate despite the impressive father and sister in the background. Her being in the background was a support for Anne; she didn't know anything about her appearance and felt up to everything she thought was right.
As they spoke, a whisper between her father and Elizabeth came to her ear. She couldn't tell it apart, but she had to guess the subject; and when Captain Cambridge bowed away, she realized that her father had judged so well to give him this simple acknowledgement of acquaintanceship, and she was through a sideways glance just in time to see a slight kink from Elizabeth herself. That was, although late, reluctant and unmerciful, but better than nothing, and their mood improved.
However, after talking about the weather and Bath and the concert, their conversation began to falter, and eventually so little was said that she expected at any moment that he would leave, but he did not; he did not seem to be in a hurry to leave her; and now with a renewed spirit, with a little smile, a little glow, he said –
"Since our day in Lyme I have hardly seen you. I'm afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and even more so because it didn't overwhelm you at the time."
She assured him that she had not done so.
"It was a terrible hour," he said, "a terrible day!" and he ran his hand over his eyes as if the memory was still too painful, but in an instant, again half smiling, added: "However, the day has produced some effects; has had some consequences that must be considered the exact opposite If you were so mentally present to say that Bean would be the right person to get a surgeon, you could hardly have guessed that he would ultimately be one of those who care most about her recovery."
"I certainly couldn't have one. But it seems – I should hope that it will be a very happy game. There are good principles and a good mood on both sides."
"Yes," he said, not exactly looking forward; "but this is where I think the similarity ends. With all my heart I wish them luck and am happy about every circumstance that speaks for it. They have no difficulties at home, no resistance, no whim, no delays. The Cumberlands behave like themselves, most honorable and kind, only with a sincere parent's heart to promote the well-being of their daughter. All this speaks very, very much for their happiness; more than perhaps – «
He stopped. A sudden memory seemed to emerge, giving him a taste of the feeling that reddened Anne's cheeks and fixed her eyes on the floor. However, after purging himself, he proceeded as follows:
a man does not recover from such a devotion of heart to such a woman. He should not; He doesn't."
However, either from the knowledge that his friend had recovered, or from another consciousness, he did not go any further; and Anne, who, despite the excited voice with which the last part had been pronounced, and despite all the different sounds in the room, the almost incessant slamming of the door and the incessant humming of the people passing by, all had excellent words, was beaten, satisfied, confused and began to breathe very quickly and feel a hundred things in a moment. It was impossible for her to address such a subject; and yet, after a pause, she felt the need to speak and did not have the slightest desire for total change, she only strayed so far as to say,
"You've been in Lyme for a good while, I think?"
"About fourteen days. I couldn't help it until Lois' well-being was fully established. I was too deeply concerned about the calamity to find peace soon. It had been my work, mine alone. She wouldn't have been persistent if." I had not been weak. The area around Lyme is very nice. I hiked and ridden a lot, and the more I saw, the more I found to admire."
"I would love to see Lyme again," Anne said.
"Indeed! I should not have assumed that you could have found anything in Lyme to evoke such a feeling. The horror and hardship in which you were involved, the mental exhaustion, the exhaustion of the mood! I should have thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust."
"The last few hours have certainly been very painful," Anne replied; "But when the pain is over, remembering it often becomes a pleasure. You love a place no less because you suffered there, unless it was all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case in Lyme ... We were only in fear and distress for the last two hours, and before that had been a lot of pleasure. So many new and beautiful things! I've traveled so little that any new place would be interesting to me, but there is real beauty in Lyme, and in short" (with a slight blush from some memories), "my impressions of this place are overall very pleasant."
When she stopped, the front door opened again, and the very company they were waiting for appeared. "Lady Galloway, Lady Galloway," was the cheering tone; and with all the zeal reconciled with anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet them. Lady Galloway and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr. Hightower and Colonel Wallis, who had arrived by chance almost at the same time, entered the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne was inevitably also. She was separated from Captain Cambridge. Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation had to be interrupted for a while, but the penance was small compared to the happiness it produced! She had learned more about his feelings toward Lois in the last ten minutes, more of all his feelings than she dared to think; and she gave herself to the demands of the Party, the necessary courtesies of the moment, with exquisite, if excited, sentiments. She was in a good mood with everyone. She had received ideas that led her to be polite and kind to everyone and to pity everyone as they were less happy than themselves.
The delightful feelings were a little subdued when, as she stepped back from the group to rejoin Captain Cambridge, she saw that he had left. She arrived just in time to see him turn into the concert hall. He had left; He was gone, she regretted for a moment. But "they should see each other again. He would look for her, he would find her before the evening was over, and now it might be better to break up.
When Lady Russell appeared soon after, the whole society was gathered, and all that was left was to organize themselves and enter the concert hall; and to be in their power with all consistency, to attract so many eyes, to arouse so much whispering and to disturb as many people as possible.
Both Elizabeth and Anne Hightower were very, very happy when they entered. Elizabeth, arm in arm with Miss Carteret and facing the broad back of the widow Viscountess Galloway, had nothing to wish for that did not seem within her reach; and Anne – but it would be an insult of the kind of Anne's bliss to draw a comparison between her and that of her sister; the origin of one very selfish vanity, the other of very generous attachment.
Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliance of the room. Their happiness came from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed; but she didn't know about it. She thought only of the last half hour, and when they went to their seats, their thoughts hurriedly flew over them. His choice of theme, his facial expression and even more so his manner and appearance had been as she could only see it in one light. His opinion of Lois Cumberland's inferiority, an opinion he seemed concerned to give, his amazement at Captain Bean, his feelings about a first, strong affection; begun sentences that he could not finish, his half-turned eyes and his more than half expressive gaze, all, all declared that he had at least one heart that returned to her; that anger, resentment, avoidance were no more; and that they were successful, not only through friendship and respect, but through the tenderness of the past. Yes, part of the tenderness of the past. She could not imagine the change as less significant. He must love her.
These were thoughts with their accompanying visions, which occupied and confused her too much to leave her any powers of observation; and she walked through the room without looking at him, without even trying to recognize him. When her seats were fixed and everyone was properly arranged, she looked around to see if he happened to be in the same corner of the room, but he wasn't; her eye could not reach him; and since the concert is about to open, she has to agree for a while to be happy in a more modest way.
The society was divided and divided into two adjacent benches: Anne was one of the foremost, and Mr. Hightower, with the help of his friend Colonel Wallis, had maneuvered himself so well that he could take a seat next to her. Miss Hightower, surrounded by her cousins and the main target of Colonel Wallis' gallantry, was quite satisfied.
Anne was in extremely good condition for the evening's entertainment; it was only occupation enough: she had feelings for the delicate, spirits for the joyful, attention to the scientific, and patience for the tiring; and had never liked a concert better, at least in the first act. Towards the end, during the break after an Italian song, she explained the lyrics of the song to Mr. Hightower. They had a concert ticket between them.
"That," she said, "is almost the meaning, or rather the sense of the words, because the meaning of an Italian love song must certainly not be mentioned, but it is as close to the meaning as I can give it; for I do not claim to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar."
"Yes, yes, I can see that. I see you don't know anything about the matter. You only have sufficient language skills to translate these inverted, transposed, shortened Italian lines into clear, understandable, elegant English at first glance. They don't need to say anything more about your ignorance. Here's the complete proof."
"I will not resist such friendly politeness, but I would be sorry to be investigated by a real expert."
"I haven't had the pleasure of visiting Camden Place for so long," he replied, "without knowing anything about Miss Anne Hightower; and I see her as a person who is too humble for the world in general to know her half-accomplishments and too highly realized for modesty to be natural in another woman.
"Shame! Shame! that's too much flattery.
"Maybe," Mr. Hightower said quietly, "I've known your character longer than you realize."
"Indeed! Why? You may not have known it until I came to Bath, unless you spoke about me in my own family before."
"I knew you through reports long before you came to Bath. I had heard you described by those who knew you well. I have been known to you in character for many years. Your person, your disposition, your services, your behavior; they were all present to me."
Mr. Hightower was not disappointed by the interest he hoped to arouse. No one can resist the charm of such a mystery. To have been described a long time ago to a new acquaintance by nameless people is irresistible; and Anne was very curious. She wondered and questioned him eagerly; but in vain. He was happy to be asked, but he didn't want to say it.
"No, no, at some point maybe, but not now. He would not name names now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact. He had received such a description from Miss Anne Hightower many years ago as having inspired him with the highest idea of her merit and aroused the warmest curiosity to get to know her.
Anne could not imagine anyone who would have spoken about her many years ago as biased as The Mr. Cambridge of Monkford, the brother of Captain Cambridge. He may have been in Mr. Hightower's company, but she didn't have the courage to ask that question.
"The name Anne Hightower," he said, "has long had an interesting sound for me. For a very long time he had a spell over my imagination, and if I dared, I would express my wish that the name would never change. "
She believed that these were his words; but no sooner had she heard her sound than her attention was caught up in other sounds just behind her that made everything else trivial. Her father and Lady Galloway talked.
"A good-looking man," said Sir Walter, "a very good-looking man."
"A very fine young man really!" said Lady Galloway. "More air than you often see in Bath. Irish, dare I say."
"No, I only know his name. A bowed acquaintance. Cambridge; Captain Cambridge of the Navy.
Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's gaze had captured the right direction and recognized Captain Cambridge standing at some distance between a group of men. When her gaze fell on him, he seemed to detach himself from her. It had that look. It seemed as if she had come a moment too late; and as long as she dared to observe, he did not look again: but the performance was resumed, and she was forced to turn her attention back to the orchestra and look straight ahead.
When she could take another look, he had left. He could not have come closer to her if he had wanted to; she was so surrounded and trapped: but she would have preferred to attract his attention.
Mr. Hightower's speech also worried her. She didn't feel like talking to him anymore. She wished he wasn't so close to her.
The first act was over. Now she hoped for a beneficial change; and after a period of silence in the group, some of them decided to go in search of tea. Anne was one of the few who didn't want to move. She remained in her seat, as did Lady Russell; but she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr. Hightower; and she did not intend, regardless of what she felt about Lady Russell, to shy away from talking to Captain Cambridge if he gave her the opportunity. She was convinced by Lady Russell's expression that she had seen him.
However, he did not come. Anne sometimes thought she recognized him from a distance, but he never came. The anxious pause subsided unproductively. The others returned, the room filled up again, benches were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or penance was to be served, another hour of music was to bring joy or gawking, depending on real or played taste. For Anne, this meant above all the prospect of an hour of excitement. She could not leave this room in peace without seeing Captain Cambridge again, without the exchange of a friendly look.
There have now been many changes in resettlement, the result of which has been favourable to them. Colonel Wallis refused to sit down again, and Mr. Hightower was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret to sit between them in an unacceptable manner; and through some other moves and a small plan of her own, Anne was able to put herself much closer to the end of the bank than before, much closer to the reach of a passer-by. She could not do this without comparing herself to Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but still she did, and not with much happier effect; although her apparent prosperity benefited in the form of a premature abdication to her nearest neighbors, she found herself at the very end of the bank before the concert ended.
Such was their situation, with a free space nearby, when Captain Cambridge was back in sight. She saw him not far away. He saw them too; yet he looked serious and seemed indecisive, and only very slowly did he finally get close enough to talk to her. She sensed that something was wrong. The change was undeniable. The difference between his current air and that in the octagonal room was strikingly large. Why was it? She thought of her father, Lady Russell. Could there have been unpleasant looks? He began by speaking earnestly about the concert, more like captain Cambridge of Uppercross; was disappointed, had expected singing; and in short, he must confess that he should not feel sorry when it is over. Anne replied and defended the performance so well and took into account his feelings so pleasantly: that his facial expression improved, and he replied again almost with a smile. They talked for a few more minutes; the improvement was maintained; he even looked down at the bench, as if he saw a place on it that was worth taking; when, at that moment, a touch on her shoulder forced Anne to turn around. It came from Mr. Hightower. He asked her for forgiveness, but she had to make an effort to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very interested in getting a rough idea of what to sing next. Anne could not refuse; but she had never sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit. when, at that moment, a touch on her shoulder forced Anne to turn around. It came from Mr. Hightower. He asked her for forgiveness, but she had to make an effort to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very interested in getting a rough idea of what to sing next. Anne could not refuse; but she had never sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit. when, at that moment, a touch on her shoulder forced Anne to turn around. It came from Mr. Hightower. He asked her for forgiveness, but she had to make an effort to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very interested in getting a rough idea of what to sing next. Anne could not refuse; but she had never sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit.
A few minutes, albeit as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and when her own lover was again able to turn around and look at how she had done it before, she found herself approached by Captain Cambridge in a reserved but hasty way of saying goodbye. "He must wish her goodnight; he wanted to go; he should get home as soon as possible."
"Isn't it worth staying for this song?" said Anne, who was suddenly struck by an idea that made her even more anxious to encourage her.
"No!" he replied impressively, "there is nothing worth staying for;" and he was immediately gone.
Jealousy of Mr. Hightower! It was the only understandable motive. Captain Cambridge jealous of their affection! Could she have believed it a week ago; three hours ago! For a moment, the satisfaction was exquisite. But unfortunately! There were very different thoughts on success. How should such jealousy be appeased? How could the truth reach him? In all the particular disadvantages of their respective situations, how could he ever know about their true feelings? It was a pity to think of Mr. Hightower's attentions. Their evil was unpredictable.
Chapter 238
Once they were gone, Elizabeth went out to recover; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on the topics that need to numb them even more. Mr. Drury's behavior amazed and annoyed her.
"Why, if he only came to be quiet, serious and indifferent," she said, "did he come at all?"
She couldn't settle it in any way that gave her pleasure.
"He could still be kind to my uncle and aunt, still pleasant when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why is he coming here? If he doesn't care about me anymore, why be silent? Tease, tease, man! I won't think about him anymore."
Her decision was involuntarily held for a short time by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look that showed that she was more satisfied with her visitors than Elisabeth.
"Well," she said, "since this first encounter is over, I feel completely relaxed. I know my own strength, and his coming will never embarrass me again. I'm glad he's dining here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly visible that we meet on both sides only as an ordinary and indifferent acquaintance.'
"Yes, very indifferent," Elizabeth said with a laugh. 'Oh, Jane, take care of yourself.'
"My dear Lizzy, you can't think I'm so weak that I'm in danger now?"
"I think you're in great danger of him falling in love with you as much as ever."
* * * * * They
did not see the gentlemen again until Tuesday; and Mrs. Mitchell, meanwhile, gave in to all the happy plans that had revived Woodland's good mood and general courtesy in a half-hour visit.
On Tuesday, a large society was gathered in Longbourn; and the two who were most eagerly awaited, because of their punctuality as athletes, were in very good time. As they walked into the dining room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see if Woodland would take her sister's place, which had belonged to him at all her previous parties. Her wise mother, preoccupied with the same thoughts, refrained from inviting him to sit alone. Upon entering the room, he seemed hesitant; but Jane looked around by chance and smiled randomly: it was decided. He stood next to her.
Elizabeth looked at his friend with triumphant sentiment. He endured it with noble indifference, and she could have imagined that Woodland would have received his approval to be happy if she had not seen his eyes also turn to Mr. Drury with an expression of half-laughing concern.
His behavior toward her sister during dinner was such that an admiration for her was expressed, which, although more cautious than before, convinced Elizabeth that Jane's happiness and his own would quickly be secured if he were left entirely to himself. Although she did not dare to rely on the consequences, she felt joy in observing his behavior. It gave her all the liveliness that her spirits could boast; for she was not in a cheerful mood. Drury-san was almost as far away from her as the table could separate her. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would bring joy or an advantage to both. She wasn't close enough to hear her conversations, but she could see how rarely they talked to each other and how formal and cold her manner was whenever they did. Her mother's disgrace made the meaning of what they owed him more painful for Elizabeth; and sometimes she would have given anything to be able to tell him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unnoticed by the whole family.
She hoped that the evening would provide an opportunity to bring them together; that the whole visit would not pass without allowing them to enter into a little more conversation than the mere solemn greeting that accompanies his entry. Anxious and restless, the time that passed in the salon before the gentlemen came was tiring and boring to an extent that made them almost rude. She was looking forward to her entry as the point on which all her joys for the evening had to depend.
"If he doesn't come to me, THEN," she said, "I'll give him up forever."
The lords came; and she thought that he looked as if he had answered her hopes; but unfortunately! the ladies had crowded around the table where Miss Mitchell was making tea and Elizabeth was pouring the coffee, in such a narrow confederation that there was not a single free seat near her that would allow a chair. And as the Lord drew closer, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever and said in a whisper,
"The men shall not come and separate us, I am determined. We don't want any of them; do we?'
Drury had gone to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied everyone he spoke to, had little patience to help anyone for coffee; and then was angry with herself for being so stupid!
"A man who was once rejected! How could I ever be stupid enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sexes who would not protest against such weakness as a second application to the same woman? There is no outrage that is so abhorrent to their feelings!'
However, she was revived a little when he brought back his coffee cup himself; and she took the opportunity to say
,
"Is your sister still in Pemberley?"
"Yes, she will stay there until Christmas."
"And all alone? Have all her friends left her?'
'Woman. Annesley is with her. The others went on to Scarborough in those three weeks."
She couldn't think of anything else to say; but if he wanted to talk to her, he might have better success. However, he stood silently next to her for a few minutes; and finally, when the young lady whispered to Elizabeth again, he left.
When the teaware was removed and the game tables set up, all the ladies rose up, and Elizabeth hoped to be accompanied by him soon when all her views were shattered, when she saw him fall victim to her mother's greed for whist players and in a few moments after they took a seat with the rest of the party. She now lost all expectation of pleasure. They were locked up at various tables for the evening, and she had nothing to hope for than that his eyes were so often on her side of the room that he played as unsuccessfully as she did.
Mrs. Mitchell had planned to ask the two Netherfield gentlemen for dinner; but her car was unfortunately ordered before everyone else, and she had no opportunity to hold her back.
"Now girls," she said, once left to their own devices, "what do you say today? I think everything went unusually well, I assure you. Dinner was as well dressed as anyone I've ever seen. The venison was fried all around – and everyone said they had never seen such a fat club. The soup was fifty times better than last week at Lucases; and even Mr. Drury acknowledged that the partridges were remarkably well made; and I suspect he has at least two or three French chefs. And, my dear Jane, I have never seen you in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said that too, because I asked her if you didn't. And what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Mitchell, we will finally have them in Netherfield." She actually did. I think Mrs. Long is better than ever – and her nieces are very nicely behaved girls,
in short, Mrs. Mitchell was in a very good mood; she had seen enough of Woodland's behavior toward Jane to be convinced that she would finally get him; and her expectations of an advantage to her family, when they were in a cheerful mood, were so far above reason that she was quite disappointed not to see him there again the next day to make his suggestions.
"It was a very pleasant day," Miss Mitchell told Elizabeth. The party seemed so well chosen, so fittingly one with the other. I hope we will see each other again often.'
Elisabeth smiled.
"Lizzy, you can't do that. You must not suspect me. It offends me. I assure you that I have now learned to enjoy his conversation as a pleasant and reasonable young man, without having a desire beyond that. I am completely convinced of what his manners are now, that he never intended to arouse my affection. Only he is blessed with a more gracious address and a stronger desire to please in general than any other man.'
"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you don't make me smile and provoke me to do so at any moment."
"How hard it is to believe in some cases!"
'And how impossible in others!'
"But why would you want to convince me that I feel more than I admit?"
"That's a question I can hardly answer. We all love to teach, although we can only teach what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you remain indifference, do not make me your confidant.'
Chapter 239
Seven weeks of the two months had almost passed when the one letter, the long-awaited letter from Edmund, was placed in Esther's hands. When she opened it and saw its length, she prepared herself for a tiny detail of happiness and an abundance of love and praise for the happy creature who was now the mistress of his destiny. That was the content—
"My dear Esther,- Excuse me for not writing earlier. Dorset told me you wanted to hear from me, but I found it impossible to write from London and told me you understood my silence. If I had been able to send a few cheerful lines, they should not have been missing, but nothing of the kind was ever in my power. I am being returned to Mansfield in a less safe condition when I left it. My hopes are much weaker. You're probably already aware of that. As much as she loves Miss Dorset, it's natural for her to tell you enough about her own feelings to allow for a bearable guess about mine. However, I am not prevented from making my own statement. Our trust in you does not have to collide. I don't ask questions. There is something reassuring about the idea that we have the same friend, and that whatever unfortunate disagreements may exist between us, we are united in our love for you. It will be a comfort to me to tell you how things stand now and what my current plans are when you can say that I have plans. I've been coming back since Saturday. I was in London for three weeks and saw them (for London) very often. I had all the attention from the Frasers that could reasonably be expected. I dare say that I was not reasonable to have hopes of having sexual intercourse like Mansfield's. However, it was their way rather than some impropriety to meet. Had it been different from what I saw it, I wouldn't have complained, but it was changed from the beginning: my first reception was so different than I had hoped that I almost decided to leave London right away. I do not need to go into that in more detail. They know the weak side of their character and can imagine the feelings and expressions that tormented me. She was in a good mood and surrounded by people who gave her all the too vivid mind all the support of her own bad mind. I don't like Mrs. Fraser. She is a cold-hearted, vain woman who married entirely out of convenience, and although she is obviously unhappy in her marriage, she leads her disappointment not to errors of her judgment, temperament, or disproportionate age, but to her nature. less wealthy than many of her acquaintances, especially her sister Lady Stornaway, and is the determined supporter of everything mercenary and ambitious, provided it's just mercenary and ambitious enough. I consider their intimacy with these two sisters to be the greatest misfortune of their lives and of mine. They have been misleading them for years. Could she break away from them! - and sometimes I don't despair of it, because affection seems to me to be mainly on their side. They love them very much; but I'm sure she doesn't love her the way she loves you. However, when I think of her great affection for you and all her reasonable, righteous behavior as a sister, she seems to me to be a completely different creature, capable of anything noble, and I am willing to accuse myself of a too hard construction of a playful way. I can't give it up, Esther. She is the only woman in the world that I could ever imagine as a wife. If I don't think she thinks anything of me, of course I wouldn't say that, but I believe it. I am convinced that she is not without a determined preference. I have no jealousy of anyone. It's the influence of the fashion world as a whole that I'm jealous of. It is the habits of wealth that I fear. Their ideas are no higher than their own wealth may justify, but they go beyond what our shared income could allow. But here, too, there is consolation. I could better bear to lose them because I'm not rich enough than because of my profession. That would only prove that their affection is not equal to the victims, whom I am hardly entitled to demand; and if I am rejected, I believe that will be the honest motive. I trust that their prejudices will no longer be so ?? are as strong as they used to be. You have my thoughts exactly as they arise, my dear Esther; perhaps they are sometimes contradictory, but it will not be a less faithful picture in my opinion. Once I've started, it's a pleasure to tell you everything I feel. I can't give them up. Connected, as we already are and, I hope, will still be, giving up Mary Dorset would be to give up the company of some of my loved ones; To banish myself from the homes and friends to whom I should turn for comfort in any other need. I have to think of the loss of Mary as an understanding of the loss of Dorset and Esther. If it were a decisive thing, a real refusal, I hope I know how to endure it and how I could make an effort to weaken their influence on my heart over the course of a few years – but I write nonsense. If I was rejected, I have to endure it; and until I am, I can never stop caring for them. That is the truth. The only question is how? What can be the most likely remedy? Sometimes I've thought about going back to London after Easter, and sometimes I've decided not to do anything until she returns to Mansfield. Even now, she speaks with pleasure of being in Mansfield in June; but June is far away, and I think I will write to her. I almost decided to explain myself in writing. Having certainty at an early stage is a material object. My current condition is pathetically annoying. All in all, I think a letter will be the best method of explanation. I will be able to write much that I could not say and will give her time to think before she decides to answer, and I am less afraid of the result of thinking than of an immediate hasty impulse; I think I am. My greatest danger would be that she would consult Mrs. Fraser, and I would not be able to help my own cause from a distance. A letter exposes the whole evil of counseling, and where the mind is anything but a perfect decision, in an unfortunate moment can lead a counselor to do what he may regret later. I need to rethink this thing a little. This long letter, full of my own worries alone, will be enough to tire even the friendship of an Esther. The last time I saw Dorset was at Mrs. Fraser's party. I am more and more satisfied with everything I see and hear from him. There is no shadow of swaying. He knows his own opinion very well and acts according to his resolutions: an invaluable quality. I couldn't see him and my oldest sister in the same room without remembering what you once told me, and I admit they didn't meet as friends. There was a pronounced coolness on their side. They hardly spoke. I saw him withdraw in surprise, and I was sorry that Mrs. Rushmore should annoy Miss Schmidt over an earlier alleged insult. You'll want to hear my opinion about Mary's comfort as a wife. There is no semblance of misfortune. I hope they get along well with each other. I've eaten on Wimpole Street twice and might have been there more often, but it's humiliating to be with Rushmore like a brother. Julia seems to enjoy London immensely. I had little joy there, but less here. We are not a lively party. You are very much wanted. I miss you more than I can express. My mother wishes her best love and hopes to hear from you soon. She talks about you almost every hour, and I'm sorry to see how many weeks she will be without you. My father wants to pick you up himself, but only after Easter, when he has shops in the city. They are happy in Portsmouth, I hope, but this doesn't have to be an annual visit. I want you to be at home so I can hear your opinion on Thornton Lacey. I have little heart for extensive improvements until I know it will ever have a lover. I think I will definitely write. It is clear that the scholarships will go to Bath; They leave Mansfield on Monday. I'm glad about that. I don't feel comfortable enough to be fit for anyone; but your aunt seems unlucky that such an article from the Mansfield news falls into my pen instead of hers. – Sincerely, my dearest Esther."
"I will never, no, I will certainly never want a letter again," was Esther's secret statement when she ended this. "What do they bring besides disappointment and sorrow? Not before Easter! How should I endure it? And my poor aunt talks about me every hour!"
Esther checked the tendency of these thoughts as best she could, but she had assumed within half a minute that Sir Thomas was quite unfriendly, both to her aunt and to herself. As for the main theme of the letter, there was nothing to appease the anger. She was almost upset and angry with Edmund. "There's nothing good about this delay," she said. "Why is it not regulated? He is blinded, and nothing will open his eyes; nothing can do it after he has had truths in vain for so long. He will marry her and be poor and miserable. Give God that their influence will not stop him from being respectable!" She looked at the letter again. "'So much liked by me!' this is all nonsense. She loves no one but herself and her brother. Her friends mislead her for years! She probably misled them too. Perhaps they have all corrupted each other; but if they love her as much as they love her, she's less likely to have been hurt except by her flattery. 'The only woman in the world he could ever imagine as a wife.' I firmly believe in it. It is a stubbornness to determine one's whole life. Accepted or rejected, his heart is forever connected to her. "I have to look at the loss of Mary as an understanding of the loss of Dorset and Esther." Edmund, you don't know me. The families would never be connected if you didn't connect them! Oh! write, write. Quit it immediately. Let this tension come to an end. Repair, commit, judge yourself." 'The only woman in the world he could ever imagine as a wife.' I firmly believe in it. It is a stubbornness to determine one's whole life. Accepted or rejected, his heart is forever connected to her. "I have to look at the loss of Mary as an understanding of the loss of Dorset and Esther." Edmund, you don't know me. The families would never be connected if you didn't connect them! Oh! write, write. Quit it immediately. Let this tension come to an end. Repair, commit, judge yourself." 'The only woman in the world he could ever imagine as a wife.' I firmly believe in it. It is a stubbornness to determine one's whole life. Accepted or rejected, his heart is forever connected to her. "I have to look at the loss of Mary as an understanding of the loss of Dorset and Esther." Edmund, you don't know me. The families would never be connected if you didn't connect them! Oh! write, write. Quit it immediately. Let this tension come to an end. Repair, commit, judge yourself." The families would never be connected if you didn't connect them! Oh! write, write. Quit it immediately. Let this tension come to an end. Repair, commit, judge yourself." The families would never be connected if you didn't connect them! Oh! write, write. Quit it immediately. Let this tension come to an end. Repair, commit, judge yourself."
However, such sensations were too close to resentment to guide Esther's self-talk for long. She was soon softer and sadder. His warm affection, his friendly face, his confidential treatment touched her very much. He was all too good to everyone. In short, it was a letter that she would have wanted on earth and that could never be appreciated enough. This was the end.
Anyone who has fallen for writing letters without having much to say, which will include at least a large part of the female world, must feel with Lady Schmidt that she was not lucky enough to have such a big Mansfield news as the certainty that the Grants are going to Bath, at a time when she could not take advantage of it, and will admit that it must have been very humiliating for her to see it fall to her ungrateful son and treated as succinctly as possible at the end of a long letter, rather than spreading it across most of a page of her own. For although Lady Schmidt rather shone in the letter line, since early in her marriage she got in the way of making and keeping correspondents for lack of other employment and the circumstances that Sir Thomas was in Parliament, and formed a very commendable, banal, reinforcing style, so that one very small thing was enough for her: she couldn't do without it; she must have something to write about, even her niece; and since she so soon lost all the benefits of Dr. Grant's gout symptoms and Mrs. Grant's morning calls, it was very hard for her to be deprived of one of the last letter uses she could take her to.
However, there was a rich reparation that was prepared for them. Lady Schmidt's hour of happiness came. Within days of receiving Edmund's letter, Esther received one from her aunt, which began like this:
"My dear Esther, I am taking my pen to share with you some very alarming information that will undoubtedly cause you great concern."
This was much better than having to pick up the pen to familiarize her with all the details of the Grants' intended trip, for the present news was such that it promised to occupy the feather for many days to come, since it was no less than the dangerous disease of its eldest son, of which they had been notified by express a few hours earlier.
Tom had driven with a group of young men from London to Newmarket, where a neglected fall and a lot of alcohol had caused fever; and when society dissolved, unable to move, he had been left alone in the house of one of these young men to enjoy the comfort of illness and loneliness and only the service of servants. Instead of being healthy soon enough to follow his friends, as he had hoped at the time, his illness increased considerably, and it didn't take long for him to think so badly of himself that he was as willing as his doctor to have a letter sent to Mansfield.
"This harrowing news, as you can imagine," remarked your ladyhood after outlining the content, "has excited us extraordinarily, and we cannot prevent ourselves from being very worried and concerned about the poor invalid, whose condition Sir Thomas fears to be very critical; and Edmund kindly suggests visiting his brother immediately, but I am happy to add that Sir Thomas will not leave me on this agonizing occasion as it would be too exhausting for me. We will miss Edmund very much in our small circle, but I trust and hope that he will find the poor invalid in a less alarming state than one might assume, and that he can bring him to Mansfield shortly, which Sir Thomas proposes and thinks best in every respect, and I imagine that that the poor sufferer will soon be able to endure the removal without material inconvenience or injury. Since I have little doubt about your sympathy for us, my dear Esther, I will write again very soon under these depressing circumstances."
In fact, Esther's feelings on this occasion were much more heartfelt and sincere than her aunt's writing style. She really felt with all of them. Tom, who was seriously ill, Edmund visiting him, and the unfortunately small group that stayed in Mansfield were worries that ruled out any other worry or almost any other. She could find just enough selfishness to wonder if Edmund had written to Miss Dorset before this summons came, but no feeling stayed with her for long that wasn't purely loving and altruistically fearful. Her aunt did not neglect her: she wrote again and again; They received frequent reports from Edmund, and these reports were also regularly transmitted to Esther, in the same diffuse style and confusion of trust, hopes, and fears, all of which randomly followed and spawned each other. It was a kind of fear to play. The sufferings lady Schmidt did not see had little power over her imagination; and she wrote very comfortably about excitement and anxiety and poor invalids until Tom was actually taken to Mansfield and her own eyes had seen his changed appearance. Then a letter she had previously prepared for Esther was finished in a different style, in the language of real feelings and concern; then she wrote how she could have spoken. "He has just come, my dear Esther, and will be brought up; and I'm so shocked to see him that I don't know what to do. I'm sure he was very sick. Poor Tom! I am very saddened for him and very frightened, and sir Thomas too; and how glad I would be if you were here to comfort me. But Sir Thomas hopes that he will be better tomorrow,
the real anxiety that has now awakened in the mother's womb was not soon over. Tom's extreme impatience with being transferred to Mansfield and experiencing those comforts of home and family that had been little thought of in uninterrupted health had probably led to him being taken there too early when the fever returned, and for a week was in a more worrying state than ever. They were all very scared. Lady Schmidt wrote her daily horrors to her niece, who could now be said to live on letters and spend all her time between the suffering of today and the anticipation of tomorrow. Without special affection for her eldest cousin, her tenderness made her feel like she couldn't do without him, and the purity of her principles added an even more acute concern when she considered how unhelpful,
Susan was her only companion and listener, as well as on more frequent occasions. Susan was always ready to listen and show sympathy. No one else could be interested in such a distant evil as illness in a family over a hundred miles away; not even Mrs. Price, apart from a quick question or two when she saw her daughter with a letter in her hand, and every now and then the quiet remark: "My poor sister Schmidt must be in big trouble."
Separated for so long and stored so differently, the blood ties were little more than nothing. An affection, originally as calm as their minds, has now become a mere name. Mrs. Price did as much for Lady Schmidt as Lady Schmidt would have done for Mrs. Price. Three or four Price could have been swept away, some or all except Esther and William, and Lady Schmidt would have thought little about it; or maybe Mrs. Norris could have said that it is a very happy thing and a great blessing for her poor dear sister Price that they are so well taken care of.
Chapter 240
What very different feelings Emma took into the house than what she had brought out! – at that time she had only dared to hope for a small pause in suffering; she believed it had to be even bigger if the flutter were to pass.
They sat down for tea – the same company around the same table – how many times had it been collected! – and how many times had their gaze fallen on the same shrubs in the lawn and had observed the same beautiful effect of the western sun! – But never in such a state, never in such a thing; and only with difficulty could she muster enough of her usual self to be the attentive lady of the house or even the attentive daughter.
Poor Mr. Lodge had little idea what was going on against him in the chest of this man whom he so warmly welcomed and so anxiously hoped that he would not have a cold from his ride. – If he had been able to see the heart, he would have taken great care of it little for the lungs; but without the slightest idea of the impending evil, without the slightest perception of anything extraordinary in appearance or behavior of both, he very comfortably repeated to them all the news he had received from Mr. Perry and with whom he had spoken to a lot of complacency, completely unaware of what they could have told him in return.
As long as Mr. Hill stayed with them, Emma's fever continued; but when he was gone, she began to calm down and calm down a little – and in the course of the sleepless night that was the duty for such an evening, she found one or the other such serious point to consider, as she felt that even her luck must have some alloy. Her father – and Harriet. She could not be alone without feeling the full weight of her separate claims; and how to protect the comfort of both in the utmost was the question. With regard to her father, this question was quickly answered. She barely knew what Mr. Hill was going to ask; but a very short conversation with her own heart produced the most solemn decision never to leave her father. She even cried over the idea of it as a sin of thought. As long as he lived, it only had to be an engagement; but she flattered herself that it could be a greater comfort for him if she were relieved of the danger of pulling her away. – How to do their best of Harriet was a more difficult decision; – how to spare her any unnecessary pain; how to give her every possible atonement; how should she appear least as her enemy? – On these issues, her confusion and despair were very great – and her mind had to go through again and again every bitter reproach and sad regret that had ever surrounded him. – She could only finally decide: that she would still avoid a meeting with her and communicate everything that needs to be said by letter; that it would be unspeakably desirable to remove her from Highbury for some time right now, and – indulging in a plan more – almost decide that it might be feasible to get an invitation for her to Brunswick Square. Bella had been satisfied with Harriet; and a few weeks she spent in London must give her a little pleasure. – She did not believe that it was in Harriet's nature to escape the benefits of novelty and variety, of the streets, the shops and the children. – In any case, it would be a proof of attention and kindness in oneself, of which everything was due; a separation for the present; a turning away from the evil day when they must all be together again.
She got up early and wrote her letter to Harriet; an occupation that left her so very serious, almost sad, that When Mr. Hill went up to Hartfield for breakfast, he didn't arrive too early at all; and half a stolen hour later, to discuss the same reason with him again, was literally and figuratively quite necessary to put them back into a fair share of the happiness of the previous evening.
He hadn't left her for long, not long enough that she had even the slightest inclination to think of another corpse when she was brought a letter from Randalls – a very thick letter – she sensed what he had to contain and refused the need to read it. She was now in perfect charity with Frank Curcelle; she didn't want explanations, she just wanted her thoughts for herself - and what he wrote, she certainly wasn't able to understand anything he was writing. - But it had to be rummaged through. She opened the package; it was too safe; – a note from Mrs. Winstone to herself, which introduced Frank's letter to Mrs. Winstone.
"I have the greatest pleasure, my dear Emma, ?? To send you the attachment. I know how thoroughly you do justice to it, and I have little doubt about its happy effect. - I think we will never again disagree materially about the writer; but I don't want to stop you with a long preface. – We are doing well. – This letter has healed me of all the little nervousness I've had lately. – I didn't quite like your appearance on Tuesday, but it was an unsympathetic morning; and although you will never admit to being affected by the weather, I believe that every body feels a northeast wind. – I felt a lot for your dear father in the storm of Tuesday afternoon and yesterday morning, but had the comfort of hearing from Mr. Perry last night that it did not make him sick.
"Always yours,
"AW"
[to Mrs. Winstone.]
WINDSOR-JULY.
MY DEAR WIFE,
"If I made myself understood yesterday, this letter is awaited; but expected or not, I know it will be read with sincerity and forbearance. You are all good, and I believe it will even take all your goodness to take into account some parts of my past behavior. – But I was forgiven by someone who had even more to annoy. My courage increases as I write. It is very difficult for the wealthy to be humble. I have already had such success in two pardon applications that I could run the risk of feeling too safe with your and your friends who have had any offense. – You must all make an effort to understand the exact nature of my situation when I first arrived in Randalls; You have to think of me as a secret that should definitely be kept. That was the fact. My right to put myself in a situation that requires such obfuscation is another question. I am not going to discuss it here. For my temptation to think it's right, I refer every Kaviler to a brick house with sliding windows downstairs and wings up in Highbury. I did not dare to address them openly; my difficulties in the then state of Enscombe must be too well known to require a definition; and I was fortunate enough to prevail before we separated in Weymouth and get the most sincere female spirit of creation to bow down to a secret engagement out of charity. – If she had refused, I would have gone crazy. – But you will be ready to say, what was your hope? – What were you looking forward to? – On everything, on everything – on time, coincidence, circumstances, slow effects, sudden outbursts, endurance and fatigue, health and illness. Every possibility of good was before me, and the first of the assured blessings, receiving their promises of faith and correspondence. If you need further explanations, I have the honor of being my dear Madam, your husband's son, and the advantage of having inherited a propensity to hope for the good, the value of which no inheritance of houses or lands can ever achieve. – See me, then, under these circumstances, arrive on my first visit to Randalls; – and here I am aware that I was wrong, because this visit could have been paid for earlier. You will look back and see that I did not come until Miss Saxon was in Highbury; and since you were the offended person, you will forgive me immediately; but I must work on my father's compassion by reminding him that as long as I stayed away from his house, I lost the blessing of knowing you for so long. My behaviour during the very happy fourteen days I spent with you did not, I hope, reproach me, except on one point. And now I come to the principle, the only important part of my behavior, while I belong to you, which arouses my own fear or requires very concerned explanation. With the greatest respect and the warmest friendship I mention Miss Lodge; my father may think I should add with the deepest humiliation. A few words that came from him yesterday expressed his opinion, and a rebuke to which I plead guilty. – My behaviour towards Miss Lodge indicated, I believe, more than it should. – In order to support such an obfuscation that is so important to me, I was tempted to make more than one permissible use of the kind of intimacy into which we were immediately thrown. – I cannot deny that Miss Lodge was my alleged object – but I am sure you will believe the explanation, Had I not been convinced of their indifference, no selfish views would have led me to continue. – As gracious and delightful as Miss Lodge is, she never gave me the idea of being a young woman who is probably affectionate; and that she was completely free from attachment to me was as much my conviction as my desire. - She received my gifts with a light, friendly, cheerful playfulness, which was just right for me. We seemed to understand each other. Due to our relative situation, these attentions were due to her and were felt that way. – Whether Miss Lodge really began to understand me before the end of these fourteen days, I can not say; – when I called her to say goodbye to her, I remember that I was about to confess the truth, and that I then imagined that she was not without suspicion; but I have no doubt that she has discovered me since then, at least to some extent. – She may not have guessed the whole thing, but her speed must have permeated a part. I can't doubt it. Whenever the topic frees itself from its current limitations, you will find that it did not completely surprise you. She often gave me hints about it. I remember her telling me at the ball that I owed Mrs. Alton gratitude for her attention to Miss Saxon. – I hope that this story of my behavior towards her will be recognized by you and my father as a great mitigation of what you have seen wrong. While you considered me a sinner against Emma Lodge, I couldn't earn either of them. Absolve me here and get me, if it is allowed, to long for the acquittal and good wishes of said Emma Lodge, which I look at with so much fraternal affection, to have in love with her as deeply and as happily as I am. Whatever strange things I have said or done in these fourteen days, you now have a key to it. My heart was in Highbury, and my job was to get my body there as often as possible and with the slightest distrust. If you remember any oddities, put them all on the right account. – About the pianoforte that has been talked about so much, I think it is necessary to say that his order was Miss F – absolutely unknown, who would never have allowed me to send it if she had been given a choice. - The tenderness of her spirit throughout the engagement, my dear Madam, goes far beyond my strength to live up to her. Soon, I fervently, you will know them thoroughly yourself. - No description can describe them. It must tell you what it is – but not in words, because there has never been a human creature that so deliberately suppressed its own merit. - Since I started this letter, which will be longer than I intended, I have heard from her. - She gives a good report on her own health; but since she never complains, I dare not rely on it. I want to have your opinion on their appearance. I know you will visit them soon; She lives in fear of the visit. Maybe it's already paid. Let me hear from you immediately; I am impatient with a thousand details. Remember how few minutes I've been in Randalls and how confused, how crazy: and I'm not feeling much better yet; still insane either with happiness or misery. When I think of the kindness and favor I have encountered, of their excellence and patience, and of the generosity of my uncle, I am overwhelmed with joy; but when I think of all the discomfort I have caused her and how little I deserve forgiveness, I am insane with anger. If only I could see them again! – But I am not allowed to propose it yet. My uncle was too good for me to interfere. - I have to add to this long letter. You haven't heard everything you should hear. I could not give any coherent details yesterday; but the suddenness and, in a light, the outdatedness with which the affair broke out needs an explanation; for although the event of the 26th Ult., as you will conclude, immediately opened up the happiest prospects for me, I should not have relied on such early measures, but on the very special circumstances that did not allow me to lose an hour. I myself would have shied away from such a hasty thing, and she would have felt each of my scruples with multiplied power and sophistication. - But I had no choice. The hasty engagement she had entered into with this woman – Here, my dear Madam, I had to abruptly break off, reflect and calm down make the rest of my letter as it should be. - It is indeed a most humbling retrospective for me. I behaved disgracefully. And here I can admit that my behavior towards Miss W., to be unpleasant towards Miss F., was highly reprehensible. She disapproved of them, which should have been enough. – My request to hide the truth was not enough. – She was dissatisfied; I found this unreasonable: I found them unnecessarily conscientious and cautious on a thousand occasions: I even found them cold. But she was always right. If I had followed her judgment and brought my mood to the level she thought was right, I would have escaped the greatest misfortune I have ever known. – We quarreled. Remember the morning you spent in Donwell? – There, every little dissatisfaction came to a head. I was late; I met her alone on the way home and wanted to go with her, but she didn't want to put up with it. She absolutely refused to allow me to do so, which I thought was highly unreasonable at the time. Now, however, I see nothing in it as a very natural and consistent degree of discretion. While, in order to blind the world before our engagement, I behaved for an hour with offensive peculiarity towards another woman, should she agree to a proposal that would have made any previous caution useless? and Highbury, the truth must have been suspected. – However, I was angry enough to annoy it. – I doubted their affection. The next day on Box Hill I doubted it more; when she, provoked by such behavior on my side, such a shameful, outrageous neglect of her and such an obvious devotion to Miss W., as it would have been impossible for a reasonable woman to bear, expressed her resentment in the form of words to me completely understandable. – In short, madam, it was an impeccable quarrel on her side, a heinous quarrel on mine; and I returned to Richmond that same evening, although I might have stayed with you until the next morning just because I would be as angry with them as possible. Even then, I was not so stupid as not to want to reconcile in time; but I was the injured person, hurt by her coldness, and I walked as it would have been impossible for a reasonable woman to bear, she expressed her resentment in a form of words that was perfectly understandable to me. – In short, my dear
Madam, it was a quarrel that was impeccable on her part, abhorrent on my part; and I returned to Richmond that same evening, although I might have stayed with you until the next morning just because I would be as angry with them as possible. Even then, I was not so stupid as not to want to reconcile in time; but I was the injured person, hurt by her coldness, and I walked as a reasonable woman could not possibly have endured, she expressed her resentment in a form of words that was perfectly understandable to me. – In short, my dear Madam, it was a quarrel that was impeccable on her part, abhorrent on my part; and I returned to Richmond that same evening, although I might have stayed with you until the next morning just because I would be as angry with them as possible. Even then, I was not so stupid as not to want to reconcile in time; but I was the injured person, hurt by their coldness, and I left only because I would be as angry with them as possible. Even then, I was not so stupid as not to want to reconcile in time; but I was the injured person, hurt by their coldness, and I left only because I would be as angry with them as possible. Even then, I was not so stupid as not to want to reconcile in time; but I was the injured person, hurt by her coldness, and I walked
away determined that he should make the first advances. – I will always congratulate myself that you were not from the Box Hill party. If you had witnessed my behavior there, I can hardly assume that you would ever have thought anything good of me again. Its effect on her is evident in the immediate determination it evoked: as soon as she realized that I was really away from Randalls, she concluded with the offer of this servant Mrs. Alton; By the way, the whole system of their treatment has always filled me with indignation and hatred. I must not quarrel with a spirit of forbearance that has spread so abundantly towards me; but otherwise I would protest loudly against the part that this woman knew about it. – "Jane", indeed! – You will notice that I have not yet allowed myself to call them by that name, even to you. Then think of what I had to endure when I heard it circle between the Alton with all the vulgarity of unnecessary repetition and all the impudence of imaginary superiority. Be patient with me, I'll soon be at the end. – She closed with this offer, decided to break with me completely, and wrote to me the next day that we would never see each other again. – She felt the engagement as a source of remorse and misery for everyone: she dissolved it. - This letter reached me on the morning of my poor aunt's death. I replied within an hour; but because of the confusion of my mind and the multitude of deals that immediately came to me, my answer, instead of being sent with all the many other letters of that day, was locked in my desk; and I trusted that I had written enough, if only a few lines, to satisfy her, and remained without any discomfort. — I was quite disappointed that I didn't hear from her again soon; but I apologized for them and was too busy and – may I add? – too cheerful in my views to be fussy. and two days later I received a package from her, my own letters all back! - and at the same time a few lines with the post, in which she expressed her greatest surprise that she had not received the slightest answer on her last one; and added that since silence on such a point could not be misunderstood and it must be equally desirable for both to have all subordinate agreements concluded as soon as possible, she now safely sent me all my letters, asking that if I could not order her directly to send her to Highbury within a week, After that deadline, she would forward to -: in short, the full direction to Mr. Smallridge, near Bristol, stared me in the face. I knew the name, the place, I knew everything about it and immediately saw what she had done. It was perfectly in keeping with the determination of character that I knew possessed; and the secrecy it had maintained regarding such a draft in its earlier letter was equally indicative of its timid tenderness. On earth, she would not have threatened me. – Imagine the shock; Imagine how, until I actually discovered my own mistake, I raved about the mistakes of the post office. – What should be done? – Only one. – I have to talk to my uncle. Without his consent, I could not hope to be heard again. – I spoke; Circumstances were in my favor; the late event had softened his pride, and he was, earlier than I could have expected, completely reconciled and obedient; and could finally say, poor man! with a deep sigh that he wished I could find as much happiness in the marital status as he did. – I felt that it would be of a different kind. – Are you inclined to regret what I must have suffered at the opening of the matter for him, for my tension, while everything was at stake? - No; Don't feel sorry for me until I reached Highbury and saw how sick I had made her. Don't regret me until I saw her pale, sick looks. – I reached Highbury at a time of day when, based on my knowledge of their late breakfast hour, I was sure I had a good chance of finding them on my own. – I was not disappointed; and finally, I was not disappointed by the destination of my trip. I had to talk away a lot of very reasonable, very just resentment. But it is done; we are reconciled, dear, much better than ever, and no moment of unrest can ever occur between us again. Now, my dear gracious wife, I will release you; but I couldn't close before. A thousand and a thousand thanks for all the kindness you have ever shown me, and ten thousand thanks for the attentions your heart will dictate to her. – If in a way you think I am happier than I deserve, I fully agree with you. — Miss W. calls me the lucky child. I hope she is right. – In one respect, my happiness is undoubted to be able to subscribe to myself,
your committed and loving son,
FC WESTON CHURCHILL.
Chapter 241
A few days after this visit, Mr. Woodland called again, alone. His friend had left him for London that morning, but was due to return home in ten days. He sat with them for over an hour and was in a remarkably good mood. Mrs. Mitchell invited him to dine with them; but with many worried statements he confessed to dealing elsewhere.
"The next time you call," she said, "hopefully we'll have more luck."
He should always be especially happy, etc., etc.; and if she gave him vacation, she would take an early opportunity to wait for her.
'Can you come tomorrow?'
Yes, he had no appointment at all for tomorrow; and their invitation was accepted with zeal.
He came in time so that the ladies were all not dressed. Mrs. Mitchell ran into her daughter's room in her dressing gown and half-finished hair and shouted
,
"My dear Jane, hurry up and hurry. He has come – Mr. Wald has come. Indeed, it is. Hurry up, hurry. Here, Sarah, come immediately to Miss Mitchell and help her with her dress. Don't worry about Miss Lizzy's hair."
"We will be down as soon as possible," Jane said; 'but I dare say Kitty is a freight forwarder than any of us, because she went up the stairs half an hour ago.'
'Oh! Hang Kitty! what does it have to do with it? Come, be fast, be fast! Where is your sash, my dear?'
But when her mother was gone, Jane couldn't be persuaded to go downstairs without one of her sisters.
The same fear of getting them yourself was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Mitchell retired to the library as usual, and Mary walked up the stairs to her instrument. After two of the five obstacles were cleared out of the way, Mrs. Mitchell sat there for quite some time and watched Elizabeth and Catherine and winked at them without making an impression on them. Elizabeth would not watch her; and when Kitty finally did, she said very innocently, "What's wrong, Mom? Why do you keep winking at me? What should I do?'
"Nothing child, nothing. I didn't wink at you.' Then she sat still for five minutes longer; but she couldn't waste such a precious opportunity, suddenly got up and said to Kitty, "Come here, my dear, I want to talk to you," and led her out of the room. Jane immediately glanced at Elizabeth, expressing her suffering at such intentionality and her request that SHE not give in. After a few minutes, Mrs. Mitchell half opened the door and shouted
,
"Lizzy, my dear, I want to talk to you."
Elizabeth had to go.
"We might as well leave her alone, you know," her mother said as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I go upstairs to sit down in my dressing room."
Elizabeth made no attempt to argue with her mother, but remained quiet in the hall until she and Kitty were out of sight, and then returned to the salon.
Mrs. Mitchell's plans for that day were ineffective. Woodland was everything that was charming except her daughter's avowed lover. His lightness and cheerfulness made him an extremely pleasant addition to their evening party; and he tolerated the mother's ill-considered intrusiveness and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and a sovereign expression on his face, which was especially grateful to the daughter.
He hardly needed an invitation to dinner; and before he left, an engagement was made mainly by his own and Mrs. Mitchell's means, so that he would come the next morning for a shoot with her husband.
After that day, Jane said nothing more of her indifference. Not a word was said about Woodland between the sisters; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy conviction that everything must be completed quickly unless Mr. Drury returned within the set time. Seriously, she felt quite convinced that all this must have happened with the consent of this gentleman.
Woodland arrived on time for his appointment; and he and Mr. Mitchell spent the morning together as agreed. The latter was much more pleasant than his companion had expected. In Woodland, there was nothing of arrogance or stupidity that could ridicule him or silence him; and he was more communicative and less eccentric than others had ever seen him. Woodland, of course, returned to dinner with him; and in the evening, Mrs. Mitchell's invention was back at work to get rid of every corpse of him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went to the breakfast room for this purpose soon after tea; because since the others would all sit down to play cards, they could not be persuaded to counteract their mother's plans.
But when she returned to the salon when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, that there was reason to fear that her mother had been too inventive for her. When she opened the door, she noticed her sister and Woodland standing together over the stove as if they were engrossed in a serious conversation; and if this had not led to any suspicion, the faces of both would have said everything when they hastily turned around and distanced themselves from each other. Their situation was unpleasant enough; but she found hers even worse. No syllable was pronounced by either of them; and Elizabeth was about to leave when Woodland, who had sat down just like the others, suddenly got up, whispered a few words to her sister and ran out of the room.
Jane could not have reserves of Elizabeth where trust would bring joy; and immediately embracing her, acknowledged with the most vivid feeling that she was the happiest creature in the world.
'Tis too much!' she added: "way too much. I don't deserve that. Oh! why isn't everyone so happy?'
Elizabeth's congratulations were delivered with a sincerity, a warmth, a joy that words could hardly express. Every kind sentence was a new source of happiness for Jane. But she wouldn't allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half of what needs to be said for now.
'I have to go to my mother immediately;' She cried. 'I certainly wouldn't play with their loving care; or allow her to hear it from someone but me. He has already gone to my father. Oh! Lizzy, knowing that what I have to tell will bring such joy to my whole dear family! how can I endure so much happiness!'
Then she hurried to her mother, who had deliberately interrupted the card party, and sat with Kitty at the top of the stairs.
Elizabeth, left alone, now smiled at the speed and ease with which an affair that had caused them so many previous months of tension and trouble was finally settled.
"And this," she said, "is the end of all his friend's anxious prudence! of all the falsehood and invention of his sister! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable ending!'
After a few minutes, Woodland joined her, whose meeting with her father had been brief and expedient.
'Where is your sister?' he said hastily as he opened the door.
"Up the stairs with my mother. It will be right down, I dare say."
Then he closed the door, walked up to her, and demanded the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and warmly expressed her joy at the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, until her sister came down, she had to listen to everything he had to say about his own happiness and about Jane's perfection; and although he was a lover, Elizabeth really believed that all his expectations of happiness were rational because they were based on Jane's excellent understanding and exceedingly excellent nature and a general similarity of feelings and taste between her and herself.
It was an evening without common joy for all of them; the satisfaction of Miss Mitchell's spirit gave her face a glow of such sweet vibrancy that made her look more beautiful than ever. Kitty smiled and smiled, hoping that it would soon be her turn. Mrs. Mitchell could not give her consent or express her approval in words warm enough to satisfy her feelings, even though she spoke to Woodland for half an hour of nothing else; and when Mr. Mitchell joined them at dinner, his voice and behavior clearly showed how really happy he was.
However, not a word came over his lips in allusion to it until her visitor said goodbye for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter and said
,
"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."
Jane immediately went to him, kissed him and thanked him for his kindness.
'You are a good girl,' he replied, 'and I take great pleasure in thinking that you will settle down so happily. I have no doubt that you get along very well. Their temperaments are by no means dissimilar. You are all so docile that nothing will ever be resolved; so simple that any servant will deceive you; and so generous that you will always exceed your income.'
"I hope not. Carelessness or recklessness in matters of money would be unforgivable to me.'
"Exceed your income! My dear Mr. Mitchell," his wife exclaimed, "what are you talking about? He has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more." Then she spoke to her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I'm sure I won't turn a blind eye all night. I knew what it would be like. I have always said that it must finally be this way. I was sure you couldn't be so beautiful for nothing! I remember as soon as I saw him when he first came to Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it would be that you would come together. Oh! he's the prettiest young man you've ever seen!'
Waterhouse, Linda, everyone was forgotten. Jane was unsurpassed her favorite child. At that moment, she didn't care about anyone. Her younger sisters soon began to take an interest in happiness items that she could do without in the future.
Mary requested the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged a lot for a few balls there every winter.
Woodland, of course, has been a daily visitor to Longbourn since that time; often comes before breakfast and always stays until after dinner; unless a barbaric neighbor who could not be detested enough had given him an invitation to dinner that he thought he had to accept.
Elizabeth now had little time to talk to her sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to pay attention to anyone; but it found itself in those hours of separation, which sometimes must occur, of considerable benefit to both. In Jane's absence, he always joined Elizabeth for the joy of speaking of her; and when Woodland was gone, Jane was constantly looking for the same means of relief.
"He made me so happy," she said one evening, "by telling me that he didn't know anything about my presence in the city last spring! I didn't think it was possible.'
"That's what I thought," Elizabeth replied. But how did he explain it?"
"It must have been the work of his sister. They certainly weren't friends of his acquaintance with me, which I can't be surprised about since he could have chosen so much more advantageously in many ways. But if, as I trust, they see that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be satisfied, and we will get along well again; although we can never be what we once were to each other.'
"This is the most irreconcilable speech," Elizabeth said, "I've ever heard of you. Braves girl! It would indeed annoy me to see you again, the miss Woodlands cheater of feigned respect."
"If you believed it, Lizzy, that he really loved me when he went to town last November, and nothing but a conviction that HE was indifferent to MY indifference would have prevented him from coming back down!"
"He made a small mistake to be sure; but it is thanks to his modesty.'
This, of course, led to a eulogy from Jane for his restraint and the low value he placed on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to discover that he had not betrayed his friend's interference; because even though Jane had the most generous and forgiven heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance that must prejudice her against him.
"I'm certainly the happiest creature ever!" cried Jane. 'Oh! Lizzy, why am I so isolated from my family and blessed over everyone! If only I could see you happy! If only there was another man for you!'
"If you gave me forty such men, I could never be as happy as you. Until I have your disposition, your goodness, I can never have your luck. No, no, let me change for myself; and maybe, if I'm very lucky, I'll be able to meet with another Mr. Collins in time."
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be a secret for long. Mrs. Mitchell had the privilege of whispering it to Mrs. Phillips, and she dared, without permission, to do the same with all her neighbors in Meryton.
The Mitchells were quickly declared the happiest family in the world, although just a few weeks earlier, when Linda had first run away, it had generally been proven that they were scarred by misfortune.
Chapter 242
This letter must reach Emma's feelings. She was obliged, despite her previous determination to the contrary, to live up to all that Mrs. Winstone had predicted. As soon as she came to her own name, it was irresistible; every line that referred to herself was interesting, and almost every line was pleasant; and when this spell stopped, the theme could still hold its own, through the natural return of her former respect for the writer and the very strong attraction that every love image must have for her at that moment. She never stopped until she had gone through the whole thing; and although it was impossible not to feel that he had been wrong, he had been less wrong than she had assumed – and he had suffered and felt very sorry for him – and he was so grateful to Mrs. Winstone and so in love with Miss Saxon, and she herself was so happy that there was no strictness; and if he had been able to enter the room, she would have shaken his hand as warmly as ever.
She liked the letter so much that when Mr. Hill returned, she asked him to read it. She was sure that Mrs. Winstone wanted it to be communicated; especially to one who, like Mr. Hill, had seen so much guilt in his behavior.
"I'm going to be very happy to look through it," he said; "But it seems long to me. In the evening I take it home with me."
But that wouldn't work. Mr. Winstone was supposed to come by in the evening, and she had to return it through him.
"I'd rather talk to you," he replied; "but since it seems to be a matter of justice, it should be done."
He started – but almost immediately paused to say, "Would I have been offered the sight of one of this gentleman's letters to his mother-in-law a few months ago, Emma, ?? I wouldn't have taken it up with such indifference."
He went a little further and read to himself; and then remarked with a smile: "Hmpf! a fine compliment opening: But it's his way. One man's style must not be the rule of the other. We will not be strict."
"It will be natural for me," he added shortly afterwards, "to speak my mind out loud as I read. This will make me feel that I am close to you. It won't be such a big loss of time: but if you don't like it...«
"Not at all. I should wish for it."
Mr. Hill returned to his reading with greater zeal.
"He's playing here," he said, "regarding temptation. He knows that he is wrong and has nothing reasonable to push. – Bad. – He should not have entered into the engagement. – "His father's attitude" – but he is unjust to his father. The Sanguine character of Mr. Winstone was a blessing for all his upright and honorable efforts; but Mr. Winstone deserved every present consolation before making an effort to obtain it. – Very true; he didn't come until Miss Saxon was here."
"And I haven't forgotten," Emma said, ??" how sure you were that he might have come earlier if he had wanted to. You pass it over very well – but you were absolutely right."
"I wasn't entirely unbiased in my judgment, Emma: – but I think if you hadn't been in the case – I would still have mistrusted him."
When he came to Miss Lodge, he had to read everything out loud – everything that referred to her with a smile; a glance; a shake of the head; one or two words of consent or disapproval; or only love, as the subject demanded; But close seriously and after constant reflection so –
"Very bad – although it could have been worse. – Playing an extremely dangerous game. Too much to thank for the event for his acquittal. - No judge of his own manners of you. - In fact, always deceived by his own desires and without regard to little but his own convenience. - Imagined that you had discovered his secret. Of course enough! - his own spirit full of intrigue that he should suspect it in others. - mystery; Finesse – how they turn the mind! My Emma, ?? doesn't everything serve to prove more and more the beauty of truth and sincerity in all our dealings with each other?"
Emma agreed, with a blushing of Harriet's eyes, for which she could not give a serious explanation.
"You'd better move on," she said.
He did, but very soon stopped again to say, "The pianoforte! Ah! This was the act of a very, very young man who was too young to think about whether the inconvenience might not far exceed the pleasure. A boyish plan, indeed! - I cannot comprehend that a man wants to give a woman a proof of love that he knows she would rather do without; and he knew that she would have prevented the instrument from coming if she had been able to."
After that, he made some progress without a break. Frank Curcelle's confession to have behaved disgracefully was the first thing that called for more than a word in passing.
"I completely agree with you, sir," was his remark. "You behaved very shamefully. You've never written a truer line." And after going through the immediately following reasons for their disagreement and his insistence on acting in direct opposition to Jane Saxon's sense of justice, he took a longer pause to say, "This is very bad for his sake to be in an extremely difficult and troubled situation, and it should have been his first goal, to protect them from unnecessary suffering. – She must have had much more to deal with in conducting the correspondence than he could. He should have respected even unreasonable scruples if there had been such; but theirs were all reasonable. We need to look at her only mistake and remember that she did something wrong when she agreed to the engagement,
Emma knew he was coming to the Box Hill party now, and felt uncomfortable. Their own behavior had been so inappropriate! She was deeply ashamed and a little afraid of his next look. However, everything was read steadily, attentively and without the slightest remark; and apart from a glimpse of her, instantly withdrawn for fear of inflicting pain, no memory of Box Hill seemed to exist.
"There is not much to say about the tenderness of our good friends, Alton," was his next remark. – "His feelings are natural. – What! really determined to break with him completely! – She felt the engagement was a source of remorse and misery for everyone – she dissolved it –
"No, no, read on. You will see how much he suffers."
"I hope he does," Mr. Hill replied coolly and resumed the letter. "'Smallridge!' – What does that mean? What is all this?"
"She was engaged to go as a governess to Mrs. Smallridge's children – a dear friend of Mrs. Alton – a neighbor of Maple Grove; and by the way, I wonder how Mrs. Alton endures the disappointment?"
"Don't say anything, my dear Emma, ?? while you force me to read – not even from Mrs. Alton. Only one page left. I will be done soon. What a letter the man writes!"
"I wish you would read it with a friendlier mind towards him."
"Well, here's a feeling. – He seems to have really suffered that he found her sick. – Certainly, I can have no doubt that he likes them. 'Better, much better than ever.' I hope he will feel the full value of such a reconciliation for a long time to come. – He is a very generous danker with his thousands and tens of thousands. – "Happier than I deserve." Come on, he knows his way around. "Miss Lodge calls me the lucky child." – Those were the words of Miss Lodge, weren't they? – And a beautiful ending – and there is the letter. The lucky child! That was your name for him, wasn't it?"
"They don't seem as happy with his letter as I am; but still, at least I hope you have to think better of him. I hope it does him something good for you."
"Yes, it certainly does. He had great mistakes, mistakes of recklessness and thoughtlessness; and I am very much in his opinion when I think that he is probably happier than he deserves, but still, since he is undoubtedly very fond of Miss Saxon and hopefully will soon have the advantage of being constant with her, I am very willing to believe that his character will improve and from her will receive the consistency and subtlety of the principle, that he wants. And now let me talk to you about something else. I care so much about someone else's interest right now that I can no longer think of Frank Curcelle. Since I left you this morning, Emma, ?? I have dealt intensively with a topic."
The theme followed; it was in plain, unartificial, gentleman-like English, as Mr. Hill himself used to do to the woman he was in love with, so that he could ask her to marry him without attacking her father's happiness. Emma's answer was ready at the first word. "As long as her dear father lived, any change in her condition had to be impossible for her. She could never leave him." However, only part of this answer was allowed. Mr. Hill felt the impossibility of leaving her father as strongly as she did; but he could not agree to the inadmissibility of any other amendment. He had thought about it most deeply, most intensely; he had initially hoped to persuade Mr. Lodge to move with her to Donwell; he had wanted to think it was feasible, but his knowledge of Mr. Lodge did not deceive him for long; and now he confessed his conviction that such a transplant would pose a threat to her father's comfort, perhaps even to his life, which should not be jeopardized. Mr. Lodge taken from Hartfield! – No, he thought it shouldn't be tried. But the plan that had arisen on this sacrifice would, as he hoped, not find his dearest Emma offensive in any way; it was that he was to be received at Hartfield; that as long as her father's happiness — in other words, his life — required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his. he trusted that his dearest Emma would not find anything offensive; it was that he was to be received at Hartfield; that as long as her father's happiness — in other words, his life — required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his. he trusted that his dearest Emma would not find anything offensive; it was that he was to be received at Hartfield; that as long as her father's happiness — in other words, his life — required Hartfield to continue her home, it should be his.
Emma had already had her own fleeting thoughts about how they had all moved to Donwell. Like him, she had tried the scheme and discarded it; but she had not come up with such an alternative. She was aware of all the affection it showed. She found that when he left Donwell, he had to sacrifice a lot of independence from hours and habits; that there would be much, much to bear if she lived constantly with her father and in no house of her own. She promised to think about it and advised him to think about it more; but he was completely convinced that no reflection could change his desires or his opinion about the subject. He had considered it, he could assure her, very long and calmly; he had walked away from William Larkins all morning to have his thoughts to himself.
"Ah! A difficulty is not foreseen," Emma exclaimed. "I'm sure William Larkins won't like it. You have to get his consent before you ask mine."
However, she promised to think about it; and also almost promised to think about it, with the intention of considering it a very good plan.
It is noteworthy that Emma never felt that she had hurt her nephew Henry, whose rights as an expectant heir had previously been so stubbornly regarded in the many, very many aspects from which she began to look at Donwell Abbey. Think of the possible difference to the poor little boy; and yet she only gave herself a cheeky, conscious smile and found it amusing to discover the real reason for this fierce aversion to Mr. Hill's marriage to Jane Saxon or anyone else, whom she had attributed to the kind care of her sister and aunt at the time.
This suggestion from him, this plan to get married and continue in Hartfield – the longer she thought about it, the more pleasing it became to her. His evils seemed to diminish, their own advantages to grow, their mutual benefit to outweigh any disadvantage. Such a companion for herself in times of fear and sadness before her! – Such a partner in all those duties and worries to whom time must increase in melancholy!
Without poor Harriet, she would have been too happy; but each blessing of its own seemed to bring with it and foster the suffering of her friend, who now even had to be excluded from Hartfield. Poor Harriet had to keep her distance from the delightful family celebration that Emma wanted to secure for herself out of pure charitable caution. She would be a loser in every way. Emma could not lament her future absence as a smear on her own pleasure. In such a party, Harriet would be more of a deadweight than usual; but for the poor girl herself, it seemed a particularly cruel necessity to put her in a state of undeserved punishment.
In time, of course, Mr. Hill would be forgotten, that is, repressed; but this could not be expected to happen very early. Mr. Hill himself wouldn't do anything to help the healing – not like Mr. Alton. Mr. Hill, always so kind, so soulful, so truly considerate of every body, would never have deserved to be less revered than now; and it was really too much to hope even from Harriet that she could be in love with more than three men in a year.
Chapter 243
Soon after, the general was forced to go to London for a week; and he left Northanger, seriously regretting that any necessity should deprive him of Miss Fenmore's company even for an hour, and anxiously recommended recommending the study of her comfort and entertainment to his children as their main goal in his absence. His departure gave Catherine the first experimental conviction that a loss can sometimes be a gain. The happiness with which their time passed now, every voluntary occupation, every joyful laughter, every meal a scene of lightness and good mood, walking where they wanted and when they wanted, their hours, joys and efforts at their own discretion, made them fully aware of the restraint imposed by the presence of the general and feel grateful, that they now feel liberated from it. This lightness and such joys made them love the place and the people more and more every day; and had it not been for the fear that it would soon be appropriate to leave one, and the fear of not being loved by the other immediately, she would have been perfectly happy in every moment of every day; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be over, and perhaps it would seem like a disturbance if it stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it happened; and eager to get rid of such weight from her mind, she very soon decided to immediately talk to Eleanor about it, suggest to leave, and be guided in her behavior by the way her application could be received. and had it not been for the fear that it would soon be appropriate to leave one, and the fear of not being loved by the other immediately, she would have been perfectly happy in every moment of every day; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be over, and perhaps it would seem like a disturbance if it stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it happened; and eager to get rid of such weight from her mind, she very soon decided to immediately talk to Eleanor about it, suggest to leave, and be guided in her behavior by the way her application could be received. and had it not been for the fear that it would soon be appropriate to leave one, and the fear of not being loved by the other immediately, she would have been perfectly happy in every moment of every day; but she was now in the fourth week of her visit; before the general came home, the fourth week would be over, and perhaps it would seem like a disturbance if it stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it happened; and eager to get rid of such weight from her mind, she very soon decided to immediately talk to Eleanor about it, suggest to leave, and be guided in her behavior by the way her application could be received. before the general came home, the fourth week would be over, and perhaps it would seem like a disturbance if it stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it happened; and eager to get rid of such weight from her mind, she very soon decided to immediately talk to Eleanor about it, suggest to leave, and be guided in her behavior by the way her application could be received. before the general came home, the fourth week would be over, and perhaps it would seem like a disturbance if it stayed much longer. This was a painful consideration whenever it happened; and eager to get rid of such weight from her mind, she very soon decided to immediately talk to Eleanor about it, suggest to leave, and be guided in her behavior by the way her application could be received.
Knowing that she would have a hard time bringing up such an unpleasant topic if she took a lot of time, she took the first opportunity to suddenly be alone with Eleanor and give Eleanor in the middle of a speech about something completely different to begin her commitment to leave very soon. Eleanor looked and explained himself very worried. She had been "hoping for the pleasure of her company for much longer – had been misled (perhaps by her desires) into believing that a much longer visit had been promised – and couldn't help but believe that Mr. and Mrs. Fenmore would be aware of the joy of having her there, they would be too generous, to speed up their return." Catherine explained, "Oh! Dad and mom weren't in a hurry. As long as she was happy, they would always be satisfied."
"Why, she might ask, is she in such a hurry to leave her?"
"Oh! Because she's been there for so long."
"No, if you can use such a word, I can't push you any further. If you think for a long time...«
"Oh! No, I actually didn't. For my own pleasure, I could stay with you for so long again." And it was immediately decided that until she had done so, it was not even possible to think of leaving her. By eliminating this cause of discomfort so pleasantly, the strength of the other was also weakened. The kindness and seriousness of Eleanor's way of urging her to stay, and Henry's satisfied look when he was told that her stay was certain, were such sweet proofs of her importance to them that she left only as much care as the human mind can never comfortably do without. She believed, almost always, that Henry loved her, and pretty much always that his father and sister loved her and even wished she belonged to them; and as far as she believed, her doubts and fears were only sporting irritations.
Henry was unable to obey his father's instruction to stay entirely in Northanger during his absence in London and attend the ladies, as his vicar's duties at Woodston forced him to leave them for a few nights on Saturday. His loss was no longer the same as he had been when the general was at home; it diminished their cheerfulness, but did not ruin their comfort; and the two girls, who agreed on the profession and improved familiarity, found themselves so good enough for the time for themselves that it was eleven o'clock, a rather late hour in the abbey, before setting up the dining room that day from Henry's departure. They had just reached the landing when, as far as the thickness of the walls allowed, it seemed as if a carriage was driving outside the door, and the next moment the idea was confirmed by the loud sound of the house bell. After the first surprise had evaporated, in a "Good heaven! What can be wrong?" it was quickly decided by Eleanor to be her eldest brother, whose arrival was often just as sudden, if not quite as inappropriate, and accordingly she hurried down to greet him.
Catherine went on to her room, decided, as best she could, to make another acquaintance with Captain Alsina, and reassured herself about the unpleasant impression his behavior had made on her, and the conviction that he was a far too fine gentleman to agree with her that they should at least not meet in circumstances that would make their meeting materially painful. She trusted that he would never speak of Miss Dorfman; and indeed, since he was now ashamed of the role he had played, there could be no danger of it; and as long as any mention of Bath scenes was avoided, she believed she could be very polite to him. With such considerations, time passed, and it was certainly in his favor that Eleanor was so happy to see him, and had so much to say, for almost half an hour had passed since his arrival,
at that moment Catherine believed to hear her step in the gallery, and listened to its continuation; but everything was quiet. However, she had hardly convicted her idea of error when the sound of something moving near her door startled her; it seemed as if someone was touching the doorway – and the next moment a slight movement of the lock proved that there had to be a hand on it. She trembled a little at the idea that someone was approaching so cautiously; but she decided not to be overwhelmed again by trivial expressions of anxiety or to be misled by an increased imagination, stepped forward quietly and opened the door. Eleanor, and only Eleanor, stood there. Catherine's mood, however, was calm, but for a moment, because Eleanor's cheeks were pale and her manner very excited. Although he obviously planned to come in, it seemed like an effort to enter the room, and an even bigger one to speak there. Catherine, suspecting a certain discomfort of Captain Alsina, could only express her concern through silent attention, forced her to take a seat, rubbed her temples with lavender water and hung over her with loving care. "My dear Catherine, you must not – you really must not – were Eleanor's first coherent words. "I'm doing quite well. This kindness distracts me – I can't stand it – I come to you with such a mission!" you must not – you really can't – "were Eleanor's first coherent words. "I'm doing quite well. This kindness distracts me – I can't stand it – I come to you with such a mission!" you must not – you really can't – "were Eleanor's first coherent words. "I'm doing quite well. This kindness distracts me – I can't stand it – I come to you with such an assignment!"
"Mission! Me!"
"How can I tell you! Oh! How can I tell you!"
A new idea came to Catherine's mind now, and she became as pale as her friend and exclaimed, "This is a messenger from Woodston!"
"They are indeed wrong," Eleanor replied, looking at her most pitifully; "It's no one from Woodston. It's my father himself." Her voice faltered and her eyes were turned to the ground when she mentioned his name. Even his unexpected return made Catherine's heart sink, and for a moment she hardly believed that there was anything worse to tell. She said nothing; and Eleanor, who struggled to gather and speak with firmness, but with still dejected eyes, soon went on. "You're too good, I'm sure to think bad of myself for the role I have to play. I am indeed a most reluctant messenger. After what has recently passed between us has been settled so recently – how joyful, how grateful on my side! how can I tell you that your kindness cannot be accepted – and that the happiness that your society has given us so far should be repaid by – but I must not dare with words. My dear Catherine, we must separate. My father remembers an engagement that took us to the whole family on Monday. We drive for fourteen days to Lord Longtown near Hereford. Explanation and apology are equally impossible. I can't try either."
"My dear Eleanor," shouted Catherine, suppressing her feelings as best she could, "don't be so distressed. A second engagement must give way to a first one. I am very, very sorry that we have to separate – so soon and so suddenly; but I'm not offended, in fact I'm not. I can end my visit here at any time; or I hope you come to me. Can you come to Fullerton after your return from this gentleman?"
"It won't be in my power, Catherine."
"Then come when you can."
Eleanor did not answer; and Catherine's thoughts returned to something more directly interesting, she added, thinking out loud, "Monday – already Monday; and you all go. Well, I'm sure – but I'll be able to say goodbye. I don't have to go just in front of you, you know. Don't be worried, Eleanor, I can walk very well on Monday. The fact that my father and mother are not aware of this is of very little importance. The general will send a servant with me, dare I say, halfway – and then I will soon be in Salisbury, and then I will be only nine miles away from home."
"Oh, Katharina! If it were regulated in this way, it would be a little less unbearable, although with such joint attentions you would have received only half of what you should. But – how can I tell you? The car itself has been ordered and will be here at seven o'clock, and you will not be offered a servant."
Catherine sat down, breathless and speechless. "I could hardly trust my senses when I heard it; and no resentment, no resentment that you can feel at this moment, no matter how great, can be more than myself – but I must not speak of what I felt. Oh! That I could suggest something for mitigation! Good God! What will your father and mother say! After we have courted you from the protection of real friends to let you drive out of the house, without the consideration of even decent politeness, almost twice the distance from your home! Love, dear Catherine, as the bearer of such a message, I myself seem to be guilty of all its insult; but I trust that you will absolve me, for you must have been in this House long enough to see that I am only a nominal mistress of the fact that my real power is nothing."
"Did I insult the general?" said Catherine in a faltering voice.
"Oh! For my feelings as a daughter, all I know is all I am responsible for, that you cannot have given him a just reason to insult. He is certainly very, very shattered; I have rarely experienced him like that. His temperament is not happy, and something has now happened to dishevel it to an unusual extent; some disappointment, some anger, which seems important right now, but I can hardly assume that you care, because how is that possible?"
Only with pain could Catherine speak at all; and only for Eleanor's sake did she try. "I'm sure," she said, "I'm very sorry if I offended him. That was the last thing I would have done voluntarily. But don't be unhappy, Eleanor. An engagement, you know, must be adhered to. I'm just sorry I didn't remember earlier that I might have written home. But it is of very little importance."
"I hope, I sincerely hope, that it will not matter to your real safety; but for everything else it is of the utmost importance: for comfort, appearance, decency, for your family, for the world. If your friends, the Allens, were still in Bath, you could go to them comparatively easily; a few hours would take you there; but a journey of seventy miles that you have to travel alone and unsupervised at your age!"
"Oh, the trip is nothing. Don't think about it. And when we break up, a few hours sooner or later make no difference. I can finish at seven. Let me call in time." Eleanor saw that she wanted to be alone; and believing that it would be better for everyone to avoid any further conversation, she left them now with: "I will see you tomorrow morning."
Catherine's swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor's presence, friendship and pride had held back her tears in equal measure, but as soon as she had left, they erupted in streams. Shot out of the house, and so on! Without any reason to justify, no apology that could atone for the harshness, the rudeness, no, the impudence. Henry from afar – not even able to say goodbye to him. Every hope, every expectation of him at least suspended, and who could say how long? Who could tell when they would meet again? And all this from a man like General Alsina, so polite, so well-behaved and so far so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was humiliating and painful. What it could arise from and where it would end were considerations of equal perplexity and concern. The way in which it was made so rude to rush her away without any hint of her own convenience, or even to make her seem like she could choose the time or the way of her journey; of two days, the earliest fixed, and of which almost the earliest hour, as if he were determined to let her go, before he stirred in the morning, so as not to even be forced to see her. What could all this mean, except a deliberate affront? Somehow she must have had the misfortune of insulting him. Eleanor had wanted to spare her such a painful idea, but Catherine couldn't think it was possible that any injury or misfortune could cause such ill will against a person who had nothing to do with it, or at least should have nothing to do with it. or even to give her the appearance that she can choose the time or the nature of her journey; of two days, the earliest fixed, and of which almost the earliest hour, as if he were determined to let her go, before he stirred in the morning, so as not to even be forced to see her. What could all this mean, except a deliberate affront? Somehow she must have had the misfortune of insulting him. Eleanor had wanted to spare her such a painful idea, but Catherine couldn't think it was possible that any injury or misfortune could cause such ill will against a person who had nothing to do with it, or at least should have nothing to do with it. or even to give her the appearance that she can choose the time or the nature of her journey; of two days, the earliest fixed, and of which almost the earliest hour, as if he were determined to let her go, before he stirred in the morning, so as not to even be forced to see her. What could all this mean, except a deliberate affront? Somehow she must have had the misfortune of insulting him. Eleanor had wanted to spare her such a painful idea, but Catherine couldn't think it was possible that any injury or misfortune could cause such ill will against a person who had nothing to do with it, or at least should have nothing to do with it. as if he was determined to let her go before moving in the morning so as not to be forced to see her. What could all this mean, except a deliberate affront? Somehow she must have had the misfortune of insulting him. Eleanor had wanted to spare her such a painful idea, but Catherine couldn't think it was possible that any injury or misfortune could cause such ill will against a person who had nothing to do with it, or at least should have nothing to do with it. as if he was determined to let her go before moving in the morning so as not to be forced to see her. What could all this mean, except a deliberate affront? Somehow she must have had the misfortune of insulting him. Eleanor had wanted to spare her such a painful idea, but Catherine couldn't think it was possible that any injury or misfortune could cause such ill will against a person who had nothing to do with it, or at least should have nothing to do with it.
Schwer spent the night. Sleep or rest, which deserved the name sleep, was out of the question. The room where she had tormented her disturbed imagination on her first arrival was again the scene of agitated ghosts and restless slumber. But how different is the source of their unrest now than it was then – how sadly superior in reality and substance! Their fear had a real reason, their fears a probability; and with a mind so preoccupied with contemplating the actual and natural evil, the loneliness of their situation, the darkness of their room, the age of the building were felt and contemplated without the slightest emotion; and although the wind was strong and often made strange and sudden noises throughout the house, she heard everything while lying awake, hour after hour, without curiosity or fear.
Shortly after six, Eleanor entered her room, eager to show attention or provide help where possible; but there was very little left to do. Catherine hadn't stayed around; she was almost dressed and almost done packing. When his daughter appeared, the possibility of a conciliatory message from the general came to her mind. What is so natural that this anger should pass away and remorse should follow it? And she just wanted to know to what extent, after what had happened, an apology would reach her correctly. But the knowledge would have been useless here; it was not requested; neither gentleness nor dignity were put to the test – Eleanor brought no message. Very little happened between them at the meeting; each found their greatest security in silence, and few and trivial sentences were exchanged while staying upstairs, Catherine in busy excitement finishing her dress, and Eleanor with more goodwill than experience anxious to fill the suitcase. When everything was done, they left the room, Katharina stopped behind her friend for only half a minute to give a farewell look at every well-known, cherished item, and went down to the breakfast room where breakfast was prepared. She tried to eat, both to save herself the pain of pushing and to make her friend comfortable; but she had no appetite and could not swallow many bites. The contrast between this and her last breakfast in this room gave her new misery and reinforced her aversion to everything in front of her. It hadn't been twenty-four hours since they had met there for the same meal, but under what circumstances how different! With what cheerful ease, what happy, if false certainty, she had looked around at the time, enjoyed everything present and feared little in the future, apart from Henry going to Woodston for a day! Happy, cheerful breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat down with her and helped her. For a long time, these reflections were undisturbed by every speech of her companion, who sat as deeply immersed in thought as she was; and the appearance of the car was the first thing that frightened her and reminded her of the present moment. Catherine blushed at this sight; and the indignation with which she was treated, which she noticed with particular force at that moment, made her feel only resentment for a short time. Eleanor now seemed driven to determination and speech. happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat down with her and helped her. For a long time, these reflections were undisturbed by every speech of her companion, who sat as deeply immersed in thought as she was; and the appearance of the car was the first thing that frightened her and reminded her of the present moment. Catherine blushed at this sight; and the indignation with which she was treated, which she noticed with particular force at that moment, made her feel only resentment for a short time. Eleanor now seemed driven to determination and speech. happy breakfast! For Henry had been there; Henry had sat down with her and helped her. For a long time, these reflections were undisturbed by every speech of her companion, who sat as deeply immersed in thought as she was; and the appearance of the car was the first thing that frightened her and reminded her of the present moment. Catherine blushed at this sight; and the indignation with which she was treated, which she noticed with particular force at that moment, made her feel only resentment for a short time. Eleanor now seemed driven to determination and speech. and the appearance of the car was the first thing that frightened her and reminded her of the present moment. Catherine blushed at this sight; and the indignation with which she was treated, which she noticed with particular force at that moment, made her feel only resentment for a short time. Eleanor now seemed driven to determination and speech. and the appearance of the car was the first thing that frightened her and reminded her of the present moment. Catherine blushed at this sight; and the indignation with which she was treated, which she noticed with particular force at that moment, made her feel only resentment for a short time. Eleanor now seemed driven to determination and speech.
"You have to write to me, Catherine," she shouted; " You have to let me hear from you as soon as possible. Until I know you're safe at home, I won't have an hour of comfort. For a letter, on all risks, all dangers, I have to ask. Give me the satisfaction of knowing that you are safe in Fullerton and have found your family well, and then until I can request your correspondence, as I should, I will not wait any more. Straight to me to Lord Longtown, and I have to ask, below deck to Alice."
"No, Eleanor, if you are not allowed to receive a letter from me, I certainly better not write. There is no doubt that I will come home safely."
Eleanor only replied, "I can't be surprised at your feelings. I will not disturb you. I will trust in your own kindness of heart when I am away from you." But this, accompanied by a sad look, was enough to melt Catherine's pride in a moment, and she immediately said, "Oh, Eleanor, I'm really going to write to you."
There was another point that Miss Alsina desperately wanted to clarify, although she was a bit embarrassed to talk about it. It had occurred to her that after such a long absence from home, Katharina might not get enough money for travel expenses, and when she suggested it to her with loving accommodation offers, it turned out that this was exactly the case. Catherine had never thought about this topic until that moment, but when she examined her purse, she was convinced that without this kindness of her friend, she might have left the house without even having the opportunity to come home; and the grief in which she must have been involved as a result filled the thoughts of both, hardly a word was spoken by both during the time of their staying together. But this time was short. The carriage was soon reported as finished; and Catherine rose immediately, a long and loving embrace replaced the language by saying goodbye to each other; and when they entered the hall, unable to leave the house without mentioning someone whose name had not yet been pronounced by both, she paused for a moment and made with trembling lips only understandable that she "left her kind memory for her absent friend." But with this approach to his name, any possibility of curbing their feelings ended; and hiding her face as best she could, with her handkerchief, she whizzed across the hall, jumped into the chaise longue and was driven out of the door in a moment. Unable to leave the house without mentioning someone whose name had not yet been pronounced, she paused for a moment and, with trembling lips, only made it understandable that she left "her kind memory for her absent friend." But with this approach to his name, any possibility of curbing their feelings ended; and hiding her face as best she could, with her handkerchief, she whizzed across the hall, jumped into the chaise longue and was driven out of the door in a moment. Unable to leave the house without mentioning someone whose name had not yet been pronounced, she paused for a moment and, with trembling lips, only made it understandable that she left "her kind memory for her absent friend." But with this approach to his name, any possibility of curbing their feelings ended; and hiding her face as best she could, with her handkerchief, she whizzed across the hall, jumped into the chaise longue and was driven out of the door in a moment.
Chapter 244
Anne remembered with pleasure her promise to go to Mrs. Smith the next morning, which meant that it would keep her busy from home at the time when Mr. Hightower was most likely to call; because avoiding Mr. Hightower was almost a first goal.
She felt a lot of goodwill towards him. Despite the calamity of his attention, she owed him gratitude and respect, perhaps even compassion. She couldn't help but think much about the extraordinary circumstances that accompanied her acquaintance, the right he seemed to have to interest her, through everything in the situation, through his own feelings, through his early bias. It was overall very exceptional; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How she would have felt if there had been no Captain Cambridge in this case was not worth the question; for there was a captain Cambridge; and be the conclusion of the present tension good or bad, their affection would forever be his. Their union, she believed, could no longer separate her from other men than their final separation.
Never could more beautiful reveries about sublime love and eternal permanence have passed through the streets of Bath as Anne drove them from Camden Place to the Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread cleaning and perfume all the way.
She was sure of a pleasant welcome; and her friend seemed to be particularly committed to her that morning, she seemed to have hardly expected, although it had been an appointment.
An account of the concert was claimed immediately; and Anne's memories of the concert were quite happy enough to revive her traits and make her happy to talk about it. Everything she could tell, she was very happy to tell, but all this was little for someone who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such a questioner as Mrs. Smith, who had already heard about the abbreviation of a laundress and a waiter, rather more about the general success and outcome of the evening than Anne could tell, and who now asked in vain for some details of the company. Everyone of importance or notoriety in Bath was known to Mrs. Smith by name.
"The little Durands were there, I close," she said, "with their mouths open to listen to the music, like unflügged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert."
"Yes; I haven't seen them myself, but I've heard Hightower-san say they're in the room."
"The Ibbotsons, were they there? And the two new beauties with the great Irish officer, of whom one speaks for one of them."
"I don't know. I don't think they were."
"Old Lady Mary Maclean? I don't need to ask for her. She never misses, I know, and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; Grandeur, of course around the orchestra."
"No, I was afraid of that. It would have been very uncomfortable for me in every way. But fortunately, Lady Galloway always chooses to be further away; and we were extraordinarily well placed, that is, to hear; I don't have to say see for it, because I seem to have seen very little."
"Oh! You have seen enough for your own pleasure. I can understand. There is a kind of domestic pleasure that you can see even in a crowd, and you had that.
"But I should have looked around more," said Anne, who was aware while speaking that there had actually been no lack of looking around, that the object had only been deficient.
"No, no, you were better occupied. You don't need to tell me you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eyes. I see exactly how the hours passed: that you always had something pleasant to hear. In the breaks of the concert it was conversation."
Anne smiled half and said, "Do you see that in my eyes?"
"Yes, I do. Your facial expression informs me perfectly that last night you were with the person you think is the most pleasant in the world, the person you care about more in this present time than the rest of the world combined."
A redness spread to Anne's cheeks. She couldn't say anything.
"And since this is the case," Mrs. Smith continued after a short pause, "I hope that you believe that I appreciate your kindness, that you came to me this morning. It is really very nice of you to come and sit down me when you need to have so many more pleasant demands on your time.
Anne didn't hear about that. She was still in the amazement and confusion caused by her friend's intrusion, and could not imagine how a report from Captain Cambridge could reach her. After another brief silence —
"Please," Mrs. Smith said, "Does Mr. Hightower know about your acquaintance with me? Does he know I'm in Bath?"
"Mr. Hightower!" Anne repeated, looking up in surprise. A brief reflection showed her the mistake she had been under. She understood it immediately; and regaining her courage with a sense of security, she soon added more calmly, "Do you know Mr. Hightower?"
"I've known him for a long time," Mrs. Smith replied earnestly, "but now he seems exhausted.
"I wasn't aware of that at all. You never mentioned it before. Had I known, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you."
"Confessing the truth," Mrs. Smith said, displaying her usual cheerfulness, "that's exactly the pleasure I want for you. I want you to talk to Mr. Hightower about me. I want you to be interested in him. He can be unto me of indispensable service; and if you had the goodness, my dear Miss Hightower, to make it your own object, then of course it is done."
"I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be to you of even the slightest benefit," Anne replied; "but I suspect that you mean I have a higher claim to Mr. Hightower, a greater right to influence him than is really the case. I am sure that you have somehow acquired such an idea. You just have to consider me as a relative of Mr. Hightower. If you think his cousin could ask anything of him in this light, I would ask you not to hesitate to hire me."
Mrs. Smith gave her a piercing look and then said with a smile,
"I was a little premature, as I see; I beg your pardon. I should have been waiting for official information. But now, my dear Miss Hightower, as an old friend, give me a hint when I can speak. Next week? To be sure, by next week I may think that everything is done and build my own selfish plans on Mr. Hightower's luck."
"No," Anne replied, "not yet next week, nor next, nor next week. I assure you that none of what you are thinking about will be settled in any week. I will not marry Mr. Hightower. I'd like to know why do you think I am?"
Mrs. Smith looked at her again, looked at her seriously, smiled, shook her head, and shouted,
"Well, how do I really wish I understood you! How I wish I knew what you were getting at! I have a great idea that you don't intend to be cruel when the right moment comes. Until it comes, you know, we women never intend to have anyone. It is a matter of course with us that every man is rejected until he offers it. But why should you be cruel? Let me ask for my – present friend, I can't name him, but for My former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable counterpart? Where could you expect a gentleman-like, pleasant man? Let me recommend Mr. Hightower. I'm sure you only hear good things about him from Colonel Wallis, and who knows him better than Colonel Wallis?"
"My dear Mrs. Smith, Mr. Hightower's wife has not been dead for much more than half a year. He shouldn't pay anyone his addresses."
"Oh, if these are your only objections," Mrs. Smith shouted mischievously, "Mr. Hightower is safe, and I won't worry about him anymore. Don't forget me if you're married, that's all. Let him know that he is a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the effort required, which is very natural for him now, with so many own affairs and obligations, to avoid and get rid of them as he can; very natural, maybe. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he can't be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Hightower, I hope and trust that you will be very happy. Mr. Hightower has reason to understand the value of such a woman. Their peace will not be shipwrecked like mine. They are safe in all worldly affairs and sure in his character. He will not be misled; he will not be deceived by others to his perdition."
"No," said Anne, "I can easily believe all this to my cousin. He seems to have a calm, determined temperament, not at all accessible to dangerous impressions. I look at him with great respect. I have no reason, out of nothing that occurred to me to do it differently. But I haven't known him for long, and I don't think he's a man you'll get to know better soon. Will this way of talking about him, Mrs. Smith, not convince you that He means nothing to me? That must certainly be quiet enough. And in my word, it means nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to believe that he is thinking of it), I will assure you that I will not do so werde.es is not Mr. Hightower, who ... «
She paused and regretted with a deep blush that she had hinted at so much; but less would hardly have been enough. Mrs. Smith would hardly have believed in Mr. Hightower's failure so quickly, but from the perception that there was someone else. So she immediately submitted, and with all the appearance of seeing nothing behind it; and Anne, anxious to escape further attention, desperately wanted to know why Mrs. Smith imagined she would marry Mr. Hightower; where she might have gotten the idea from, or who she might have heard it from.
"Tell me how it first came to your mind."
"It first came to my mind," Mrs. Smith replied, "when I realized how much you were together and thought it was the most likely thing in the world that anyone who belongs to one of you would wish for; and you can rely on the fact that all your acquaintances have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard of it until two days ago."
"And has it actually been talked about?"
"Did you watch the woman who opened the door for you during your call yesterday?"
"No. Wasn't it Mrs. Speed as usual?? or the maid? I didn't watch anyone in particular."
"It was my friend Mrs. Rooke; Sister Rooke; who, by the way, was very curious to see you and was happy to be in your way to let you in. She didn't get away from Marlborough Buildings until Sunday; and it was she who told me that you were going to marry Mr. Hightower. She had gotten it from Mrs. Wallis herself, which didn't seem to be a bad authority. She sat with me for an hour on Monday night and told me the whole story." "The whole story," Anne repeated with a laugh. "I don't think she could make a very long story out of such a small article with unfounded news."
Mrs Smith said nothing.
"But," Anne finally continued, "although it is not true that I make this claim to Mr. Hightower, I would be very happy to be of any benefit to you in any way I can. Should I mention to him that you are there? Bath? Should I take a message?"
"No, thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment and under a false impression, I might have tried to interest you under certain circumstances; but not now. No, thank you, I don't have anything to complain about."
"I think you were talking about knowing Hightower-san for many years?"
"I did."
"Not before he was married, I suppose?"
"Yes; he wasn't married when I first knew him."
"And – were you much known?"
"Intimate."
"Indeed! Then tell me what he was at that time in life. I am very curious to know what Hightower-san was as a very young man. Was he even the way he looks now?"
"I haven't seen Mr. Hightower for these three years," was Ms. Smith's answer, given so seriously that it was impossible to pursue the issue further; and Anne felt like she had gained nothing but an increased curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs. Smith very thoughtful. Last but not least--
Hear the truth now, as long as you are unbiased. Mr. Hightower is a man without heart and conscience; a planning, cautious, cold-blooded being who thinks only of himself; who, in his own interest or convenience, would be guilty of cruelty or treason that could be committed without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has mainly plunged into ruin, he can neglect and leave without the slightest hesitation. He is completely out of the reach of feelings of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black in heart, hollow and black!" this could be done without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has mainly plunged into ruin, he can neglect and leave without the slightest hesitation. He is completely out of the reach of feelings of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black in heart, hollow and black!" this could be done without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has mainly plunged into ruin, he can neglect and leave without the slightest hesitation. He is completely out of the reach of feelings of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black in heart, hollow and black!"
Anne's astonished expression and her exclamation of wonder made her pause, and in a calmer way she added:
and it was all he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He always had a home with us whenever he wanted it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have shared his last penny with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know he helped him many times."
"That must have been around that time in Mr. Hightower's life," said Anne, "who has always made me particularly curious. It must have been around the same time he became known to my father and sister. I myself have never known him I have only heard of him, but it was something in his behavior at that time, towards my father and my sister, and later in his marital relationships, which I could never quite reconcile with the present time, it seemed to announce a different kind of man."
"I know everything, I know everything," Cried Mrs. Smith. "He had been introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I knew him, but I heard him speak of them forever. I know he was invited and encouraged, and I know he didn't decide to leave. I can please you perhaps on points that you would not expect much, and as far as his marriage is concerned, I knew everything about it at the time, I was privy to all the pros and cons, I was the friend to whom he entrusted his hopes and plans, and although I did not know his wife before, her inferior position in society actually made this impossible, but I knew her all her life after that, or at least until the last two years of her life, and I can answer any question for you."
"No," Anne said, "I don't have any special research to do about her. I always knew they weren't a happy couple. But I would like to know why, during this period of his life, he should disdain my father's acquaintance as he did. My father was certainly willing to take very friendly and appropriate notice of him. Why did Mr. Hightower retire?"
I should hear from your father and sister all the time. He described one Miss Hightower, and I thought very lovingly of the other."
"Maybe," Anne exclaimed, struck by a sudden idea, "have you sometimes talked to Hightower-san about me?"
"Of course I did; very often. I used to brag about my own Anne Hightower and vouch for the fact that you are a completely different creature than ..."
She checked herself just in time.
"That explains something Hightower-san said last night," Anne shouted. "That explains it. I found that he was used to hearing from me. I couldn't comprehend how. Mr. Hightower got married only for the money? Probably the circumstances that first opened your eyes to your character."
Mrs. Smith hesitated a little here. "Oh! these things are too commonplace. When you live in the world, it's too commonplace for a man or woman to get married for money to meet you as it should. I was very young and only interacted with the youth, and we were thoughtless, gay, without strict rules of conduct. We lived for pleasure. I think differently now; Time and illness and sorrow have given me different ideas; but I must confess that at that time I saw nothing reprehensible about what Mr. Hightower was doing. 'Doing the best for yourself' was considered a duty."
"But wasn't she a very low woman?"
everyone should have his for fifty pounds, including coat of arms and motto, name and livree; but I will not pretend to repeat half of what I have always heard him say on this subject. It would not be fair; and yet you should have evidence, for what is all this just assertion, and you will have evidence."
"In fact, my dear Mrs. Smith, I don't want one," Anne shouted. "They didn't claim anything that contradicted what Hightower-san seemed to be a few years ago. This is more of a confirmation of what we used to hear and believe. I'm rather curious to know why he should be so different now."
"But to my satisfaction, if you have the goodness to ring mary, stay: I'm sure you'll have the even greater kindness of going into my bedroom yourself and bringing me the little pickled box you'll find upstairs shelf of the closet."
Anne, who saw that her friend was serious about it, did what she wanted. The box was brought and placed in front of her, and Mrs. Smith sighed over it as she unlocked it, saying,
"This is full of papers that belong to him, my husband; only a small part of what I had to go through when I lost it. The letter I am looking for was one that Mr. Hightower wrote to him before our marriage, and it happened to save; why, one can hardly imagine. But he was careless and unmethodic in these things, like other men, and when I came to check his papers, I found it even more trivial in others, by different people scattered here and there, while many letters and memoranda of real significance had been destroyed. Here it is; I wouldn't burn it because even then I was very dissatisfied with Hightower-san and determined to preserve every document of former intimacy. I now have another reason to be happy that I can produce it."
This was the letter addressed to "Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells",, and dated from London, as far back as in July 1803:--
"Dear Smith, I have received yours. Their kindness almost overwhelms me. I wish nature had made hearts like yours more often, but I've lived in the world for twenty-three years and never seen anything like it. Believe me, at the moment I don't need your services as I am cash again. Make me happy: I'm rid of Sir Walter and Miss. They have returned to Kellynch and almost swore to me to visit them this summer But my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor to tell me how best to make it to the hammer. However, the baronet is not unlikely to remarry; he's pretty stupid. However, if he does, they will leave me alone, which is perhaps a decent countervalue for the relapse, it is worse than last year.
"I wish I had a different name than Hightower. I'm sick of it. I can drop the name Walter, thank God! to really belong only to you, – Wm. Hightower."
Such a letter could not be read without setting Anne on fire; and Mrs. Smith, noticing the high color on her face, said,
"I know the language is highly disrespectful. Although I forgot the exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning. But it shows you the man. Mark his poor man's professions. Can something be stronger? Anne
could not immediately overcome the shock and humiliation of finding such words applied to her father. She had to remember that it was a violation of the honor laws, that she had seen the letter, that no one should be condemned or recognized by such testimonies, that no private correspondence could bear the eye of others before she could find rest enough to return the letter she had been thinking about and say:
"Thank you. This is undoubtedly complete proof; a proof of everything you have said. But why should you get to know us now?"
"I can explain that too," Mrs. Smith shouted with a smile.
"Can you really?"
"Yes. I've shown you Hightower-san what he was like a dozen years ago, and I'm going to show him as he is now. I can no longer provide written proof, but I can speak as authentically as you would like, of what he is what he wants now and what he is doing now. He is not a hypocrite now. He really wants to marry you. His present attentions to your family are very sincere: from the heart. I will give you my authority: his friend Colonel Wallis."
"Colonel Wallis! do you know him?"
"No. It doesn't come so directly to me; it takes one or two bends, but nothing of significance. The stream is as good as it was at the beginning; the little garbage that accumulates in the bends is easily moved Mr. Hightower talks unreservedly with Colonel Wallis about his views on you, which said that Colonel Wallis is in my opinion a reasonable, cautious and demanding character in itself, but Colonel Wallis has a very pretty, stupid wife to whom he says things he better not have done, and he repeats everything to her, she repeats it in the overflowing mood of her nurse's recovery, and the nurse who knows my acquaintance with you naturally brings it to me. On Monday night, my good friend Mrs. Rooke introduced me so much to the secrets of the Marlborough Buildings. So when I talked about a whole story, you see, I wasn't as romantic as you thought.
"My dear Mrs. Smith, your authority is deficient. This won't do. That Mr. Hightower has any views about me will not in the least explain the efforts he has made to reconcile with my father. That was all before I came to Bath. I found her friendly when I arrived."
"I know you did; I know everything perfectly, but –"
"In fact, Mrs. Smith, we can't expect to get real information in such a line. Facts or opinions that are to pass through the hands of so many, misunderstood by one by foolishness and by another by ignorance, can hardly have much truth left."
"Let me just listen. You will soon be able to judge the general honor by listening to some details that you can immediately object to or confirm yourself. No one assumes that you were their first incentive. He had actually seen you before he came to Bath and admired you, but without knowing that it was you. At least that's what my historian says. Is that true? Did he see you last summer or fall, "somewhere down in the west," to use them? Words without knowing it's you?"
"He certainly has. So far, it's very true. In Lyme. I happened to be in Lyme."
"Well," Mrs. Smith continued triumphantly, "grant my friend credit for making the first claimed point. He saw you in Lyme at the time and liked you so much that he was extremely happy to meet you again in Camden Place, like Miss Anne Hightower, and from that moment on, I have no doubt, a double reason for his visits there. But there was another and an earlier one that I will explain now. If there is anything in my story that concerns you is either wrong or unlikely, stop me. My report says that your sister's girlfriend, the lady who now lives with you, whom you mentioned, stayed there with Miss Hightower and Sir Walter back in September (in short, when they first came themselves) and since then; that she is a smart, flattering, beautiful woman, poor and plausible, and overall so in situation and manner to give Sir Walter's acquaintances a general idea that she intends to be Lady Hightower, and generally a surprise that Miss Hightower seems to be blind to the danger.
Here Mrs. Smith paused for a moment; but Anne had no word to say, and she continued –
he has gradually learned to tie his happiness to the episode he inherits. I thought it would come before our acquaintance stopped, but it's now a confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the thought of not being Sir William. You can therefore guess that the messages he heard from his friend could not be very pleasant, and you can guess what they produced; the decision to return to Bath as soon as possible and settle here for a while in order to renew his former acquaintance and regain a foothold in the family in such a way that he would have the opportunity to determine the degree of his own danger, and to bypass the lady if he considered it important. This was agreed between the two friends as the only thing to do; and Colonel Wallis was to help him in every possible way. It should be presented, and Mrs Wallis should be introduced, and all of them should be presented. Mr. Hightower came back accordingly; and upon request, as you know, it was forgiven and readmitted to the family; and there it was his constant goal and his only goal (until your arrival added another motif) to watch Sir Walter and Mrs. Clay. He never missed an opportunity to be with them, threw himself in their way, called to all hours; but I don't need to be special on this topic. You can imagine what a skilled man would do; and with this guide you may be able to remember what you saw him do." to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He never missed an opportunity to be with them, threw himself in their way, called to all hours; but I don't need to be special on this topic. You can imagine what a skilled man would do; and with this guide you may be able to remember what you saw him do." to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He never missed an opportunity to be with them, threw himself in their way, called to all hours; but I don't need to be special on this topic. You can imagine what a skilled man would do; and with this guide you may be able to remember what you saw him do."
"Yes," Anne said, "you don't tell me anything that doesn't agree with what I knew or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of the ruse. The maneuvers of selfishness and duplicity must always be repulsive, but I haven't heard anything that really surprised me. I know those who would be shocked by such a portrayal of Mr. Hightower, who would have difficulty believing it, but I was never satisfied. I was always looking for a different motive for his behavior than it turned out. I would like to know his current opinion on the probability of the event he was afraid of, whether he considers the danger to be lower or not."
"Slacken, I understand," Replied Mrs. Smith. "He believes that Mrs. Clay is afraid of him, is aware that he sees through her, and does not dare to proceed as she could in his absence. But since he has to be absent at some point, I don't understand how he can ever be safe while she retains her current influence. Mrs. Wallis, as the nurse told me, has an amusing idea that when you and Mr. Hightower get married, it should be included in the marriage articles that your father should not marry Mrs. Clay. A plan worthy of Mrs. Wallis' understanding, anyway, but my reasonable nanny Rooke sees the absurdity in it. "Of course, Ma'am," she said, "it wouldn't stop him from marrying someone else." And indeed, to tell the truth, I don't think That Nurse in her heart is a very energetic opponent of Sir Walter making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favorite of marriage, you know; and (since the self will disturb) who can say that she doesn't have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Hightower, by Mrs. Wallis' recommendation?
"I'm very happy to know all this," Anne said after some reflection. "In some ways it will be more painful for me to be with him, but I will know better what to do. My behavior will be more direct. Mr. Hightower is obviously a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man who has never had a better principle than selfishness to guide him."
But Mr. Hightower wasn't done yet. Mrs. Smith had been torn away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family affairs, how much had originally been hinted at against him; but her attention was now drawn to the explanation of these first insinuations, and she listened to a lecture which, although it did not fully justify Mrs. Smith's unqualified bitterness, proved that he had behaved very insensitively towards her; very inadequate in both justice and compassion.
She learned that they (the intimacy between them, which was not affected by Mr. Hightower's marriage) had always been together as before, and that Mr. Hightower had led his friend to expenses far beyond his fortune. Mrs. Smith did not want to blame herself and was very tender when it came to blaming her husband; but Anne could see that her income had never matched her lifestyle and that there had been a lot of general and common extravagance from the beginning. From his wife's account of him, she could see that Mr. Smith was a man with warm feelings, mild temperament, careless habits, and little understanding, much more amiable than his friend and very dissimilar to him, guided by him, and probably despised by him. Mr. Hightower, raised to great prosperity by his marriage, and ready for any satisfaction of pleasure and vanity that could be offered without interfering with himself (for all his licentiousness he had become a wise man), and began to become rich, just as his friend should have found himself poor, did not seem to have cared at all about the likely finances of this friend, but, on the contrary, had instigated and promoted expenditures that could only end in ruin; and Smith's had been ruined accordingly. had initiated and promoted expenses that could only end in ruin; and Smith's had been ruined accordingly. had initiated and promoted expenses that could only end in ruin; and Smith's had been ruined accordingly.
The husband had died just in time to spare full knowledge of it. They had previously experienced enough embarrassment to test their friends' friendship and prove that Mr. Hightower's had better not be put to the test; but it was not until his death that the miserable state of his affairs became fully known. With a confidence in Mr. Hightower's respects, which was due to his feelings rather than his judgment, Mr. Smith had appointed him executor; but Mr. Hightower did not want to act, and the difficulties and torments that this refusal had accumulated on them, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of their situation, had been those that could not be told without anguish or heard without appropriate indignation.
Anne was shown a few letters from him on this occasion, responses to urgent requests from Mrs. Smith, all of which radiated the same stern determination not to engage in a fruitless anger, and, with cold courtesy, the same hard-hearted indifference to each of them for the evils it might bring upon them. It was a terrible picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and Anne felt in some moments that no overt crime could have been worse. She had a lot to hear; all the details of past sad scenes, all the details of grief over sorrow that had only been hinted at in previous conversations, were now treated with natural forbearance. Anne could fully understand the extraordinary relief and was only more inclined to wonder about the serenity of her friend's ordinary state of mind.
There was one circumstance in the history of their complaints that was particularly annoying. She had good reason to believe that part of her husband's property in the West Indies, which for many years had been under a kind of sequestration to pay its own encumbrances, could be recovered by appropriate measures; and this possession, although not large, would be enough to make them relatively rich. But there was no one to move in it. Mr. Hightower would do nothing, and she herself could not do anything, since she was hindered by her physical weakness both by personal effort and by the attitude of others by her lack of money. She had no natural connections to help her, not even with her lawyer, and she could not afford to buy the assistance of the law. That was a cruel aggravation of actually scarce resources.
On this point, she had hoped to ask Mr. Hightower for Anne's good offices. She had previously been very afraid of losing her friend in anticipation of her marriage; but when he was assured that he could not have made such an attempt, since he did not even know that she was in Bath, he immediately realized that through the influence of the woman he loved, and she, something could be done in her favor, he had hastily prepared to interest Anne's feelings, as far as the observations allowed due to Mr. Hightower's character, when Anne's refutation of the alleged engagement changed the face of everything; and while it deprived her of the newly created hope of achieving the goal of her first fear, she at least left her the comfort of telling the whole story in her own way.
After listening to this full description of Mr. Hightower, Anne couldn't help but express her surprise that Mrs. Smith had spoken so positively about him at the beginning of their conversation. "She seemed to recommend and praise him!"
"My dear," was Mrs. Smith's reply, "there was nothing else to do. I thought your marriage was safe, although he may not have made the offer yet, and I could not tell the truth about him more than if he had been your husband, my heart bled for you when I spoke of happiness, and yet he is reasonable, he is pleasant, and with a woman like you it was not entirely hopeless, he was very rude to his first wife. They were miserable together. But she was too ignorant and dizzy to have respect, and he had never loved her. I was ready to hope that you had to fare better."
Anne could simply absorb such an opportunity to have led him to marry, which made her shudder at the idea of the misery that had to follow. It was quite possible that she was persuaded by Lady Russell! And what would have been most miserable under such an assumption, when time had revealed everything too late?
It was highly desirable that Lady Russell should no longer be deceived; and one of the final agreements of that important conference, which she held for most of the morning, was that Anne had full freedom to tell her friend anything about Mrs. Smith that his behavior was involved in.
Chapter 245
Marianne's illness, although weakening in its kind, had not lasted long enough to delay her recovery; and with youth, natural strength, and the presence of her mother to help, it went on smoothly to allow her to go to Mrs. Palmifer's dressing room within four days of the latter's arrival. When she was there, Colonel Bridgerton was invited to visit her at her own special request, as she couldn't wait to thank him for fetching her mother.
His excitement at entering the room, at the sight of her changed appearance and at the reception of the pale hand that she immediately stretched out to him, was just as Eleanore's assumption had to evoke more than his affection for Marianne or the awareness that it is known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholic eyes and changing complexion, as he looked at her sister, the likely recurrence in his memory of many past scenes of misery, brought back by the already recognized resemblance between Marianne and Eliza and now reinforced by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the attitude of leaning back weakness and the warm admission of a special obligation.
Mrs. Hargrove, who was no less vigilant about what was happening than her daughter, but observed with a very differently influenced mind and therefore with a completely different effect, saw in the Colonel's behavior nothing but that which arose from the simplest and most obvious feelings, while in Marianne's deeds and words she persuaded herself to believe that something more than gratitude was already dawning.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne became visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Hargrove, equally urged by her own desire and that of her daughter, began to talk about moving to Barton. Those of her two friends depended on HER actions; Mrs. Jennings could not leave Cleveland during the Hargroves' stay; and Colonel Bridgerton was soon persuaded by their joint request to regard his own stay there as equally destined, if not indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jenning's joint request, Mrs. Hargrove was persuaded to accept the use of his carriage on their return journey to better accommodate her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Hargrove and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-naturedness made them kind and hospitable to other people and to herself,
The Day of Separation and Departure came; and Marianne, having said goodbye to Mrs. Jennings, who was so sincerely grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes, as sincerely and as long as it seemed, from their own heart out of a secret admission of past inattention, and said goodbye to Colonel Bridgerton with a warmth of a friend, was carefully led into the carriage by him, of which he seemed concerned that it should take up at least half. Then Mrs. Hargrove and Eleanore followed, and the others were left to their own devices to talk about the travelers and feel their own dullness, until Mrs. Jennings was called to her car to console herself over her maid's gossip about the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Bridgerton immediately made his lonely way to Delaford.
The Hargrove's were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Eleanore, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
As they approached Barton and entered scenes where every field and tree brought a strange, painful memory, she became quiet and thoughtful, turning her face away from her attention, and staring earnestly through the window. But here Eleanore could neither wonder nor reproach; and when she saw, when she helped Marianne out of the carriage that she had cried, she saw only a feeling that in itself was too natural to evoke something less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to be praised. In all her later form, she pursued the direction of a spirit awakened to appropriate effort; for as soon as they had entered their common living room, Marianne looked around their eyes with determined determination, as if she were determined to immediately get used to the sight of every object with which the memory of Warwick could be associated. – She said little, but every sentence was aimed at happiness, and although she sometimes missed a sigh, it never passed without the atonement of a smile. After dinner, she tried her pianoforte. She approached it; but the music on which her eye rested at first was an opera that Warwick had given her, which contained some of her favorite duets and on the outer sheet of which her own name bore her own name in his handwriting. – That was not possible. – She shook her head, put the notes aside, and after walking over the keys for a minute, she complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future. — She said little, but every sentence was aimed at cheerfulness, and when she sometimes missed a sigh, it never passed without the atonement of a smile. After dinner, she tried her pianoforte. She approached it; but the music on which her eye rested at first was an opera that Warwick had given her, which contained some of her favorite duets and on the outer sheet of which her own name bore her own name in his handwriting. – That was not possible. – She shook her head, put the notes aside, and after walking over the keys for a minute, she complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future. — She said little, but every sentence was aimed at cheerfulness, and when she sometimes missed a sigh, it never passed without the atonement of a smile. After dinner, she tried her pianoforte. She approached it; but the music on which her eye rested at first was an opera that Warwick had given her, which contained some of her favorite duets and on the outer sheet of which her own name bore her own name in his handwriting. – That was not possible. – She shook her head, put the notes aside, and after walking over the keys for a minute, she complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future. After dinner, she tried her pianoforte. She approached it; but the music on which her eye rested at first was an opera that Warwick had given her, which contained some of her favorite duets and on the outer sheet of which her own name bore her own name in his handwriting. – That was not possible. – She shook her head, put the notes aside, and after walking over the keys for a minute, she complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future. After dinner, she tried her pianoforte. She approached it; but the music on which her eye rested at first was an opera that Warwick had given her, which contained some of her favorite duets and on the outer sheet of which her own name bore her own name in his handwriting. – That was not possible. – She shook her head, put the notes aside, and after walking over the keys for a minute, she complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future. complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future. complained of weakness in her fingers and closed the instrument again; However, she explained with certainty that she should practice a lot in the future.
The next morning, these happy symptoms did not subside. On the contrary, with a body and mind strengthened by the calm, she saw and spoke with a more honest mind, awaiting the joy of Margaret's return and speaking of the dear family celebration that would then be restored, of their common occupations and their joyful company, as the only happiness worth wishing.
and there are others of more modern production that I know I can borrow from Colonel Bridgerton. By reading only six hours a day, I will gain a lot of lessons over the course of twelve months, which I now feel to wish for.
Eleanore honored them for such a noble plan; although she smiled when she saw that the same zealous fantasy that had led her to the extreme sluggish inertia and selfish whining was now at work to introduce excess into a scheme of such rational occupation and virtuous self-control. However, her smile turned into a sigh when she remembered that the promise to Warwick had not yet been fulfilled, and feared that she would have to share something that could unsettle Marianne's mind again and ruin this beautiful prospect of busy rest, at least for a time. Therefore, since she was willing to delay the evil hour, she decided to wait until her sister's health was safer before ordering it. But the decision was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been home for two or three days before the weather was so nice that an invalid like her could venture out. But eventually a soft, friendly morning appeared; those that could tempt the wishes of the daughter and the trust of the mother; and Marianne, leaning on Eleanore's arm, was empowered to walk in the alley in front of the house as long as she could without fatigue.
The sisters set off in one step, slowly like Marianne's weakness in a previously untested exercise, as her illness required it; – and they had only advanced so far beyond the house that they could fully see the hill, the important hill behind it. As Marianne paused with her eyes fixed on it, she calmly said,
"There, right there," pointing with one hand, "on this protruding hill – that's where I fell, and that's where I saw Warwick for the first time."
Her voice sank at the word, but as she recovered, she added,
"I'm grateful to be able to look so painlessly on the spot! – shall we ever talk about it, Eleanore?" – hesitantly it was said – "Or will it be wrong? – I can talk about it now I hope how I should do it." —
Eleanore tenderly invited her to be open.
"As for regret," Marianne said, "I did that for ER. if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could believe that he does not ALWAYS play a role, does not ALWAYS cheat on me; – but especially if I could be sure that he was never as VERY evil as I feared have sometimes grown fond of him since the story of this unhappy girl" –
She stopped. Eleanore joyfully appreciated her words when she replied,
"If you could be sure of that, you think you should just be."
"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved; For it is not only appalling to suspect such intentions of a person who was what He was to ME, but what must it make seem to me? – What in a situation like mine, but a shamelessly unprotected affection could expose me" –
"How then," her sister asked, "would you explain his behavior?"
"I would accept it, -- Oh, how I would like to accept it, just inconsistent, very, very volatile."
Eleonore said nothing more. She wondered whether to start her story right away or postpone it until Marianne was in better health – and they crept on in silence for a few minutes.
"I don't wish him too much good," Marianne finally said with a sigh, "if I wish that his secret reflections might not be more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough from it."
"Do you compare your behavior with his?"
"No. I compare it to what it should have been; I compare it to yours."
"Our situations bore little resemblance."
"They have borne more than our conduct.—Do not, my dearest Eleanore, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think— It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behavior, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died,—it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,—wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died,—in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!—You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!—How should I have lived in YOUR remembrance!—My mother too! How could you have consoled her!—I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Mideltowns, to the Palmifer's, the Clayhorn's, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.—To John, to Esther,—yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you,—you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?—not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.—Your example was before me; but to what avail?—Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?—No;—not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Eleanore, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied,
"You are very good.—The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it—my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practice the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Warwick—to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment."
She paused—and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart, everything would become easy."
Eleanore, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Warwick grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word.—She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.
Eleanore, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Warwick, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. Eleanore would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parkour to fulfill her parting injunction.
Chapter 246
One morning, about a week after Woodland's engagement to Jane was concluded, as he and the family's wives were sitting together in the dining room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window by the sound of a carriage; and they noticed a carriage and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the Equipage did not respond to that of one of their neighbors. The horses were mail; and neither the carriage nor the livree of the servant who preceded it were familiar to them. However, since it was certain that someone would come, Woodland immediately persuaded Miss Mitchell to avoid restricting such intrusion and to go into the bushes with him. They both set off, and the guesses of the remaining three continued, albeit with little satisfaction, until the door was torn open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
Of course, they all wanted to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Mitchell and Kitty, although she was completely unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
She entered the room with a face that was more than usual rude, responded to Elizabeth's greeting only with a slight tilt of the head and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had given her name to her mother when her ladyship moved in, although no request for performance had been made.
Mrs. Mitchell received her with amazement, even though she felt flattered to have such an important guest, with the utmost courtesy. After sitting in silence for a moment, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
"I hope you're fine, Miss Mitchell. This lady, I suppose, is your mother."
Elizabeth replied very succinctly that she was.
'And THAT is probably one of your sisters.'
"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Mitchell, pleased to speak to a Lady Catherine. She is my penultimate girl. My youngest of them all is recently married, and my eldest is somewhere on the property walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become part of the family."
"You have a very small park here," Lady Catherine replied after a short silence.
"It's nothing compared to Rosings, Mylady, dare I say; but I assure you, it is much greater than that of Sir William Lucas."
"This must be an extremely uncomfortable living room for the evening in the summer; the windows face all the way to the west.'
Mrs. Mitchell assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then added,
"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyhood if you left Mr. and Mrs. Collins well."
'Yes very good. I saw them the night before yesterday."
Elizabeth now expected to present her with a letter from Charlotte, as this seemed to be the only likely motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely confused.
Mrs. Mitchell asked her ladyhood with great courtesy to take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine refused to eat something very resolutely and not very politely; and then he stood up and said to Elizabeth,
"Miss Mitchell, on one side of your lawn seemed to be a pretty little wilderness. I would like to play a round in it if you favor me with your company.'
"Go, my love," exclaimed her mother, "and show your ladyhood the various walks. I think she will be happy with the hermitage."
Elizabeth obeyed and ran to her own room to get her umbrella and accompanied her noble guest downstairs. As they walked through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors to the dining room and salon, declared them decent-looking rooms after a brief viewing, and moved on.
Her car stopped at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her servant was in it. They walked silently along the gravel path that led to the grove; Elizabeth was determined not to bother to have a conversation with a woman who was now more outrageous and unpleasant than usual.
"How could I ever think of her as her nephew?" she said as she looked her in the face.
As soon as they entered the grove, Lady Catherine began as follows:
"You cannot be embarrassed, Miss Mitchell, to understand the reason for my trip here. Your own heart, your own conscience must tell you why I am coming.'
Elizabeth watched with unartificial amazement.
"In fact, you are wrong, madam. I couldn't explain the honor of seeing you here at all."
"Miss Mitchell," your lady replied in an angry tone, "you should know that I'm not to be joked with. But as disingenuous as YOU may be, you won't find ME that way. My character has always been celebrated for his sincerity and openness, and in a matter like this, I certainly won't deviate from that. Two days ago, I received a message of a highly alarming nature. I was told that not only was your sister about to be married in the most beneficial way, but that you, this Miss Elizabeth Mitchell, would in all likelihood be reunited with my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Drury, soon after. Although I know it must be a scandalous lie, although I wouldn't hurt him so much to think the truth of it is possible, I immediately decided to head to this place to share my feelings with you."
"If you believed it was impossible to be true," Elizabeth said, blushing. with amazement and contempt: "I am surprised that you have taken the trouble to get this far. What could your ladyship suggest with it?'
"To immediately insist that such a report be generally contradicted."
"Your coming to Longbourn to see me and my family," Elizabeth said coolly, "will be more of a confirmation of that; if such a report actually exists.'
'If! Do you then pretend not to know about it? Hasn't it been diligently circulated by yourself? Don't you know that such a report is being circulated abroad?'
'I've never heard it's like this.'
"And can you also explain that there is no basis for this?"
"I do not claim to have the same openness as your ladyhood. You can ask questions that I won't answer.'
"This is unbearable. Miss Mitchell, I insist on being satisfied. Did he, my nephew, make you a marriage offer?'
"Her ladyhood declared it impossible."
"That's how it should be; it must be so as long as he maintains the use of his reason. But your arts and temptations may have made him forget in a moment of infatuation what he owes to himself and his entire family. Maybe you pulled him in."
"If so, I will be the last person to confess it."
"Miss Mitchell, do you know who I am? I am not used to such a language. I am almost the closest relative he has in the world and am entitled to know all his favorite concerns.'
"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behavior ever cause me to be explicit.'
"Let me be understood correctly. This match that you have to measure can never take place. No, never. Drury-san is engaged to my daughter. What do you have to say now?'
'Only that; If so, you have no reason to believe that he will make me an offer.'
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment and then replied,
"The engagement between them is of a special kind. From childhood, they were meant for each other. It was HIS mother's favorite wish, as well as hers. In her cradle we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters were to be fulfilled in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior origin, of no importance in the world and completely unallied with the family! Do you not take into account the wishes of his friends? To his tacit engagement to Miss de Bourgh? Have you lost all sense of decency and tenderness? Didn't you hear me say that he was meant for his cousin from his earliest hours?'
"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what does this matter to me? If there are no other objections to me marrying your nephew, I certainly won't be stopped from knowing that his mother and aunt wanted to marry him to Miss de Bourgh. They both did as much as possible in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Drury-san is not limited to his cousin either out of honor or inclination, why shouldn't he make a different choice? And if I am that choice, why can't I accept it?'
"Because honor, decency, prudence, no, interest forbid it. Yes, Miss Mitchell, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends if you act deliberately against everyone's inclinations. They are reprimanded, insulted and despised by all those associated with him. Their alliance will be a disgrace; Your name will not be mentioned by any of us.'
"This is a serious misfortune," Elizabeth replied. "But Mr. Drury's wife must have such extraordinary sources of happiness that are necessarily associated with her situation that, by and large, she might have no reason to complain."
"Stubborn, stubborn girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions last spring? Am I not entitled to anything in this respect? Let's take a seat. You have to understand, Miss Mitchell, that I came here with a firm determination to achieve my goal; nor will I let myself be dissuaded from it. I am not used to submitting to the whims of a person. I'm not used to enduring disappointment.'
'THIS will make the situation of your ladyhood more pathetic at the moment; but it won't affect me.'
"I will not be interrupted. Listen to me in silence. My daughter and nephew are meant for each other. They are descended from the same noble line on their mother's side; and, on that of the father, of respectable, honorable and old – albeit untitled – families. Their happiness on both sides is magnificent. They are intended for each other by the vote of each member of their respective houses; and what should it share? The upstart claims of a young woman without family, connections or wealth. Is that bearable! But it doesn't have to be, it shouldn't be. If you were aware of your own well-being, you wouldn't want to leave the sphere in which you grew up.'
"By marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself to be leaving this sphere. He is a gentleman; I am the daughter of a gentleman; so far we are the same.'
'True. You are the daughter of a gentleman. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Don't imagine that I don't know their condition.'
"Whatever my connections may be," Elizabeth said, "if your nephew doesn't mind, they can't mean anything to you."
"Tell me once and for all, are you engaged to him?"
Although Elizabeth would not have answered this question just to do Lady Catherine the favor, after a short reflection she couldn't help but say,
'I'm not.'
Lady Catherine seemed delighted.
"And do you promise me never to make such a commitment?"
'I'm not going to make a promise of this kind.'
"Miss Mitchell, I am shocked and amazed. I was expecting to find a more reasonable young woman. But make no mistake in believing that I will ever retreat. I'm not going to leave until you've given me the insurance I need.'
'And I certainly NEVER shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Drury to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject.'
'Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a patched-up business, at the expense of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?'
'You can now have nothing further to say,' she resentfully answered. 'You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house.'
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
'You have no regard, then, for the honor and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?'
'Lady Catherine, I have nothing further to say. You know my sentiments.'
'You are then resolved to have him?'
'I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to YOU, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me.'
'It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honor, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world.'
'Neither duty, nor honor, nor gratitude,' replied Elizabeth, 'have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Drury. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former WERE excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern—and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn.'
'And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Mitchell, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point.'
In this way, Lady Catherine continued to speak until they were at the door of the carriage when she hastily turned around and added, "I am not saying goodbye to you, Miss Mitchell. I don't send compliments to your mother. They do not deserve such attention. I am seriously dissatisfied."
Elizabeth did not answer; and without trying to persuade her ladyhood to return to the house, she quietly went inside herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she climbed the stairs. Her mother approached her impatiently at the door of the dressing room to ask her why Lady Catherine wouldn't come back in and rest.
'She didn't choose it,' said her daughter, 'she would leave.'
"She is a very handsome woman! and her calling here was amazingly polite! for she came, I suppose, only to tell us that the Collinss were doing well. She's traveling somewhere, dare I say, and thought that as she drove through Meryton, she thought she might as well visit you. I suppose she didn't have anything special to say to you, Lizzy?"
Elizabeth was forced to give a little untruth here; for acknowledging the content of their conversation was impossible.
Chapter 247
Around the end of the week after his return to Mansfield, Tom's imminent danger was over, and he was declared safe enough to make it perfectly easy for his mother; for now being accustomed to his sight in his suffering, helpless state and hearing only the best and never thinking beyond what she heard, without a tendency to worry and without a talent for a wink, Lady Schmidt was the happiest subject in the world for a small medical imposition. The fever was subdued; the fever had been his complaint; of course he would soon get well again. Lady Schmidt couldn't think anything less, and Esther shared her aunt's safety until she received a few lines from Edmund that were intentionally written to give her a clearer idea of his brother's situation. and introduced her to the fears he and his father had taken in from the doctor regarding some severe hectic symptoms that seemed to take the frame when the fever left. They thought it was best not to let Lady Schmidt be bothered by alarms that would hopefully prove unfounded; but there was no reason why Esther shouldn't know the truth. They were afraid for his lungs.
A few lines from Edmund showed her the patient and the hospital room in a fairer and stronger light than all of Lady Schmidt's sheets could. There was hardly anyone in the house who could not have described it better from personal observation than herself; none that was sometimes no more useful to her son. She could do nothing but quietly slide in and look at him; but if he was able to speak or be spoken to him or read to him, Edmund was the companion he preferred. His aunt worried him about her worries, and Sir Thomas didn't know how to bring his conversation or voice to the level of anger and weakness. Edmund was all in all. Esther would at least believe him and had to realize that she held him in higher esteem than ever before when he acted as a companion, supporter, cheerer of a suffering brother.
The family was not dwindling, and she tended to hope for her cousin rather than fear, except when she thought of Miss Dorset; but Miss Dorset gave her the idea of being the child of happiness, and to her selfishness and vanity it would bring luck to have Edmund as the only son.
Even in the hospital room, the happy Mary was not forgotten. Edmund's letter had this addendum. "As for my last topic, I had actually started a letter when I was recalled because of Tom's illness, but now I have changed my mind and am afraid to trust the influence of friends. If Tom gets better, I'll leave."
Such was the state of Mansfield, and so it continued with little change until Easter. One line Edmund occasionally added to his mother's letter was enough for Esther's information. Tom's change was frighteningly slow.
Easter came particularly late this year, as Esther had thought about it very sadly when she first learned that she could only leave Portsmouth afterwards. It came, and she had not heard of her return, not even of the trip to London that was to precede her return. Her aunt often expressed a wish for her, but there was no message, no message from the uncle on whom everything mattered. She assumed that he could not leave his son yet, but it was a cruel, terrible delay for her. The end of April was approaching; it would soon be almost three months instead of two that she had been absent from all of them, and that her days had passed in a state of penance that she loved too much to hope that they would thoroughly understand; and who could say when it would be time to think about them or get them?
Her zeal, her impatience, her longing to be with them were so great that they showed her a line or two of Cowper's Tirocinium forever. "With what longing she wants to go home" was constantly on her tongue, as the truest description of a longing that she could not imagine more sharply in any schoolboy bosom.
When she came to Portsmouth, she had liked to call it her home, had liked to say that she would go home; the word had been and still was very dear to her, but it had to be applied to Mansfield. That was now the home. Portsmouth was Portsmouth; Mansfield was at home. They had long been arranged to give in to her secret meditations, and nothing was more comforting for her than to find her aunt in the same language: "I can only say that I very much regret that you are away from home in this oppressive time trying to find my spirits. I trust and hope and wish you from the bottom of my heart that you will never be away from home for so long again," were highly delightful sentences to her. Still, it was her private shelf. Out of consideration for her parents, she was careful not to betray such a preference for her uncle's house. It was always: "If I go back to Northamptonshire or if I return to Mansfield, I will do this and that." For quite a while it was like this, but eventually the longing grew stronger, she overcame caution, and she caught herself talking about what to do when she went home before she realized it. She blamed herself, turned red and looked anxiously at her father and mother. She shouldn't have been restless. There was no sign of displeasure or even of hearing them. They were completely free of jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to wish to go there as she was to be there. and looked anxiously at her father and mother. She shouldn't have been restless. There was no sign of displeasure or even of hearing them. They were completely free of jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to wish to go there as she was to be there. and looked anxiously at her father and mother. She shouldn't have been restless. There was no sign of displeasure or even of hearing them. They were completely free of jealousy of Mansfield. She was as welcome to wish to go there as she was to be there.
Esther was sad to lose all the joys of spring. She had not known before what joys she had to lose in a city in March and April. She had not known before how much they had enjoyed the beginnings and progress of the vegetation. What revival of body and mind she had drawn from observing the progress of this season, which, despite its capriciousness, cannot be unattractive, and seeing its increasing beauty from the earliest flowers in the warmest sections of her aunt's garden, the opening of the leaves of her uncle's plantations and the glory of his forests. Losing such joys was no small thing; Losing her because she was in the midst of closeness and noise, tightness, bad air, bad smells instead of freedom, freshness, scent and greenery was infinitely worse:
if she could have been at home, she could have been at the service of all the creatures in the house. She felt that she must have been of benefit to everyone. To do everything, she must have saved some effort of the head or hand; and if only to support the souls of her Aunt Schmidt, to save her from the evil of loneliness or from the even greater evil of a restless, intrusive companion who is too inclined to increase the danger in order to increase her own meaning, her existence would have been a common good. She liked to imagine how she could have read to her aunt, how she could have talked to her, and immediately tried to make her feel the blessing of what was and prepare her mind for what might come; and how many climbs and descents she might have saved her and how many messages she would have carried.
She was amazed that Tom's sisters could be content to stay in London during this time, despite an illness that had now lasted several weeks, at various levels of risk. They could return to Mansfield if they wanted to; traveling could not cause them any difficulties, and she could not comprehend how both could still stay away. If Mrs. Rushmore could imagine any disruptive commitments, Julia was certainly able to leave London whenever she wanted. One of her aunt's letters revealed that Julia had offered to return if she wanted to, but that was all. It was obvious that she would rather stay where she was.
Esther was inclined to see the influence of London with all respectable attachments very much in the war. She saw the proof of this in Miss Dorset as well as in her cousins; her affection for Edmund had been respectable, the most respectable part of her character; their friendship for themselves had at least been impeccable. Where was the mood now? It had been so long since Esther had received a letter from her that she had reason to disregard the friendship on which so much had been said. It had been weeks since she had heard about Miss Dorset or her other connections in the city, except through Mansfield, and she began to suspect that she might never know whether or not Mr. Dorset had gone back to Norfolk until they met, and could never hear from his sister again this spring.
"Forgive me, my dear Esther, as soon as you can, my long silence, and pretend that you can forgive me directly. This is my humble request and expectation, because you are so good that I depend on being treated better than I deserve, and I am writing to you now to ask for an immediate response. I want to know the state of affairs at Mansfield Park and you can no doubt give it to me. One should be an animal so as not to feel the distress in which one finds oneself; and I hear that poor Mr. Schmidt has poor prospects of a final recovery. At first, I thought little of his illness. I saw him as the kind of person with whom you can make a fuss, and who makes a fuss even with every slight mess, and was mainly concerned about those who had to care for him; but now it is confidently claimed that he is really in decline, that the symptoms are highly worrying, and at least this part of the family is aware of this. If so, I am sure that you need to be included in this part, this discernment part, and therefore ask you to tell me to what extent I am properly informed. I do not need to say how pleased I will be to hear that there has been a mistake, but the report is so widespread that I have to admit that I cannot help but tremble. To have such a fine young man cut off in the prime of his days is highly melancholic. Poor Sir Thomas will find it terrible. I'm really pretty excited about the topic. Esther, Esther, I see you smiling and looking smart, but by my credit, I have never bribed a doctor in my life. Poor young man! When he dies, there are two fewer poor young men in the world; and with a fearless face and a bold voice, I would say to someone: that wealth and meaning could not fall into any hands more worthy of it. It was a foolish rainfall last Christmas, but the evil of a few days can be partially extinguished. Lacquer and gilding hide many stains. It will only be the loss of the Landjunker after his name. With real affection, Esther, like mine, could be more overlooked. Write to me by post, judge of my fear, and do not play with it. Tell me the true truth as you have it from the Source. And now don't try to be ashamed of my feelings or your feelings. Believe me, they are not only natural, they are humane and virtuous. I put it on your conscience whether "Sir Edmund" with all the Schmidt property would not bring more benefit than any other possible "Sir". If the Grants had been at home, I wouldn't have bothered you, but you are now the only one I can turn to to learn the truth, as his sisters are not within my reach. Mrs. R. spent Easter with the Aylmers in Twickenham (as I am sure you know) and has not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square, but I forgot her name and street. Could I apply to both of them right away, but I would still prefer them because I notice that all this time they were so unwilling to cut their own pleasures to close their eyes to the truth. I suspect that Mrs R.'s Easter holidays will not last much longer; without a doubt, it is an extensive holiday for them. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but pleasure. I trust her to have encouraged his dutiful journey to Bath to get his mother; but how will she and the widow agree in a house? Henry is not there, so I have nothing to say about him. Don't you think Edmund would have been back in town long ago without this disease? – Sincerely, Mary."
"I actually started folding my letter when Henry came in, but he doesn't bring any information to prevent me from sending it off. Mrs R. knows that a decline is feared; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street today; The old lady has come. Don't worry about any strange whims now, because he spends a few days in Richmond. He does this every spring. Rest assured, he doesn't care about anyone but you. At this moment, he is furious to see you, and only busy finding the means to do so and bringing his pleasure to yours. To prove it, he repeats even more eagerly what he said in Portsmouth about our journey home, and I join him with all my heart. Dear Esther, write directly and tell us to come. It will do us all good. He and I can go to the rectory, you know, and don't give our friends in Mansfield Park any trouble. It would be really gratifying to see them all again, and a little company could be of infinite benefit to them; and as far as you are concerned, you must feel so wanted there that you cannot stay away with a clear conscience when you have the opportunity to return. I have neither the time nor the patience to deliver Henry's messages halfway; be satisfied that the spirit of everyone is unchangeable affection."
Esther's disgust at most of this letter and her utter reluctance to bring the author and her cousin Edmund together would have rendered her (as she felt) unable to judge impartially whether or not the final offer could be accepted. For herself, it was highly tempting. Perhaps being transported to Mansfield within three days was a picture of the greatest bliss, but it would have been a material disadvantage to owe such bliss to people in whose feelings and behavior she saw so much to condemn in the present moment: the sister's feelings, the brother's behavior, her cold-hearted ambition, his thoughtless vanity. To have him the acquaintance, the flirt perhaps, from Mrs. Rushmore! She was offended. She had thought better of him. Fortunately, however, it was not left to her to weigh up and decide between opposing tendencies and dubious legal concepts; there was no reason to decide whether or not to keep Edmund and Mary separate. She had to stick to a rule that regulated everything. Her reverence for her uncle and her fear of taking a liberty with him immediately made it clear to her what she had to do. It is imperative that it rejects the proposal. If he wanted to, he would send to her; and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden. there was no reason to decide whether or not to keep Edmund and Mary separate. She had to stick to a rule that regulated everything. Her reverence for her uncle and her fear of taking a liberty with him immediately made it clear to her what she had to do. It is imperative that it rejects the proposal. If he wanted to, he would send to her; and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden. there was no reason to decide whether or not to keep Edmund and Mary separate. She had to stick to a rule that regulated everything. Her reverence for her uncle and her fear of taking a liberty with him immediately made it clear to her what she had to do. It is imperative that it rejects the proposal. If he wanted to, he would send to her; and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden. Her reverence for her uncle and her fear of taking a liberty with him immediately made it clear to her what she had to do. It is imperative that it rejects the proposal. If he wanted to, he would send to her; and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden. Her reverence for her uncle and her fear of taking a liberty with him immediately made it clear to her what she had to do. It is imperative that it rejects the proposal. If he wanted to, he would send to her; and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden. and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden. and even offering an early return was a presumption that hardly seemed to justify anything. She thanked Miss Dorset, but firmly denied it. "Her uncle, she understood, wanted to get her; and since her cousin's illness lasted so many weeks without even being deemed necessary, she must assume that her return would not be welcome at this time and that it should be perceived as a burden.
Her representation of her cousin's state at this time was exactly according to her own belief of it, and such as she supposed would convey to the sanguine mind of her correspondent the hope of everything she was wishing for. Edmund would be forgiven for being a clergyman, it seemed, under certain conditions of wealth; and this, she suspected, was all the conquest of prejudice which he was so ready to congratulate himself upon. She had only learned to think nothing of consequence but money.
Chapter 248
It was a very great relief to Emma to find Harriet as desirous as herself to avoid a meeting. Their intercourse was painful enough by letter. How much worse, had they been obliged to meet!
Harriet expressed herself very much as might be supposed, without reproaches, or apparent sense of ill-usage; and yet Emma fancied there was a something of resentment, a something bordering on it in her style, which increased the desirableness of their being separate.—It might be only her own consciousness; but it seemed as if an angel only could have been quite without resentment under such a stroke.
She had no difficulty in procuring Bella's invitation; and she was fortunate in having a sufficient reason for asking it, without resorting to invention.—There was a tooth amiss. Harriet really wished, and had wished some time, to consult a dentist. Mrs. John Hill was delighted to be of use; any thing of ill health was a recommendation to her—and though not so fond of a dentist as of a Mr. Wingfield, she was quite eager to have Harriet under her care.—When it was thus settled on her sister's side, Emma proposed it to her friend, and found her very persuadable.—Harriet was to go; she was invited for at least a fortnight; she was to be conveyed in Mr. Lodge's carriage.—It was all arranged, it was all completed, and Harriet was safe in Brunswick Square.
Now Emma could actually look forward to Mr. Hill's visits; now she could speak, and she could listen with true happiness, unchecked by this feeling of injustice, of guilt, of something very painful that had haunted her when she thought of how disappointed a heart was around her, how much power at that moment and at some distance the feelings that had led her to mislead herself endured.
Harriet's difference with Mrs. Goddard or in London perhaps made an inappropriate difference in Emma's feelings; but she could not think of her in London without objects of curiosity and occupation that had to avert the past and carry her out of herself.
She would not allow any other fear to step directly to the place in her head that Harriet had taken. In front of her was a message for which only she could be competent – the confession of her engagement to her father; but it would have nothing to do with it at the moment. She had decided to postpone the revelation until Mrs. Winstone was safe and well. Among those she loved, there should be no additional excitement during this time – and evil should not act on her by expectation before the set time. – At least fourteen days of leisure and peace of mind to crown every warmer, but more excitement, delight, should belong to her.
She soon decided, as well as duty and pleasure, to use half an hour of this holiday of spirits to visit Miss Saxon. – She was to leave – and she longed to see her; the similarity to their present situation enhances any other motive of goodwill. It would be a secret satisfaction; but the awareness of a similar prospect would certainly contribute to the interest with which she should pay attention to anything that Jane could communicate.
She left – she had once driven unsuccessfully to the door, but had not come into the house since the morning after Box Hill, when poor Jane had been in such distress that had filled her with compassion, although all her worst sufferings had been unexpected. – The fear of still being unwanted, although she was sure that they were at home, prompted her to wait in the aisle and give her name. She heard Patty announce it; but no such activity was successful, as poor Miss Bates had previously made so happily understandable. - No; she heard nothing but the immediate reply: "Ask her to go up" – and a moment later she was received on the stairs by Jane herself, who eagerly came to the front, as if no other reception from her would be perceived as sufficient. – Emma I had never seen her look so good, so beautiful, so engaging. There was consciousness, liveliness and warmth; there was everything her expression or manner could ever have wanted.—She stepped forward with a hand presented; and said in a quiet but very soulful tone:
"This is really very friendly! Miss Lodge, it's impossible for me to express – I hope you'll believe me – excuse me for being so wordless."
Emma was satisfied and would soon have shown no shortage of words if the sound of Mrs. Alton's voice from the living room hadn't held her back and made it appropriate to turn all her kind and congratulatory feelings into a very, very serious handshake.
Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Alton were together. Miss Bates was out, which was responsible for the previous rest. Emma could have wished Mrs. Alton somewhere else; but she was in the mood to have patience with every body; and when Mrs. Alton met her with unusual kindness, she hoped that the Rencontre would not harm them.
She soon believed she was invading Mrs. Alton's thoughts and understanding why she, like herself, was in a happy mood; it was in Miss Saxon's trust and imagined being familiar with what was still a secret to other people. Emma immediately saw the symptoms in her facial expression; and while she paid Mrs. Bates her own compliments and apparently cared about the good old lady's answers, she saw herself with a kind of anxious parade of secrets to fold up a letter that she had apparently read aloud to Miss Saxon, and returned to the purple and gold crosshairs at her side, saying with a meaningful nod:
"We can end this another time, you know. You and I will not want opportunities. And actually, you have already heard all the essentials. I just wanted to prove to you that Mrs. S. admits our apology and is not offended. You see how delightful she writes. Oh! she is a sweet creature! You would have had a crush on her if you had left. – But not a word more. Let's be discreet – all about our good behavior. – Silent! – You remember these lines – I forget the poem at this moment:
"Because when a lady is in the case,
"You know that all other things make way."
Now I say, my dear, in our case for the lady, read – Mom! a word to the wise men. - I'm in a fine current of spirits, amn't I? But I want to calm your heart as far as Ms. S. is concerned – my replacement, as you can see, has calmed her down completely."
And again, when Emma just turned her head to look at Mrs. Bate's knitwear, she added half-whispering,
"I haven't mentioned any names, you'll notice. – Oh! No; cautiously as Minister of State. I did very well."
Emma could not doubt. It was a tangible representation that was repeated at every possible opportunity. When they had all been talking about the weather in harmony for a while and Mrs. Winstone, she suddenly found herself addressed with:
"Don't you think Miss Lodge, our cheeky little friend here has recovered in an enchanting way? Don't you think her healing lives up to Perry? – (here was a side view of Jane of great importance.) For my word, Perry restored them in a wonderfully short time! – Oh! if you had seen her, as I did when she was at her worst!" – And when Mrs. Bates said something to Emma, she continued to whisper, "We don't say a word about any help Perry could have; not a word from a certain young doctor from Windsor. – Oh! No; Perry should have all the honor."
"I've hardly had the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Lodge," she began shortly thereafter, "since the party in Box Hill. Very pleasant party. But still, I think something was missing. Things didn't seem – that is, there seemed to be a small cloud over the spirits of some. – At least that's how it seemed to me, but I could be wrong. However, I think it has responded to the point that it tempts you to go there again. What do you both say about us gathering the same party and heading back to Box Hill as long as the nice weather continues? – It has to be the same party, you know, quite the same party, no exception."
Soon after, Miss Bates came in, and Emma couldn't help but be distracted by the confusion of her first answer to herself, which, she assumed, resulted from doubts about what could be said and impatience to say everything.
"Thank you, dear Miss Lodge, you are all kindness. – It's impossible to say – yes, I understand – the prospects of your dearest Jane – that is, I don't mean that. – But she has recovered wonderfully Mr. Lodge? – I'm so glad. – Completely out of power. – Such a happy little circle, as you will find us here. – Yes, indeed. – Charming young man! – that's – so very friendly; I mean, good Mr. Perry! – such attention to Jane!" – And from her great, more than usual grateful joy for Mrs. Alton that she was there, Emma guessed, ?? that there had been a little resentment against Jane, from the parish, which has now been graciously overcome. In fact, after a few whispers that made it invaluable, Mrs. Alton, speaking louder, said,
"Yes, here I am, my good friend; and I have been here for so long that somewhere else I would find it necessary to apologize; but the truth is that I am waiting for my Lord and Master. He promised to join me here and pay you his respects."
"What! shall we have the pleasure of a call from Mr. Alton? – This will really be a favor for us! for I know gentlemen don't like morning visits, and Mr. Alton's time is so full."
"In my word, Miss Bates. – He is really engaged from morning to night. – There is no end to people who come to him under any pretext. – The magistrates and supervisors and church leaders always lack his opinion. Without him, they seem to be unable to do anything. – "At my word, Mr. E.", I often say, "rather you than me. – I don't know what would become of my crayons and my instrument if I had half as many applicants.' - Bad enough, because I neglect them both absolutely unforgivably. - I don't think I played a venue for these fourteen days. - But he is coming, I assure you: yes, indeed, to serve you all." And she raised her hand to hide her words from Emma – "Congratulations, you know. – Oh! yes, absolutely indispensable."
Miss Bates looked around so happily – !
"He has promised to come to me as soon as he can break away from Hill; but he and Hill are involved in deep consultation with each other. E. is Hill's right hand."
Emma wouldn't have smiled around the world and just said, "Did Mr. Alton walk to Donwell? – He will have a hot walk."
"Oh! no, it's a meeting at the Crown, a regular meeting. Winstone and Cole will be there too; but one tends to speak only of those who lead. I think Mr. E. and Hill have everything in their own way."
"Weren't you wrong about the day?" said Emma. "I'm almost certain that the meeting at the Crown won't take place until tomorrow. Hill was in Hartfield yesterday and talked about it as if for Saturday."
"Oh! no, the meeting is definitely today," was the harsh response, suggesting the impossibility of a mistake on Mrs. Alton's side. "I really believe," she continued, "that this is the most difficult parish that has ever existed. At Maple Grove, we've never heard of anything like this."
"Your community there was small," Jane said.
"On my word, my dear, I don't know, because I've never heard this topic talked about."
"But it is proved by the smallness of the school that I heard you speak of, since it is under the patronage of your sister and Mrs. Bragge; the only school and no more than twenty-five children."
"Ah! You clever creature, that's very true. What a thinking brain you have! I say, Jane, what a perfect character you and I would make if we could be shaken together. My liveliness and your solidity would bring perfection. – Not that I presume to suggest that some people don't already consider you perfect. – But still! – not a word, please."
It seemed to be an unnecessary precaution; Jane did not want to address her words to Mrs. Alton, but to Miss Lodge, as she clearly saw. The desire to highlight them, as far as courtesy allowed, was very obvious, although he often could not go beyond a glance.
Mr. Alton appeared. His lady greeted him with some of her sparkling liveliness.
"Very pretty, sir, to my word; to send me here, to be a burden to my friends, so long before you allow yourself to come! - But you knew what a dutiful creature you were dealing with. You know, I should not move until my Lord and Master appears. Here I sat this hour and gave these young ladies a test of true conjugal obedience – for who can say, do you know how soon it will be required?"
Mr. Alton was so hot and tired that this whole joke seemed to be thrown away. His courtesy to the other ladies must be paid; but his later goal was to complain about himself because of the heat he suffered and the walk he had had for free.
"When I arrived at Donwell," he said, "Hill could not be found. Very funny! very irresponsible! after the message I sent him this morning and the message he sent back that he should be home safely by one o'clock."
"Donwell!" shouted his wife. " My dear Mr. E., you have not been to Donwell! – You mean the crown; They come from the assembly in the crown."
"No, no, this is tomorrow; and that's why I wanted to see Hill in a special way today. – Such a horrible, brooding morning! – I also walked across the fields – (speaks in a very inappropriate tone) which only made it worse. And then not to meet him at home! I assure you that I am not pleased at all. And no apology left, no message for me. The housekeeper explained that she knew nothing of my expectations. - Very strange! - And no one even knows where he went. Maybe to Hartfield, maybe to Abbey Mill, maybe to his forest. – Miss Lodge, this is not like our friend Hill! – Can you explain it?"
Emma amused herself by protesting that it was indeed very extraordinary and that she could not have said a syllable for him.
"I can't imagine," said Mrs. Alton (she felt the humiliation that a wife was supposed to do), "I can't imagine how he could do such a thing of all the people in the world through you! The very last person to be expected to be forgotten! – My dear Mr. E., he must have left a message for you, I am sure that he must. Not even Hill could be so eccentric – and his servants forgot about it. Rely on that, that was the case: and most likely it will happen to the servants of Donwell, all of whom, as I have often observed, are extremely clumsy and careless. – I'm sure I wouldn't leave such a creature as his Harry sideboard with us for any consideration. And as for Mrs. Hodges, Wright really thinks she's very cheap. She promised Wright a receipt and never sent it."
"I met William Larkins," Mr. Alton continued, "when I came near the house, and he told me I wouldn't find his master at home, but I didn't believe him. – William seemed quite upset. He didn't know what had come to his master lately, he said, but he could hardly ever talk about him. I have nothing to do with William's wishes, but it's really very important that I see Hill today; and it therefore becomes a very serious inconvenience that I should have taken this hot walk for free."
Emma felt like there was nothing better she could do than go straight home. Most likely, she was expected there at that time; and Mr. Hill could be saved from sinking even deeper into aggression against Mr. Alton, if not William Larkins.
She was happy to find Miss Saxon at the farewell, who was determined to accompany her out of the room, even to go downstairs with her; it gave her an opportunity that she immediately took to say,
"Maybe it's good that I didn't have the opportunity to do so. If you hadn't been surrounded by other friends, I might have been tempted to bring in a topic, ask questions, speak more openly than it would have been right.
"Oh!" shouted Jane with a blush and hesitation that Emma believed appealed to her infinitely more than all the elegance of her usual serenity – "there would have been no danger. The danger would have been that I would have tired you. You could not have delighted me more than by expressing interest. In fact, Miss Lodge, (with more prudence) with the awareness that I have of misconduct, of very great misconduct, it is especially comforting for me to know that those of my friends whose good opinion is most worth preserving are not disgusted so far that I do not have half of what I want to say. I long to apologize, to apologize, to demand something for myself. I feel it is very due. But unfortunately – in short, if your compassion is not enough, my friend –
"Oh! you are too conscientious, indeed," Emma shouted heartily and took her hand. "You owe me no apology; and every body to which you could owe it is so completely satisfied, so delighted even ...«
"You are very kind, but I know my manners against you. – So cold and artificial! – I always had a role to play. – It was a life of deception! I know I must have disgusted you."
"Please don't say anything more. I think all apologies should be on my side. Let's forgive each other immediately. We have to do what is fastest to do, and I think our feelings won't waste any time in that. I hope you have pleasant reports from Windsor?"
"Very."
"And the next news, I suppose, will be that we're going to lose you – the way I'm starting to know you."
"Oh! Of course, there is nothing to think about yet. I'm here until I'm used by Colonel and Mrs. Campbell."
"Maybe nothing can really be sorted out yet," Emma replied with a smile, "but excuse me, it has to be remembered."
The smile was returned when Jane replied,
"You are very right; it was thought of. And I admit to you (I'm sure it will be) that our coexistence with Mr. Curcelle in Enscombe is regulated so far. It must be at least three months of deep grief; but when they're over, I assume there's nothing left to wait."
" Thank you, thank you. – That's exactly what I wanted to assure myself. – Oh! if you knew how much I love everything decisive and open! – Goodbye, goodbye."
Chapter 249
Mrs. Hargrove did not hear the justification of her former favorite unmoved. She rejoiced that he was freed from some of his ascribed guilt; – he felt sorry for her – she wished him luck. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled. – Nothing could give him back an unbroken faith – a flawless character, for Marianne. Nothing could extinguish the knowledge of what he had suffered by his means, nor eliminate the guilt of his behavior towards Eliza. Nothing could therefore replace him in their former esteem or hurt the interests of Colonel Bridgerton.
If Mrs. Hargrove, like her daughter, had heard Warwick's story from herself – if she had witnessed his plight and if he had been under the influence of his facial expression and manner, her compassion would probably have been greater. But it was neither in Eleanore's power nor in her desire to arouse in another such feelings through her petty explanation as they had first been evoked in herself. The reflection had calmed her judgment and sobered her own opinion of Warwick's deserts; she therefore only wanted to explain the simple truth and reveal such facts that were really due to his character, without any embellishment through tenderness to mislead the imagination.
In the evening, when all three of them were together, Marianne voluntarily began to speak of him again; – but that it was not without effort, the restless, restless thoughtfulness in which she had previously sat for some time – her rising color as she spoke – and her insecure voice, simply shown.
"I want to assure you both," she said, "that I see everything – as you can ask of me."
Mrs. Hargrove would have interrupted her immediately with soothing tenderness if Eleanore, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion through a zealous sign, had not forced her silence. Marianne continued slowly—
"It's a great relief for me - what Eleanore told me this morning - I have now heard exactly what I wanted to hear." - For a few moments her voice was lost; but recovering, she added, and with greater calm than before: "I am completely satisfied now, I do not want any change. I could never have been happy with him after I must have known all this, sooner or later.- I would have had no trust, no appreciation. Nothing could have taken it away from my feelings."
"I know it – I know it," her mother shouted. "Happy with a man of deserting practices! – With one who has so violated the peace of the dearest of our friends and the best of men! – No – my Marianne has no heart to be happy with such a man! She conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt everything that her husband's conscience should have felt."
Marianne sighed and repeated, "I don't want any change."
"They look at the matter," Eleanore said, "just as a good mind and a good mind have to think about it; and I dare to say that, like me, you see reason enough not only in this but in many other circumstances, convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain difficulties and disappointments in which you would have been poorly supported by affection on your part, much less certain. If you had married, you would always have been poor. His preciousness is self-acknowledged by him, and all his behavior explains that self-denial is a word he barely understands. His demands and your inexperience together must have caused afflictions with a small, very small income, which would be no less painful for you, because you were previously completely unknown and unthought. I know your sense of honor and honesty, if you were aware of your situation, would have led you to try all the frugality that seemed possible to you: and perhaps, as long as your frugality was limited to your own convenience, you might have suffered from practicing it, but beyond that – and how little could the utmost of your sole guidance do, to stop the ruin that had begun before your marriage? There is no reason to fear that instead of asserting yourself to consent through such selfish feelings, you would diminish your own influence on his heart and make him regret the connection that had brought him into such trouble?as long as your frugality was limited to your own comfort, you might have had to be patiented, but beyond that – and how little could the utmost of your individual leadership contribute to: to stop the ruin that had begun before your marriage? – In addition, if you had made an effort, albeit reasonably, to shorten HIS pleasures, is it not to be feared that instead of asserting yourself through such selfish feelings to consent, you would reduce your own influence on his heart and make him regret the connection, what had involved him in such difficulties?" as long as your frugality was limited to your own comfort, you might have had to be patient, but beyond that – and how little could the utmost of your individual leadership help to stop the ruin that had begun before your marriage? – In addition, if you had made an effort, albeit reasonably, to shorten HIS pleasures, is it not to be feared that instead of asserting yourself through such selfish feelings to consent, you would reduce your own influence on his heart and make him regret the connection, what had involved him in such difficulties?" To shorten HIS joys, isn't it to be feared that instead of relying on such selfish feelings to agree, you would diminish your own influence on his heart and make him regret the connection that had brought him into such trouble? "To shorten HIS joys, isn't it to be feared that instead of relying on such selfish feelings to agree with it, you would diminish your own influence on his heart and make him regret the connection that had brought him into such trouble?"
Marianne's lips trembled and she repeated the word "selfish?" in a tone that implied, "Do you really think he's selfish?"
"All his behavior," Eleanore replied, "was based on selfishness from the beginning to the end of the affair. It was selfishness that first made him play with your affections, and later, when his own were engaged, he delayed the confession, and what eventually led him away from Barton. His own enjoyment or comfort was his prevailing principle in every respect.
"It's very true. MY happiness was never his goal."
"At present," Eleanore continued, "he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it? – Because he thinks that it has not answered him no evil of this kind, and he only thinks that he married a woman of less amiable temperament than you. But does it follow that he would have been happy if he had married you? then he would have suffered from the need for money, which he now considers to be nothing because they are gone, he would have had a wife whose temperament he could not complain about, but he would always have been needy, always poor, and probably soon learned to classify the countless amenities of a clear estate and a good income far more important, even for domestic happiness, as the mere temperament of a woman.
"I have no doubt about it," marianne said; "and I have nothing to regret – nothing but my own stupidity."
"Rather, say the unwiseness of your mother, my child," ms. Hargrove said; "SHE must be responsible."
Marianne did not let her go any further; – and Eleanore, content that everyone felt their own fault, wanted to avoid any overview of the past that could weaken her sister's spirit; she therefore pursued the first theme and immediately continued, "One observation can, in my opinion,
be drawn quite a bit from the whole story – that all of Warwick's difficulties arose from the first violation of virtue, in his behavior towards Eliza Williams. This crime was the origin of every minor one, and all its present discontent."
Marianne very sensitively agreed with the remark; and her mother was thereby led to a list of Colonel Bridgerton's injuries and merits, as warm as friendship and intention combined could dictate. However, her daughter didn't look like she was hearing much about it.
Eleanore, according to her expectations, saw on the two or three following days that Marianne was no longer so ?? increased sharply, as she had done; but while her determination was irrepressible and she was still trying to appear cheerful and carefree, her sister could confidently trust in the effect of time on her health.
Margaret returned, and the family was restored to each other, again quietly settled in the hut; and if they don't continue their usual studies with quite as much vigor as they did when they first came to Barton, at least they plan to pursue them vigorously in the future.
Eleanore became impatient with news from Edward. Since she had left London, she had heard nothing from him, nothing new from his plans, nothing safe, not even from his current residence. Some letters had gone between her and her brother as a result of Marianne's illness; and in the first of Johns this sentence had been: - "We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can do no research on such a forbidden subject, but conclude that he is still in Oxford;" that was all that the intelligence of Edward granted her through correspondence, for his name was not mentioned in any of the following letters. However, it was not condemned to remain unaware of his actions for long.
Their servant had been sent to Exeter one morning for business; and when, while waiting at the table, he had satisfied his mistress's inquiries regarding the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication —
"I suppose you know, Ma'am, that Mr. Gastonois is married."
Marianne winced violently, focused her eyes on Eleanore, saw her bleach, and hysterically fell back on her chair. Mrs. Hargrove, whose eyes, when she answered the servant's question, had intuitively gone in the same direction, was shocked when she noticed in Eleanore's facial expression how much she really suffered, and a moment later, equally saddened by Marianne's situation, did not know which ?? Child to give their main attention.
The servant, who only saw that Miss Marianne was sick, had enough sense to call one of the maids, who carried her to the other room with Mrs. Hargrove's help. By this time, Marianne was already feeling a little better, and her mother left her in the care of Margaret and the maid and returned to Eleanore, who, although still very confused, had regained the use of her reason and voice to the point that she had just begun a request from Thomas concerning the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Hargrove immediately took all this trouble upon herself; and Eleanore had the advantage of information without having to make an effort to look for it.
"Who told you that Mr. Gastonois is married, Thomas?"
"I see Mr. Gastonois herself, Ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and also his lady, Miss Clayhorn, as she was Sally in the park to her brother, who is one of the post boys. I looked up by chance as I walked past the carriage, and so I see directly that it was the youngest Miss Clayhorn, so I took off my hat and she knew me and called me and inquired about you, Ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and asked me to give her and Mr. Gastonois her best compliments and services, and how sorry they had no time to see you, but they were in a very hurry to go forward, for they wanted to go further down for a while, but when they came back, they would surely come to see you."
"But did she tell you she's married, Thomas?"
"Yes, Ma'am. She smiled and said that she had changed her name since she was in this area. She was always a very sociable and outspoken young lady and behaved very politely. So I gave free rein to my wishes and their joy."
"Was Mr. Gastonois in the carriage with her?"
"Yes, madam, I see him just leaning back in it, but he did not look up; - he was never a gentleman who talked a lot."
Eleanore's heart could easily explain that he did not introduce himself; and Mrs. Hargrove probably found the same explanation.
"Was no one else in the carriage?"
"No, Ma'am, just the two of them."
"Do you know where they came from?"
"They come straight from the city, as Miss Lucy – Mrs. Gastonois told me."
"And are they going further west?"
"Yes, Ma'am - but don't wait long. They will be back soon, and then they would be safe and call here."
Mrs. Hargrove now looked at her daughter; but Eleanore knew better than she expected. She recognized Lucy as a whole in the message and was very confident that Edward would never get too close to them. Quietly, she remarked to her mother that they were probably going to Mr. Pratt's near Plymouth.
Thomas' intelligence seemed to be over. Eleanore looked like she wanted to hear more.
"Did you say goodbye to them before you got away?"
"No, Ma'am - the horses just came out, but I couldn't wait any longer; I was afraid of being late."
"Did Mrs. Gastonois look good?"
"Yes, Ma'am, she said she was doing very well; and in my opinion she was always a very pretty young lady - and she seemed very satisfied."
Mrs. Hargrove couldn't think of any other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, which were now unnecessary, were soon dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say that she should not eat anything more. Mrs. Hargroves and Eleanore's appetite had evaporated equally, and Margaret felt very comfortable that with so much discomfort as they had experienced their two sisters lately, so much reason as they often had to be careless with their meals, she had never had to give up her dinner before.
When the dessert and wine were arranged and Mrs. Hargrove and Eleanore were left to their own devices, they stayed together for a long time in a resemblance of thoughtfulness and silence. Ms. Hargrove was afraid of risking any remark and dared not to offer comfort. She now realized that she had been wrong to rely on Eleanore's self-portrayal; and rightly came to the conclusion that at that time everything had been expressly mitigated in order to spare her an increase in misfortune, the suffering that she had suffered for Marianne at that time. She found that she had been tempted by her daughter's careful, considerate attention to keep the attachment she once understood so well actually much less than she was used to believing or when she was now proven to be. She feared that under this conviction she would be unjust, inattentive, no,
Chapter 250
The confusion of spirits into which this extraordinary visit plunged Elizabeth could not be easily overcome; nor could she learn for many hours to think about it less than incessantly. It seemed that Lady Catherine Rosings had actually taken the trouble of this trip only for the purpose of resolving her alleged engagement to Mr. Drury. It was a reasonable plan to be sure! but elizabeth could not imagine what the account of her engagement could have come from; until she remembered that HE was Woodland's intimate friend and HE was Jane's sister, at a time when the expectation of a wedding made everyone eager for another to deliver the idea. She herself had not forgotten to feel that her sister's marriage had to bring her together more often. And her neighbors at Lucas Lodge,
when she turned Lady Catherine's face, however, she couldn't help but feel a certain unease about the possible consequences of insisting on this interference. From what she had said about her determination to prevent her marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she had to consider applying for her nephew; and how He could take a similar account of the evil associated with a connection with it, she did not dare to pronounce. She did not know the exact degree of his affection for his aunt or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to assume that he thought much higher of her ladyship than SHE could do; and it was certain that his aunt would appeal to him from his weakest side if he enumerated the misery of a marriage to ONE whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own. With his ideas of dignity
If he had previously wavered about what to do, which had often seemed likely to him, then the advice and request of such a close relative would dispel any doubt and immediately make him as happy as a flawless dignity could make him. In this case, he would not return. Lady Catherine could see him on her way through the city; and his engagement to Woodland to come back to Netherfield must give way.
"So if in a few days his friend comes up with an apology for not keeping his promise," she added, "I will understand. I will then give up any expectation, every desire of its consistency. If he is content to only regret me when he could have gained my affection and hand, I will soon stop regretting him at all.'
* * * * * The
rest of the family was very surprised when they heard who their visitor had been; but they willingly satisfied it with the same kind of conjecture that had soothed Mrs. Mitchell's curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared many teases on the subject.
When she went downstairs the next morning, she met her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
"Lizzy," he said, "I wanted to look for you; come to my room.'
She followed him there; and her curiosity to know what he had to say to her was reinforced by the assumption that it was somehow connected to the letter he was holding. Suddenly, the thought came to her that it could be from Lady Catherine; and she awaited with dismay all subsequent statements.
She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He then said,
"I received a letter this morning that amazed me a lot. Since it mainly concerns you, you should know its contents. I didn't know before that I had two daughters just before marriage. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest."
The paint now plunged into Elizabeth's cheeks in the immediate conviction that it was a letter from the nephew instead of the aunt; and she was undecided whether she should be most pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself; as her father continued,
"You look conscious. Young women have great penetration in such things; but I think I can even defy YOUR acumen to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."
"From Mr. Collins! and what can He have to say?'
'Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows: 'Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Mitchell, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land.'
"Can you guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young gentleman is blessed in a special way with all that a mortal's heart can desire most—magnificent property, noble kinship, and extended patronage. But in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth and you of the evils that a hasty conclusion to this gentleman's proposals could inflict on you, which of course you will immediately exploit.'
"Do you have any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out:
"My motive to warn you is this. We have reason to believe that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look at the game with friendly eyes.
'LORD. DARCY, you see, is the man! Well, Lizzy, I think I SURPRISED you. Could he or the Lucases have pounced on any man in our circle of acquaintances whose name would have been more effective in lying what they were telling? Mr. Drury, who never looks at a woman except to see a flaw, and who has probably never looked at you in his life! It's admirable!'
Elizabeth tried to join her father's courtesies, but could only elicit a reluctant smile. His wit had never been so unpleasant for them.
"Aren't you distracted?"
'Oh! Yes. Please read on.'
"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to your ladyhood last night, she immediately expressed with her usual condescension what she felt on this occasion; when it turned out that due to some of my cousin's family objections, she would never give her consent to what she called such a shameful engagement. I felt it was my duty to give my cousin the quickest message so that she and her noble admirer would know what it was all about and not rush into a marriage that was not properly sanctioned.' Mr Collins also adds, "I'm really happy that my cousin Linda's sad affair has been covered up so well, and I'm just worried that their pre-wedding cohabitation should be so widely known. However, I must not neglect the duties of my ward, or refrain from expressing my amazement that you welcomed the young couple into your house right after the wedding. It was an encouragement of vice; and if I had been the rector of Longbourn, I would have resisted it very vigorously. You should certainly forgive them as a Christian, but never allow them before your eyes or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.' This is his idea of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about the situation of his dear Charlotte and his expectation of a young olive branch. But Lizzy, you look like you didn't enjoy it. You will not be MISSISH, I hope, pretending to be offended by an idle report. What do we live for other than playing sports for our neighbours and laughing at them on our part?' and if I had been the rector of Longbourn, I would have resisted it very vigorously. You should certainly forgive them as a Christian, but never allow them before your eyes or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.' This is his idea of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about the situation of his dear Charlotte and his expectation of a young olive branch. But Lizzy, you look like you didn't enjoy it. You will not be MISSISH, I hope, pretending to be offended by an idle report. What do we live for other than playing sports for our neighbours and laughing at them on our part?' and if I had been the rector of Longbourn, I would have resisted it very vigorously. You should certainly forgive them as a Christian, but never allow them before your eyes or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing.' This is his idea of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about the situation of his dear Charlotte and his expectation of a young olive branch. But Lizzy, you look like you didn't enjoy it. You will not be MISSISH, I hope, pretending to be offended by an idle report. What do we live for other than playing sports for our neighbours and laughing at them on our part?' "This is his idea of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about the situation of his dear Charlotte and his expectation of a young olive branch. But Lizzy, you look like you didn't enjoy it. You will not be MISSISH, I hope, pretending to be offended by an idle report. What do we live for other than playing sports for our neighbours and laughing at them on our part?' "This is his idea of Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about the situation of his dear Charlotte and his expectation of a young olive branch. But Lizzy, you look like you didn't enjoy it. You will not be MISSISH, I hope, pretending to be offended by an idle report. What do we live for other than playing sports for our neighbours and laughing at them on our part?'
'Oh!' shouted Elizabeth, 'I'm overly scattered. But it's so strange!'
"Yes – THAT makes it amusing. If they had settled on another man, it would have been nothing; but HIS complete indifference and HER pronounced dislike make it so delightfully absurd! As much as I detest writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins' correspondence at any price. Yes, when I read a letter from him, I can't help but even give him preference to Waterhouse, as much as I appreciate my son-in-law's impudence and hypocrisy. And please, Lizzy, what did Lady Catherine say about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?'
To this question, his daughter answered only with a laugh; and since it had been asked without the slightest suspicion, it did not bother her that he repeated it. Elizabeth had never been so embarrassed to make her feelings appear as they weren't. It was necessary to laugh when she would have preferred to cry. Her father had cruelly offended her by what he said about Mr. Drury's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder about such a lack of penetration or fear that instead of seeing too little, she might have imagined too much.
Chapter 251
Since Esther could not doubt that her answer expressed a real disappointment, she was more likely to expect to be pushed again because of her knowledge of Miss Dorset's temperament; and although no second letter arrived within a week, she still had the same feeling when it came.
When she received it, she could immediately decide that it contained little writing, and was convinced that it had the appearance of an urgent and business letter. Its purpose was undeniable; and two moments were enough to set in motion the probability of merely telling her that they should be in Portsmouth that day, and plunging her into all the excitement, doubting what she should do in such a case. However, if two moments can surround difficulties, a third can dispel them; and before she had opened the letter, she reassured the possibility that Mr. and Miss Dorset had reached out to their uncle and received his permission. That was the letter –
"A highly scandalous, vicious rumor has just reached me, and I am writing, dear Esther, to warn you not to give him the slightest honor should it spread throughout the country. Rely on it, there is a mistake, and a day or two will clear it up; in any case, that Henry is impeccable and despite a moment of etourderie thinks of no one but you. Don't say a word about it; hear nothing, suspect nothing, whisper nothing until I write again. I'm sure it's all hushed up and nothing but Rushmore's folly is proven. When they are gone, I would give my life, they just went to Mansfield Park, and Julia with them. But why not let us come to you? I wish you couldn't regret it. – Yours, etc."
Esther stood there in horror. Since she had not heard a scandalous, vicious rumor, it was impossible for her to understand much of this strange letter. She could only see that it had to be Wimpole Street and Mr. Dorset, and only suspect that something very careless had just happened in this neighborhood to attract the world's attention and arouse her jealousy, in Miss Dorset's fear when she heard it. Miss Dorset doesn't need to worry about that. She only regretted the persons concerned and Mansfield if the report were to spread so widely; but she hoped that maybe it wouldn't be so. If the Rushmores themselves had gone to Mansfield, as Can be seen from Miss Dorset's statement, they probably had not been preceded by anything unpleasant or at least had left no impression.
As for Mr. Dorset, she hoped that it would give him a knowledge of his own predisposition, convince him that he was not able to be tied to a single woman in the world, and shame him for no longer insisting on addressing himself.
It was very strange! She had begun to think that he really loved her, and to think of his affection for her as something more than ordinary; and his sister still said he didn't care about anyone else. Nevertheless, there must have been a clear attention to her cousin, there must have been a strong indiscretion, since her correspondent was not in the way of paying attention to a minor one.
She felt very uncomfortable and had to keep going until she heard about Miss Dorset again. It was impossible to banish the letter from her thoughts, and she could not calm down by talking to anyone about it. Miss Dorset would not have had to push for secrecy with so much warmth; she might have been able to rely on her sense of what her cousin is entitled to.
The next day came and did not bring a second letter. Esther was disappointed. She could hardly think of anything else all morning; but when her father returned as usual in the afternoon with the daily newspaper, she was so far from being enlightened through such a channel that the topic went out of her head for a moment.
She was immersed in other thoughts. The memory of her first evening in this room, of her father and his newspaper, came over her. Now no candle was desired. The sun was still above the horizon for an hour and a half. She felt that she had actually been there for three months; and the sun's rays, which fell strongly into the course, made her even more melancholic instead of cheering, because sunshine seemed to her in a city and in the countryside something completely different. Here his power was just a glaring glow: a suffocating, sickly glow that only served to bring forward stains and dirt that might otherwise have slept. In a city, there was neither health nor happiness in the sunshine. She sat in an ember of oppressive heat, in a cloud of moving dust, and her eyes could only wander from the walls marked by her father's head to the table cut and notched by her brothers, where stood the never thoroughly cleaned tea board, the cups and saucers wiped off strip by strip, the milk a mixture of dusts suspended in thin blue, and the bread and butter became fatter with each passing minute than even Rebecca's hands had first produced. Her father read his newspaper, and her mother moaned as usual about the ragged carpet while the tea was being prepared, wishing Rebecca would patch it up; and Esther was first startled by his reputation after humming her and thinking about a certain paragraph: "What are your big cousins called?? in town, fan?" and her mother complained, as usual, about the ragged carpet while the tea was being prepared, wishing Rebecca would patch it up; and Esther was first startled by his reputation after humming her and thinking about a certain paragraph: "What are your big cousins called?? in town, fan?" and her mother complained, as usual, about the ragged carpet while the tea was being prepared, wishing Rebecca would patch it up; and Esther was first startled by his reputation after humming her and thinking about a certain paragraph: "What are your big cousins called?? in the city, fan?"
A moment's recollection enabled her to say, "Rushmore, sir."
"And don't they live in Wimpole Street?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then, there's the devil to pay among them, that's all! There" (holding out the paper to her); "much good may such fine relations do you. I don't know what Sir Thomas may think of such matters; he may be too much of the courtier and fine gentleman to like his daughter the less. But, by G—! if she belonged to me, I'd give her the rope's end as long as I could stand over her. A little flogging for man and woman too would be the best way of preventing such things."
Esther read to herself that "it was with infinite concern the newspaper had to announce to the world a matrimonial fracas in the family of Mr. R. of Wimpole Street; the beautiful Mrs. R., whose name had not long been enrolled in the lists of Hymen, and who had promised to become so brilliant a leader in the fashionable world, having kitted her husband's roof in company with the well-known and captivating Mr.C., the intimate friend and associate of Mr. R., and it was not known even to the editor of the newspaper whither they were gone."
"It is a mistake, sir," said Esther instantly; "it must be a mistake, it cannot be true; it must mean some other people."
She spoke out of an instinctive desire to delay shame; she spoke with a determination that sprang from despair, for she spoke what she did not speak, could not believe it herself. It had been the shock of conviction when she read. The truth fell on them; and how she could have spoken at all, how she could breathe at all, she wondered afterwards.
Mr. Price cared too little about the report to answer her much. "It could all be a lie," he conceded; "But so many beautiful ladies went to hell this way these days that there was no answer for anyone."
"In fact, I hope it's not true," Mrs. Price said lamentingly; "it would be so shocking! Once I've talked to Rebecca about this rug, I'm sure I've spoken at least a dozen times; I don't have, Betsey? And it wouldn't be a ten-minute work."
The horror of a spirit like that of Esther, who was convinced of such guilt and began to absorb some of the misery that had to follow, can hardly be described. At first it was a kind of amazement; but every moment accelerated their perception of the terrible evil. She could not doubt, she did not dare to hope that the paragraph was wrong. Miss Dorset's letter, which she had read so many times to make each line her own, was in terrible agreement with it. Her zealous defense of her brother, her hope of being able to cover it up, her obvious excitement were part of something very bad; and if there was a woman full of character who could treat this sin of the greatest magnitude as a trifle who would try to gloss over it and want it unpunished, she might believe that Miss Dorset is the woman! Now she could see her own error of who was gone or supposedly gone. It wasn't Mr. and Mrs. Rushmore; they were Mrs. Rushmore and Mr. Dorset.
Esther never seemed to have shocked herself before. There was no way to rest. The evening passed without gloom, the night was completely sleepless. She only went from feelings of nausea to horror showers; and from hot fever attacks to the common cold. The event was so shocking that there were moments when even her heart rebelled against it as impossible: when she thought it couldn't be. A woman married only six months ago; a man who professes to be devoted, even engaged to another; this other her close relative; the whole family, both families who were connected by band after band; all friends, all intimately together! It was too terrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a complication of evil, for human nature, which was not in a state of complete barbarism, to be able to do so! but her judgment told her that it was. His unexplained affections,
What would be the consequence? Who wouldn't it hurt? Whose views might not be affected? Whose peace wouldn't it cut apart forever? Miss Dorset, herself, Edmund; but it was perhaps dangerous to enter such ground. It limited itself or tried to limit itself to the simple, undeniable family misery that had to encompass everyone when it was indeed certified guilt and public exposure. The sufferings of the mother, those of the father; there she stopped. Julias, Toms, Edmunds; there an even longer break. They were the two that would be hit the worst. The parental care of Sir Thomas and his high sense of honour and decency, Edmund's sincere principles, his unsuspicious temperament and his sincere emotional strength led them to believe that it was hardly possible for them to support life and reason under such shame;
Nothing happened the next day or the day after to weaken their fear. Two contributions came in and brought no refutation, neither public nor private. There was no second letter to explain miss Dorset's first; There was no news from Mansfield, although it was now high time for her to hear from her aunt again. That was a bad omen. In fact, she hardly had the shadow of hope to calm her mind, and was put in such a low and pale and trembling state that no mother, not unfriendly, except Mrs. Price, could have overlooked, when the third day came the disgusting knock, and again a letter was pressed into her hand. It bore the London postmark and came from Edmund.
"Dear Esther, you know our current misery. May God support you among your part! We have been here for two days, but there is nothing to do. They cannot be traced. You may never have heard of the last blow – Julia's escape; She went to Scotland with Yates. She left London a few hours before we entered it. At any other time, this would have been terribly felt. Now it seems nothing; nevertheless, it is a severe exacerbation. My father is not overwhelmed. More is not to be hoped for. He is still able to think and act; and I write, at his request, to propose your return home. He is eager to get you there for my mother's sake. I will be in Portsmouth the morning after you receive this and hope to find you ready to leave for Mansfield. My dad wants you to invite Susan to go with you for a few months. Do it the way you want; say what is right; I am sure you will feel such an example of his goodness at such a moment! Do justice to its meaning, however I may confuse it. You can imagine something of my current state. There is no end to the evil that is unleashed on us. You will see me early by post. – yours, etc."
Esther had never asked for a liqueur more. Never before had she felt like in this letter. Morning! to leave Portsmouth tomorrow! She was, she felt, in the greatest danger of being extraordinarily happy while so many were miserable. The evil that you so ?? brought a lot of good! She feared she might learn to be insensitive from it. To leave so soon, so kindly called, called as comfort, and with permission to take Susan with her, was altogether such a combination of blessings that made her heart shine and seemed to distance any pain for a time, making her unable to adequately share the need with those whose distress she thought most about. Julia's escape could influence her comparatively little; she was amazed and shocked; but it couldn't keep her busy, couldn't come to her mind.
There is nothing better than employment, active, indispensable employment to alleviate grief. Occupation, even melancholy, can drive away melancholy, and their occupations were hopeful. She had so much to do that not even the terrible story of Mrs. Rushmore – now fixed to the last point of certainty – could touch her as before. She didn't have time to feel unhappy. Within twenty-four hours, she hoped to be gone; with her father and mother had to be spoken, Susan prepared everything. Business followed business; the day was hardly long enough. The cheerfulness she also radiated, cheerfulness that was only slightly clouded by the black communication that had to precede her briefly – the joyful approval of her father and mother that Susan wanted to go with her – the general satisfaction with which the departure of both was viewed, and the ecstasy of Susan herself,
The affliction of the Schmidt's was little felt in the family. Mrs. Price talked of her poor sister for a few minutes, but how to find anything to hold Susan's clothes, because Rebecca took away all the boxes and spoiled them, was much more in her thoughts: and as for Susan, now unexpectedly gratified in the first wish of her heart, and knowing nothing personally of those who had sinned, or of those who were sorrowing—if she could help rejoicing from beginning to end, it was as much as ought to be expected from human virtue at fourteen.
As nothing was really left for the decision of Mrs. Price, or the good offices of Rebecca, everything was rationally and duly accomplished, and the girls were ready for the morrow. The advantage of much sleep to prepare them for their journey was impossible. The cousin who was traveling towards them could hardly have less than visited their agitated spirits—one all happiness, the other all varying and indescribable perturbation.
By eight in the morning Edmund was in the house. The girls heard his entrance from above, and Esther went down. The idea of immediately seeing him, with the knowledge of what he must be suffering, brought back all her own first feelings. He so near her, and in misery. She was ready to sink as she entered the parkour. He was alone, and met her instantly; and she found herself pressed to his heart with only these words, just articulate, "My Esther, my only sister; my only comfort now!" She could say nothing; nor for some minutes could he say more.
He turned away to recover himself, and when he spoke again, though his voice still faltered, his manner shewed the wish of self-command, and the resolution of avoiding any farther allusion. "Have you breakfasted? When shall you be ready? Does Susan go?" were questions following each other rapidly. His great object was to be off as soon as possible. When Mansfield was considered, time was precious; and the state of his own mind made him find relief only in motion. It was settled that he should order the carriage to the door in half an hour. Esther answered for their having breakfasted and being quite ready in half an hour. He had already ate, and declined staying for their meal. He would walk round the ramparts, and join them with the carriage. He was gone again; glad to get away even from Esther.
He looked very ill; evidently suffering under violent emotions, which he was determined to suppress. She knew it must be so, but it was terrible to her.
The carriage came; and he entered the house again at the same moment, just in time to spend a few minutes with the family, and be a witness—but that he saw nothing—of the tranquil manner in which the daughters were parted with, and just in time to prevent their sitting down to the breakfast-table, which, by dint of much unusual activity, was quite and completely ready as the carriage drove from the door. Esther's last meal in her father's house was in character with her first: she was dismissed from it as hospitably as she had been welcomed.
How her heart swelled with joy and gratitude as she passed the barriers of Portsmouth, and how Susan's face wore its broadest smiles, may be easily conceived. Sitting forwards, however, and screened by her bonnet, those smiles were unseen.
The journey was likely to be a silent one. Edmund's deep sighs often reached Esther. Had he been alone with her, his heart must have opened in spite of every resolution; but Susan's presence drove him quite into himself, and his attempts to talk on indifferent subjects could never be long supported.
Esther watched him with never-failing solicitude, and sometimes catching his eye, revived an affectionate smile, which comforted her; but the first day's journey passed without her hearing a word from him on the subjects that were weighing him down. The next morning produced a little more. Just before their setting out from Oxford, while Susan was stationed at a window, in eager observation of the departure of a large family from the inn, the other two were standing by the fire; and Edmund, particularly struck by the alteration in Esther's looks, and from his ignorance of the daily evils of her father's house, attributing an undue share of the change, attributing all to the recent event, took her hand, and said in a low, but very expressive tone, "No wonder—you must feel it—you must suffer. How a man who had once loved, could desert you! But yours—your regard was new compared with——Esther, think of me!"
The first division of their journey occupied a long day, and brought them, almost knocked up, to Oxford; but the second was over at a much earlier hour. They were in the environs of Mansfield long before the usual dinner-time, and as they approached the beloved place, the hearts of both sisters sank a little. Esther began to dread the meeting with her aunts and Tom, under so dreadful a humiliation; and Susan to feel with some anxiety, that all her best manners, all her lately acquired knowledge of what was practiced here, was on the point of being called into action. Visions of good and ill breeding, of old vulgarisms and new gentility, were before her; and she was meditating much upon silver forks, napkins, and finger-glasses. Esther had been everywhere awake to the difference of the country since February; but when they entered the Park her perceptions and her pleasures were of the keenest sort. It was three months, full three months, since her quitting it, and the change was from winter to summer. Her eye fell everywhere on lawns and plantations of the freshest green; and the trees, though not fully clothed, were in that delightful state when farther beauty is known to be at hand, and when, while much is actually given to the sight, more yet remains for the imagination. Her enjoyment, however, was for herself alone. Edmund could not share it. She looked at him, but he was leaning back, sunk in a deeper gloom than ever, and with eyes closed, as if the view of cheerfulness oppressed him, and the lovely scenes of home must be shut out.
It made her melancholy again; and the knowledge of what must be enduring there, invested even the house, modern, airy, and well situated as it was, with a melancholy aspect.
By one of the suffering party within they were expected with such impatience as she had never known before. Esther had scarcely passed the solemn-looking servants, when Lady Schmidt came from the drawing-room to meet her; came with no indolent step; and falling on her neck, said, "Dear Esther! now I shall be comfortable."
Chapter 252
Mrs. Winstone's friends were all happy about her safety; and if the joy of her well-being could increase for Emma, it was by knowing that she was the mother of a little girl. She had decidedly wished for a Miss Winstone. She would not admit that it was in view of marrying her later to one of Bella's sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father and mother best. It would be a great comfort for Mr. Winstone as he grew older – and even Mr. Winstone could get older in ten years – to have never banished his log fire from home through sports and nonsense, the freaks and the fantasies of a child; and Mrs. Winstone – no one could doubt that a daughter would mean the most to her; and it would be quite a pity that someone who knew how to teach so well,
"She had the advantage, you know, of practicing on me," she continued, "like La Baronne d'Almane in La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we will now see her own little Adelaide has developed a more perfect plan."
"That is," Mr. Hill replied, "she will give in to her even more than you, believing that she will not give in to her at all. That will be the only difference."
"Poor child!" cried Emma; "What will become of her at this pace?"
"Nothing bad. – The fate of thousands. She will be uncomfortable in childhood and correct herself as she gets older. I lose all my bitterness towards spoiled children, my dearest Emma. I, to whom I owe all my happiness to you, wouldn't it be a terrible ingratitude of me to be strict against them?"
Emma laughed and replied, "But I had the support of all your efforts to counteract the forbearance of other people. I doubt if my own mind would have corrected me without it."
"Really? – I have no doubt. Nature has given you understanding: Miss Taylor has given you principles. You must have done well. My interference would almost certainly do both harm and benefit. It was very natural of you to say: What right does he have to lecture me? – and I'm afraid it's very natural for you to feel that this has happened in an unpleasant way. I don't think I've done anything good for you. The good thing was entirely for me by making you an object of the most tender affection for me. I couldn't think so much of you without loving you, mistakes and everything; and because I have imagined so many mistakes, I have been in love with you since you were at least thirteen."
"I'm sure you were of use to me," Emma shouted. "I was very often rightly influenced by you – more often than I would admit at the time. I am very sure that you have done me good. And if poor little Anna Winstone is to be pampered, the greatest humanity in you will be to do as much for her as you have done for me, except to fall in love with her when she is thirteen."
"How many times when you were a girl, you said to me with one of your cheeky looks, 'Mr. Hill, I'm going to do this and that; Dad says I can, or I have Miss Taylor's vacation – something that, as you know, I couldn't endorse. In such cases, my intervention gave me two bad feelings instead of just one."
"What a kind creature I was! – No wonder you keep my speeches in such loving memory."
"'Lord. Hill." – They always called me "Mr. Hügel;' and it doesn't sound so formal out of habit. - And yet it is formal. I want you to call me something else, but I don't know how."
"I remember once calling you 'George' in one of my amiable seizures about ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but since you raised no objections, I never did it again."
"And can't you call me 'George' now?"
"Impossible! – I can never help you but 'Mr. Hügel.' I don't even promise to match Mrs. Alton's elegant scarcity by calling you Mr. K. – but I promise," she added shortly afterwards, laughing and blushing, "I will promise to call you by your first name. I don't say when, but maybe you can guess where – in the building where N.M. takes in for good, for bad."
Emma regretted that she could not be more open to only one important service that his better mind would have rendered to her, to the advice that would have saved her from the worst of her feminine follies – her deliberate intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too sensitive an issue. – She could not go into it. – Harriet was very rarely mentioned between them. This, in turn, could only result from the fact that they are not thought of; but Emma was more inclined to attribute it to tenderness, and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship was in decline. She was aware of herself that if they had separated under different circumstances, they should certainly have corresponded more, and that their intelligence would not have rested on Bella's letters, as she now almost exclusively did. He might notice that it was.
Bella sent such a good report about her visitor as one might expect; on her first arrival, she had thought she was upset, which seemed quite natural since a dentist had to be consulted; but since this matter was over, she seemed to find Harriet no different from what she had known before. – Bella, of course, was not a very quick observer; but if Harriet hadn't been willing to play with the kids, she wouldn't have missed it. Emma's comfort and hopes were most pleasantly continued by harriet staying longer; their fourteen days would probably be at least a month. Mr. and Mrs. John Hill were supposed to come down in August, and she was invited to stay until they could bring them back.
"John doesn't even mention your friend," Mr. Hill said. "Here's his answer if you want to see it."
It was the answer to the announcement of his intended marriage. Emma accepted it with a very zealous hand, with a lively impatience with what he would say about it, and not at all prevented from hearing that her friend was not mentioned.
"John enters my happiness like a brother," Mr. Hill continued, "but he doesn't compliment; and although I know that he also has an extremely fraternal affection for you, he is so far from making flourishes that any other young woman might find him rather cool in her praise. But I'm not afraid that you'll see what he writes."
"He writes like a reasonable man," Emma replied, ?? when she had read the letter. "I honor his sincerity. It is very clear that he considers the happiness of engagement to be everything on my side, but that he is not without hope that with time I will become as worthy of your affection as you already hold me. If he had said anything to support a different construction, I wouldn't have believed him."
"My Emma, ?? he doesn't mean that.
"He and I would differ very little in our assessment of the two," she interrupted with a serious smile – "much less than he realizes if we could address the subject without ceremony or restraint."
"Emma, ?? my dear Emma..."
"Oh!" she shouted with thorough cheerfulness, "if you think your brother doesn't do me justice, just wait until my dear father is in secret and hear his opinion. Rely on it, he will be much further away from doing you justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage on your side of the question; all merits on mine. I wish I couldn't sink into 'poor Emma' with him right away. His tender compassion for suppressed value cannot go any further."
"Ah!" he shouted, "I wish your father was half as easy as John to convince that we have all the rights that the same value can give us to be happy together. I'm amused by part of John's letter – did you notice it? – where he says that my information didn't completely surprise him, that he expected to hear something like that."
"When I understand your brother, he only means that you have any marriage thoughts. He had no idea about me. He seems to be completely unprepared for that."
"Yes, yes – but I'm amused that he should have looked so far into my feelings. How did he judge? – I am not aware of any change in my mood or conversation that could not prepare him for my marriage at this time any more than it could for another. – But it was like that, I suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I stayed with them the other day. I don't think I played with the kids as much as usual. I remember the poor guys saying one night, 'Uncle always seems tired now.'"
The time came when the message had to spread further, and it tried to pick it up from other people. Once Mrs. Winstone had recovered enough to allow Mr. Lodge's visits, Emma decided to announce her first at home and then at Randall's, with a view to using her gentle argument for the cause. – But how to break it should finally her father! She had pledged to do it in such an hour of Mr. Hill's absence, or when it mattered, her heart would have left her, and she must have postponed it; but Mr. Hill should come at such a time and continue the beginning she was supposed to make. - She was forced to speak, and also to speak cheerfully. It must not make it a more decisive theme of misery for him through a melancholic tone. She must not consider it a misfortune. she first prepared him for something strange and then said in a few words if his approval and approval could be obtained – which, as she trusted, would be done without difficulty, since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all – she and Mr. Hill wanted to get married; In this way, Hartfield would constantly add to the company of this person she knew he loved, alongside his daughters and Mrs. Winstone the best in the world.
Poor man! - it was quite a shock for him at first, and he seriously tried to dissuade her from it. She was reminded more than once that she had always said that she would never get married, and she was assured that it would be much better for her to remain single; and told of poor Bella and poor Miss Taylor. – But it wouldn't be enough. Emma hung lovingly around him and smiled and said it had to be this way; and that he must not classify her with Bella and Mrs. Winstone, whose marriages they took from Hartfield, had indeed made a melancholic change: but she did not leave Hartfield; it should always be there; she did not introduce a change in their number or comfort, but for the better; and she was very sure that he would be much happier to always have Mr. Hill on hand once he got used to the thought. – Didn't he love Mr. Hill? Hill very much? – He wouldn't deny it, she was sure. Who did he ever want to consult on business except Mr. Hill? – Who was so useful to him, who was so willing to write his letters, who was so happy to help him? – Who is so cheerful, so attentive, so affectionate to him? – Doesn't he always want him on the spot? – Yes. That was all very true. Mr. Hill couldn't be there often; he should rejoice to see him every day; – but they saw him every day as he was. – Why couldn't they carry on as before? Hill couldn't be there often; he should rejoice to see him every day; – but they saw him every day as he was. – Why couldn't they carry on as before? Hill couldn't be there often; he should rejoice to see him every day; – but they saw him every day as he was. – Why couldn't they carry on as before?
Mr. Lodge could not be reconciled soon; but the worst was overcome, the idea was given; Time and constant repetition have to do the rest. Emma's pleas and assurances were followed by Mr. Hills, whose tender praise from her even gave the subject a kind of welcome; and he was soon accustomed to being approached by everyone at every beautiful opportunity. and Mrs. Winstone was willing to look at the issue in the most usable light at the first meeting – firstly as done and secondly as good – knowing full well that the two recommendations for Mr The opinion of Lodge.-It was agreed as what should be; and every body of which he was accustomed was guided and assured him that this would be to his happiness;
Mrs. Winstone played no role, did not feign feelings in favor of the event in everything she said to him. – She had been extremely surprised, never more, when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she saw it only as an increase in happiness for all and had no scruples about pushing him to the extreme. and it was in every way such a right, fitting and flawless connection, and in one respect a point of the utmost importance, so particularly suitable, so uniquely happy, that now it seemed as if Emma could not have been sure of any other creature, and that she herself had been the stupidest of all beings, because she had not thought of it and wished for it a long time ago. – How very few of these men in a rank of life to address Emma would have given up their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr. Hill could know and endure Mr. Lodge to make such an arrangement desirable! - The difficulty of selling poor Mr. Lodge had always been felt in her husband's plans and her own for a marriage between them Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe and Hartfield had been a constant obstacle — less by Mr. Winstone than by herself — but even he had never been able to end the issue better than by saying, "These matters will take care of themselves; The young people will find a way." But here nothing could be shifted into wild speculation about the future. It was fine, everything open, all the same. No sacrifice on any page worth the name.
Mrs. Winstone, who pursued such considerations with her baby on her knee, was one of the happiest women in the world. If anything could increase their joy, it was the perception that the baby would soon have grown out of his first set of caps.
The news was generally a surprise wherever it spread; and Mr. Winstone had his share of five minutes in it; but five minutes were enough to familiarize his speed with the thought. - He saw the advantages of the match and rejoiced in it with all the consistency of his wife; but the miracle of it was very soon nothing; and at the end of an hour, he was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.
"It should remain a secret, I conclude," he said. "These matters are always a mystery until it is found out that everyone knows them. Just let me know when I can speak. – I wonder if Jane has any suspicions."
The next morning he drove to Highbury and convinced himself on this point. He told her the news. Wasn't she like a daughter, his eldest daughter? - he must tell her; and Miss Bates was present, of course, immediately afterwards it went to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry and Mrs. Alton. It was no more than the rectors were ready; they had calculated from the time it became known in Randalls how soon it would be about Highbury; and considered themselves with great wisdom for the evening miracle in many a family circle.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Hill's; and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet, upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one habitation, the Vicarage.—There, the surprise was not softened by any satisfaction. Mr. Alton cared little about it, compared with his wife; he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and supposed "she had always meant to catch Hill if she could;" and, on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather he than I!" —But Mrs. Alton was very much discomposed indeed.—"Poor Hill! poor fellow!—sad business for him." —She was extremely concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good qualities.—How could he be so taken in?—Did not think him at all in love—not in the least.—Poor Hill!—There would be an end of all pleasant intercourse with him.—How happy he had been to come and dine with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.—Poor fellow!—No more exploring parties to Donwell made for her. Oh! no; there would be a Mrs. Hill to throw cold water on every thing.—Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that she had abused the housekeeper the other day.—Shocking plan, living together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first quarter.
Chapter 253
Catherine was too wretched to be fearful. The journey in itself had no terrors for her; and she began it without either dreading its length or feeling its solitariness. Leaning back in one corner of the carriage, in a violent burst of tears, she was conveyed some miles beyond the walls of the abbey before she raised her head; and the highest point of ground within the park was almost closed from her view before she was capable of turning her eyes towards it. Unfortunately, the road she now traveled was the same which only ten days ago she had so happily passed along in going to and from Woodston; and, for fourteen miles, every bitter feeling was rendered more severe by the review of objects on which she had first looked under impressions so different. Every mile, as it brought her nearer Woodston, added to her sufferings, and when within the distance of five, she passed the turning which led to it, and thought of Henry, so near, yet so unconscious, her grief and agitation were excessive.
The day which she had spent at that place had been one of the happiest of her life. It was there, it was on that day, that the general had made use of such expressions with regard to Henry and herself, had so spoken and so looked as to give her the most positive conviction of his actually wishing their marriage. Yes, only ten days ago had he elated her by his pointed regard—had he even confused her by his too significant reference! And now—what had she done, or what had she omitted to do, to merit such a change?
The only offense. against him of which she could accuse herself had been such as was scarcely possible to reach his knowledge. Henry and her own heart only were privy to the shocking suspicions which she had so idly entertained; and equally safe did she believe her secret with each. Designedly, at least, Henry could not have betrayed her. If, indeed, by any strange mischance his father should have gained intelligence of what she had dared to think and look for, of her causeless fancies and injurious examinations, she could not wonder at any degree of his indignation. If aware of her having viewed him as a murderer, she could not wonder at his even turning her from his house. But a justification so full of torture to herself, she trusted, would not be in his power.
Anxious as were all her conjectures on this point, it was not, however, the one on which she dwelt most. There was a thought yet nearer, a more prevailing, more impetuous concern. How Henry would think, and feel, and look, when he returned on the morrow to Northanger and heard of her being gone, was a question of force and interest to rise over every other, to be never ceasing, alternately irritating and soothing; it sometimes suggested the dread of his calm acquiescence, and at others was answered by the sweetest confidence in his regret and resentment. To the general, of course, he would not dare to speak; but to Eleanor—what might he not say to Eleanor about her?
In this unceasing recurrence of doubts and inquiries, on any one article of which her mind was incapable of more than momentary repose, the hours passed away, and her journey advanced much faster than she looked for. The pressing anxieties of thought, which prevented her from noticing anything before her, when once beyond the neighborhood. of Woodston, saved her at the same time from watching her progress; and though no object on the road could engage a moment's attention, she found no stage of it tedious. From this, she was preserved too by another cause, by feeling no eagerness for her journey's conclusion; for to return in such a manner to Fullerton was almost to destroy the pleasure of a meeting with those she loved best, even after an absence such as hers—an eleven weeks' absence. What had she to say that would not humble herself and pain her family, that would not increase her own grief by the confession of it, extend an useless resentment, and perhaps involve the innocent with the guilty in undistinguishing ill will? She could never do justice to Henry and Eleanor's merit; she felt it too strongly for expression; and should a dislike be taken against them, should they be thought of unfavorably, on their father's account, it would cut her to the heart.
With these feelings, she feared rather than sought the first sight of this well-known tower, which would announce her within twenty miles of home. She had known that Salisbury was her goal to leave Northanger; but after the first stage, she owed the postmasters the names of the places that would lead her there; so great had been their ignorance of their route. However, she did not encounter anything that could worry or frighten her. Her youth, polite manners, and liberal pay gave her all the attention a traveler like her could demand; and only stopping to change horses, she continued to travel for about eleven hours without accident or alarm, and between six and seven o'clock in the evening she found herself in Fullerton.
A heroine who returns to her home village at the end of her career, in all the triumph of her regained reputation and all the dignity of a countess, with a long entourage of noble relatives in her several Phaetons and three servants a traveling chaise and four, behind her, is an event on which the pen of the inventor will probably rejoice, to linger; it gives honor to any conclusion, and the author must share in the fame it so generously confers. But my thing is quite different; I bring my heroine back to her homeland in solitude and shame; and no sweet exhilaration of the spirits can lead me into the petty. A heroine in a hack post-chaise is such a blow to mood as no attempt at grandeur or pathos can resist. So quickly her post boy is to drive through the village, under the gaze of the Sunday groups,
But whatever Catherine's soul sorrow might be when she advanced to the rectory, and whatever the humiliation of her biographer might be when she told about it, she gave those to whom she went a pleasure of an unusual nature; firstly, in the appearance of their carriage – and secondly in themselves. Since a traveler's carriage was a rare sight in Fullerton, the whole family immediately stood by the window; and having it stop at the U-gate was a pleasure to brighten every eye and inspire every imagination – a pleasure that was quite unexpected of all but the two youngest children, a boy and a girl of six and four years who were expecting a brother or sister in every carriage. Happy the look that first distinguished Katharina! Happy the voice that announced the discovery!
Her father, mother, Sarah, George and Harriet, all gathered at the door to welcome her with loving zeal, was a sight that aroused the best feelings in Catherine's heart; and when she got out of the carriage, she found herself reassured in the embrace of the two of them about everything she had thought possible. So surrounded, so caressed, she was even happy! In the cheerfulness of family love, everything was muffled for a short time, and the joy of seeing them at first left them little leisure for quiet curiosity, and they all sat around the tea table that Mrs. Fenmore had rushed to the comfort of the poor travelers, whose pale and jaded looks they soon noticed, before such a direct request that a positive answer was demanded, to them.
Reluctantly and with much hesitation, she then began what might be called an explanation by the politeness of her listeners after half an hour; but hardly within this time could they even discover the cause or collect the details of their sudden return. They were far from being an irritable breed; far from any speed to catch insults, or bitterness to annoy insults: but here, when the whole thing was unfolded, an insult was not to be overlooked and not easy to forgive in the first half hour. Without suffering any romantic anxiety, Mr. and Mrs. Fenmore, given their daughter's long and lonely journey, couldn't help but feel that it might have caused her a lot of inconvenience; that it was what they could never have suffered voluntarily; and that by forcing her to do so, General Alsina had acted neither honorably nor sensitively— neither as a gentleman nor as a parent. Why he had done it, which could provoke him into such a violation of hospitality and turn all his partial consideration for her daughter so suddenly into real ill will, was a matter from which they were at least as far away from guessing her as Catherine herself; but it did not depress them for so long; and after a period of useless assumptions that "it was a strange thing and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and amazement; although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and speculated with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding." what could have provoked him into such a rupture of hospitality and so suddenly turned all his partial consideration for their daughter into real ill will, was a matter from which they were at least as far away from guessing her as Catherine herself; but it did not depress them for so long; and after a period of useless assumptions that "it was a strange thing and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and amazement; although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and speculated with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding." what could have provoked him into such a rupture of hospitality and so suddenly turned all his partial consideration for their daughter into real ill will, was a matter from which they were at least as far away from guessing her as Catherine herself; but it did not depress them for so long; and after a period of useless assumptions that "it was a strange thing and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and amazement; although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and speculated with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding" was one thing they were at least as far removed from as Catherine herself; but it did not depress them for so long; and after a period of useless assumptions that "it was a strange thing and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and amazement; although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and speculated with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding" was one thing they were at least as far removed from as Catherine herself; but it did not depress them for so long; and after a period of useless assumptions that "it was a strange thing and that he must be a very strange man," grew enough for all their indignation and amazement; although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and speculated with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding." although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and conjectured with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding." although Sarah actually still indulged in the sweets of incomprehensibility and exclaimed and conjectured with youthful zeal. "My dear, you are making a lot of unnecessary effort," her mother finally said; "Rely on it, it's something not worth understanding."
"I can allow him to wish Catherine away when he remembered this engagement," Sarah said, "but why not politely?"
"I feel sorry for the young people," replied Mrs. Fenmore; "they must have a sad time from it; but everything else is not at stake now; Catherine is safe at home, and our well-being does not depend on General Alsina." Catherine sighed. "Well," her philosophical mother continued, "I'm glad I didn't know about your journey then; but now it's all over, maybe there hasn't been much damage. It is always good for young people to make an effort; and you know, my dear Catherine, you have always been a sad little scattered creature; but now you must have been forced to have your mind with you, with so much change of chaise longues and so on; and I hope it will give the impression that you haven't left anything in any of the pockets."
Catherine also hoped so and tried to feel interest in her own amendment, but her mood was quite worn down; and since silence and being alone would soon become her only wish, she readily agreed to her mother's next advice to go to bed early. Her parents, who saw in her bad looks and excitement nothing but the natural consequence of offended feelings and the unusual effort and fatigue of such a trip, separated from her, without a doubt that they would soon oversleep; and although their recovery, when they all met the next morning, did not match their hopes, they were still completely unaware that there was some deeper evil. They never thought about their hearts, which was strange enough for the parents of a young lady of seventeen who had just returned from her first trip home!
Right after breakfast, she sat down to keep her promise to Miss Alsina, whose trust in the effect of time and distance on her friend's mind was already justified, because Catherine was already reproaching herself for having coolly separated from Eleanor Never enough did she appreciate her merits or kindness and never regretted her enough for that, what she had to endure yesterday. However, the strength of these feelings was far from helping her feather; and writing had never been harder for her than addressing Eleanor Alsina. To write a letter that immediately does justice to her feelings and situation, expresses gratitude without submissive regret, is cautious without coldness and honest without resentment – a letter that Eleanor may not hurt – and most importantly, which she herself could not blush if Henry were to see by chance, was a company to deter all her powers of performance; and after much thought and a lot of confusion, all she could decide with certainty was to be very brief. So the money that Eleanor had put forward was little more than grateful thanks and the thousand good wishes of a very loving heart.
"That was a strange acquaintance," Ms. Fenmore remarked when the letter was finished; "made soon and soon finished. I'm sorry, because Mrs. She thought all of them were very pretty young people; and unfortunately you were also unlucky with your Bella. Ah! Poor James! Well, we have to live and learn; and the next new friends you meet will hopefully be worth keeping."
Catherine blushed as she replied warmly, "No friend can be worth keeping but Eleanor."
"If so, my dear, then you will probably see each other again at some point; don't be restless. It's ten to one, but you get thrown back together over the course of a few years; and what a pleasure it will be!"
Mrs. Fenmore was not happy in her attempt to comfort her. The hope of a reunion over the course of a few years could only put in Catherine's head what might happen during this time to make a meeting terrible for her. She would never forget Henry Alsina or think of him with less tenderness than at this moment; but he could forget them; and in this case to meet –! Her eyes filled with tears as she imagined her acquaintance so renewed; and her mother, who perceived her comfortable suggestions in order not to have had a good effect, suggested, as another tool to restore her mind, that they should visit Mrs. Allen.
The two houses were only a quarter mile apart; and as they left, Mrs. Fenmore quickly did everything she felt about James' disappointment. "We regret him," she said; "but otherwise it doesn't hurt when the game starts; for it could not be desirable to engage him to a girl with whom we did not have the slightest acquaintance and who was so completely without assets; and now, after such behavior, we cannot think well of her. Right now, poor James is having a hard time; but this will not last forever; and I dare say that he will be a discreet man all his life, because of the stupidity of his first choice."
This was just as much of a summary of the matter as Catherine could hear; another sentence could have jeopardized their complacency and made their response less reasonable; for soon all her powers of thought disappeared in the reflection of her own change in her feelings and moods, since she had last taken this well-known path. Less than three months ago, she had been there, wild with joyful anticipation, running back and forth about ten times a day, with a light, cheerful and independent heart; look forward to unadulterated and unadulterated pleasures and be free from the fear of evil as well as from the knowledge of it. Three months ago, she had seen it all; and now, how changed she returned!
She was received by the Allens with all the kindness that her unexpected appearance, based on an unchanging affection, would naturally evoke; and great was her surprise and warm displeasure when she heard how she had been treated – although Mrs. Fenmore's account of it was not an inflated account, not a rehearsed appeal to her passions. "Catherine surprised us quite a bit last night," she said. "She traveled all the mail alone and didn't know anything about coming until Saturday night; for General Alsina suddenly got tired of having her there on some strange whim and almost threw her out of the house. Certainly very unfriendly; and he must be a very strange man; but we are so happy to have them among us again! And it is a great comfort to see that she is not a poor, helpless creature,
Mr. Allen expressed himself on this occasion with the reasonable resentment of a reasonable friend; and Mrs. Allen thought his face was good enough to make use of it again immediately. His amazement, conjecture, and explanations became theirs one by one, with the addition of this single remark — "I really have no patience with the general" — to fill every random pause. And: "I really have no patience with the general," was said twice after Mr. Allen had left the room without the anger calming down or the thoughts wandering. A more considerable degree of hiking accompanied the third repetition; and after finishing the fourth, she immediately added, "Just remember, my dear, that I so charmingly repaired this terribly large crack in my best mechlin before I left Bath that you can hardly see where it was. I have to show you one day. Bath is a nice place after all, Catherine. I assure you that I didn't like getting away more than half of it. Mrs. Dorfman's presence was such a comfort to us, wasn't it? You know, you and I were pretty abandoned at first."
"Yes, but it didn't take long," Catherine said, and her eyes lit up as she remembered what had given life to her existence there for the first time.
"Very true: we soon met with Mrs. Dorfman, and then we didn't miss anything. My dear, don't you think that these silk gloves are very good to wear? I redressed them the first time we went to the Lower Rooms, you know, and I've worn them a lot since then. Do you remember that evening?"
"I do! Oh! Perfect."
"It was very pleasant, wasn't it? Mr. Alsina drank tea with us, and I always found him a great addition, he is so very pleasant. I suspect that you danced with him, but I'm not quite sure. I remember wearing my favorite dress."
Catherine could not answer; and after a brief attempt with other subjects, Mrs. Everyone back to – "I really don't have patience with the general! Such a pleasant, worthy man as he seemed to be! I don't suppose, Mrs. Fenmore, that you've ever seen a better-behaved man in your life. His apartment was taken the same day after he left it, Catherine. But no wonder; Milsom Street, you know."
When they returned home, Mrs. Fenmore tried to impress the happiness of her daughter, such faithful well-wishers as Mr. and Mrs. To have everyone, and the very little consideration that the neglect or unkindness of a minor acquaintance like that of Alsina should deserve, while she was able to maintain the good opinion and affection of her earliest friends. There was a lot of reason in all this; but there are situations of the human mind in which common sense has very little power; and Catherine's feelings contradicted almost every position her mother held. All their present happiness depended on the behavior of this very insignificant acquaintance; and while Ms. Fenmore successfully confirmed her own opinions through the accuracy of her own accounts, Catherine quietly pondered that Henry must now have arrived in Northanger; now he must have heard of her departure; and now maybe they all made their way to Hereford.
Chapter 254
Anne went home to reflect on everything she had heard. On one point, their feelings were facilitated by this knowledge of Mr. Hightower. He no longer deserves anything of tenderness. He faced Captain Cambridge in all his own unwelcome intrusiveness; and the evil of his attention last night, the incurable calamity he could have wrought, was viewed with unqualified, unflinching sentiments. Compassion for him was over. But that was the only point of relief. In every other way, when she looked around or pushed forward, she saw more to distrust and fear. She was concerned about the disappointment and pain lady Russell would feel; for the humiliation that must hang over her father and sister, and had all the need to foresee many evils without knowing how to avert one of them. She was very grateful for her own knowledge of him. She had never thought she was entitled to a reward for not offending an old friend like Mrs. Smith, but here was actually a reward from it! Mrs. Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been expanded by her family? But that was a futile idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her and, after doing her best, wait for the event with as much serenity as possible; and finally, her greatest lack of serenity would lie in that part of the mind that could not be opened to Lady Russell; in this stream of fears and anxieties that must be all to themselves. but this was indeed a reward! Mrs. Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been expanded by her family? But that was a futile idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her and, after doing her best, wait for the event with as much serenity as possible; and finally, her greatest lack of serenity would lie in that part of the mind that could not be opened to Lady Russell; in this stream of fears and anxieties that must be all to themselves. but this was indeed a reward! Mrs. Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been expanded by her family? But that was a futile idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her and, after doing her best, wait for the event with as much serenity as possible; and finally, her greatest lack of serenity would lie in that part of the mind that could not be opened to Lady Russell; in this stream of fears and anxieties that must be all to themselves. her greatest lack of serenity would lie in that part of the mind that could not be opened to Lady Russell; in this stream of fears and anxieties that must be all to themselves. her greatest lack of serenity would lie in that part of the mind that could not be opened to Lady Russell; in this stream of fears and anxieties that must be all to themselves.
When she got home, she found that, as intended, she had escaped meeting with Mr. Hightower; that he had called them and paid them a long morning visit; but she had hardly congratulated herself and felt safe when she heard that he was coming back in the evening.
"I had no intention of asking him," Elizabeth said with playful negligence, "but he gave so many clues; at least that's what Mrs. Clay says."
"In fact, I say it. I have never asked anyone so much for an invitation in my life. Poor man! I was really in pain for him; for your hard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems to be eager for cruelty."
"Oh!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "I'm too used to the game to soon be overwhelmed by the hints of a gentleman. However, when I realized how much he regretted that he should miss my father this morning, I immediately gave in, because I would never really miss an opportunity to bring him and Sir Walter together. They seem to have so much advantage in company with each other. Both behave so pleasantly. Mr. Hightower looks up with so much respect."
"Very delightful!" shouted Mrs. Clay, who did not dare to turn her eyes to Anne. "Just like father and son! Dear Miss Hightower, may I not say father and son?"
"Oh! I do not forbid anyone to speak. If you want to have such ideas!
"My dear Miss Hightower!" exclaimed Ms. Clay, raising her hands and eyes, sinking all the rest of her amazement into a comfortable silence.
"Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so afraid of him. I invited him, you know. I sent him away with a smile. Tomorrow I felt sorry for him."
Anne admired the good acting of the friend, who could show so much joy in the expectation and the actual arrival of the very person whose presence really had to disturb her main goal. It was impossible for Mrs. Clay to hate the sight of Mr. Hightower; and yet she was able to take on an extremely courteous, serene look and seemed quite content with the limited freedom to devote herself to Sir Walter only half as much as she would otherwise have done.
For Anne herself, it was most disturbing to see Mr. Hightower enter the room; and quite painful that he approached her and talked to her. She used to be used to the fact that he couldn't always be completely sincere, but now she saw insincerity in everything. His attentive reverence for her father, in contrast to his earlier language, was abhorrent; and when she thought of his cruel behavior toward Mrs. Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present smile and gentleness, or the sound of his artificial good feelings.
She intended to avoid any change in behavior that could provoke a protest on his side. It was very important to her to avoid any investigation or scandal; but it was their intention to be as resolutely cool to him as would be compatible with their relationship; and to understand as quietly as possible the few steps of unnecessary intimacy that had gradually led her. It was accordingly more reserved and cooler than the night before.
He wanted to stimulate their curiosity again, how and where he might have heard them praised earlier; wished very much to be satisfied by more advertising; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and liveliness of a public room were necessary to ignite the vanity of his humble cousin; he at least thought that it should not now be done by any of those attempts that he could dare under the overly commanding claims of others. Little did he know that it was an issue that was now acting exactly against his interests and immediately reminded her of all the parts of his behavior that were the least excusable.
She was reasonably satisfied when she realized that he was really going to leave Bath early the next morning and that he would be away for most of the two days. On the evening of his return, he was invited back to Camden Place; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his absence was certain. It was bad enough that a Mrs. Clay should always be in front of her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to her party seemed like the destruction of everything like peace and comfort. It was so humiliating to think about the constant deception of her father and Elizabeth; to look at the different sources of killing that are preparing for them! Mrs. Clay's selfishness was neither as complicated nor as repulsive as his; and Anne would have immediately decided to marry, with all its evils, to get rid of Mr. Hightower.
On Friday morning she wanted to go to Lady Russell very early and give the necessary message; and she would have left right after breakfast, but this Mrs. Clay also went out for a compelling reason to spare her sister trouble, which led her to wait until she could be safe from such a companion. She therefore saw Mrs. Clay quite aside before she began to talk about spending the morning on Rivers Street.
"All right," Elizabeth said, "I have nothing to send but my love. Oh! You might as well take back the tiring book she lent me and pretend I've read it. I really can't plague myself forever with all the new poems and states of the nation coming out. Lady Russell bores you quite a bit with her new releases. You don't need to tell her, but I thought her clothes were horrible the night. I used to think she had a certain taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the concert. Something so formal and arranged in its own way! And she sits so upright! My best love, of course."
"And mine," Sir Walter added. "Sincerely, And you can say that I want to visit them soon. Make a polite message; but I will only leave my card. Morning visits are never nice by women in their years of life who put on so little make-up. If she only wore blush, she would not be afraid of being seen; but the last time I called, I found that the blinds were immediately lowered."
While her father was talking, there was a knock on the door. Who could it be? Anne, who remembered Mr. Hightower's preconceived visits at any time of the day, would have expected him if his well-known engagement had been seven miles away. After the usual tension, the usual approach sounds could be heard, and "Mr. and Mrs. Charles Cumberland" were led into the room.
Surprise was the strongest emotion that triggered their appearance; but Anne was really happy to see her; and the others were not so sorry, but that they could give a decent atmosphere of welcome; and as soon as it became clear that they, their closest relatives, had not arrived in this house with any prospects of accommodation, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were able to rise in cordiality and fulfill the honour very well. They had come to Bath with Mrs. Cumberland for a few days and were at the White Hart. So much was understood pretty soon; but until Sir Walter and Elizabeth led Mary to the other salon and rejoiced with their admiration, Anne could not resort to Charles' brain to get a regular story of her coming or an explanation of some smiling references to special deals, which had been demonstratively dropped by Mary,
She then found that it consisted of Mrs Cumberland, Grace, and Captain Cheval, beside their two selves. He gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its first impulse by Captain Cheval's wanting to come to Bath on business. He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him, and Mrs Cheval had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything seemed to be in suspense, or at an end. But then, it had been taken up by his father and mother. His mother had some old friends in Bath whom she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Grace to come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short, it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be comfortable and easy to Captain Cheval; and he and Mary were included in it by way of general convenience. They had arrived late the night before. Mrs Cheval, her children, and Captain Bean, remained with Mr Cumberland and Lois at Uppercross.
Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough for Grace's wedding-clothes to be talked of. She had imagined such difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very recently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his present income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent long before the term in question, the two families had consented to the young people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place in a few months, quite as soon as Lois'. "And a very good living it was," Charles added: "only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and in a very fine country: fine part of Dorset'shire. In the center of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special recommendation. Not that he will value it as he ought," he observed, "Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst of him."
"I am extremely glad, indeed," cried Anne, "particularly glad that this should happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well, and who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of one should not be dimming those of the other – that they should be so equal in their prosperity and comfort. I hope your father and mother are quite happy with regard to both."
"Oh! yes. My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were richer, but he has no other fault to find. Money, you know, coming down with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable operation, and it straightens him as to many things. However, I do not mean to say they have not a right to it. It is very fit they should have daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me. Mary does not above half like Grace's match. She never did, you know. But she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now."
"Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Cumberland," exclaimed Anne, "should be happy in their children's marriages. They do everything to confer happiness, I am sure. What a blessing to young people to be in such hands! Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery, both in young and old. I hope you think Lois perfectly recovered now?"
He answered rather hesitatingly, "Yes, I believe I do; very much recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing; it is quite different. If one happens only to shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the water; and Bean sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long."
Anne could not help laughing. "That cannot be much to your taste, I know," said she; "but I do believe him to be an excellent young man."
"To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as myself. I have a great value for Bean; and when one can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done him no harm, for he has fought as well as read. He is a brave fellow. I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before. We had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great barns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better ever since."
Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's following the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard enough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in its happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none of the ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs.
The visit passed off altogether in high good humor. Mary was in excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four horses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that she was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and enter most readily into all the superiority of the house, as they were detailed to her. She had no demands on her father or sister, and her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome drawing-rooms.
Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal. She felt that Mrs Cumberland and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so inferior to the Hightower's of Kellynch. It was a struggle between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then Elizabeth was happy again. These were her internal persuasions: "Old fashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give dinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even ask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and I dare say it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Cumberland; put her quite out of her way. I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy with us. I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better; that will be a novelty and a treat. They have not seen two such drawing rooms before. They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening. It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant." And this satisfied Elizabeth: and when the invitation was given to the two present, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was particularly asked to meet Mr Hightower, and be introduced to Lady Galloway and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to come; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention. Miss Hightower was to have the honor of calling on Mrs Cumberland in the course of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and see her and Grace directly.
Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present. They all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but Anne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication could be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an eagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form.
They found Mrs Cumberland and her daughter within, and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome from each. Grace was exactly in that state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all; and Mrs Cumberland's real affection had been won by her usefulness when they were in distress. It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at home. She was entreated to give them as much of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally fell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on Charles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Cumberland's history of Lois, and to Grace's of herself, giving opinions on business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts; from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining.
A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled: a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Cumberland, and Charles came back with Captains Cheval and Cambridge. The appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment. It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again. Their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed. He did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation.
She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--"Surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere long. We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness." And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their being in company with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertence and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind.
"Anne," cried Mary, who was still standing at her window, "I'm sure Mrs. Clay is under the colonnade and a gentleman is with her. I just saw them bending around the corner from Bath Street. They seemed to be immersed in the conversation. Who is it? Come and tell me. Good heavens! I remember. It's Mr. Hightower himself."
"No," Anne quickly exclaimed, "that can't be Mr. Hightower, I assure you. He was supposed to leave Bath at nine this morning and won't come back until tomorrow."
As she spoke, she felt that Captain Cambridge was looking at her, whose awareness made her angry and embarrassed and made her regret that she had said so much, as simple as it was.
Mary, annoyed that she should not know her own cousin, began to speak very warmly about the family characteristics and protested even more decisively that it was Mr. Hightower, and again asked Anne to come and see for herself, but Anne did not feel like moving, and tried to stay cool and carefree. However, her despair returned when she saw a smile and intelligent glances switching back and forth between two or three of the visitors, as if they believed in the secret. It was obvious that the news had spread about her, and a short pause followed, which seemed to ensure that she would now spread further.
"Come, Anne," Mary exclaimed, "come and see for yourself. You'll be late if you don't hurry. They say goodbye, they shake hands. He turns away. You don't know Mr. Hightower! seem to have forgotten everything about Lyme."
To calm Mary down and perhaps hide her own embarrassment, Anne quietly walked to the window. She arrived just in time to make sure it was really Mr. Hightower, which she had never believed before he disappeared on one side, while Mrs. Clay quickly walked away on the other; Suppressing the surprise she had to feel at such a semblance of a friendly meeting between two people of completely opposite interest, she said calmly, "Yes, it is certainly Mr. Hightower. that's all, or I can be wrong, I couldn't participate;" and went back to her chair, gathered again, and with the comfortable hope of having spoken well.
The visitors said goodbye; and Charles, after politely saying goodbye to them and then putting them on a face and insulting them for coming, began with –
"Well, Mother, I did something for you that you will like. I was in the theater and got a box for tomorrow evening. Am I not a good boy? I know you love a play; and there is room for all of us. It holds nine. I hired Captain Cambridge. Anne won't regret joining us, I'm sure. We all like a play. Didn't I play well, mother?"
Mrs. Cumberland began in a good mood to express her perfect readiness for the play when Grace and everyone else liked it, when Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming,
"Good heaven, Charles! how can you come up with something like that? Take a box with you for tomorrow night! Forgot we're engaged tomorrow night in Camden Place? and that we were especially asked to meet Lady Galloway and her daughter and Mr. Hightower and all the important family connections, with the intention of being introduced to them? How can you be so forgetful?"
"Phu! Phew!" replied Charles, "what is an evening party? It's never worth remembering. Your father might have invited us to dinner if he wanted to see us. You can do whatever you want, but I'm going to go to the theater."
"Oh! Charles, I explain that it will be too abhorrent if you do it, if you promised to leave."
"No, I didn't promise it. I just grinned and bowed and said the word 'happy'. There was no promise."
"But you have to go, Charles. It would be unforgivable to fail. We were deliberately asked to be introduced to ourselves. There has always been such a big connection between the Galloways and we are pretty close relatives, you know; and also Mr. Hightower, whom you should get to know so specially! All attention is due to Mr. Hightower. Consider my father's heir: the future representative of the family."
"Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," Charles shouted. "I am not one of those who neglect the ruling power to bow to the rising sun. If I didn't go for your father's sake, I would find it scandalous to leave for the sake of his heir. What's the point of Mr. Hightower me?" The careless expression was life for Anne, who saw that Captain Cambridge attracted all the attention and watched and listened with all his soul; and that the last words brought his questioning eyes from Charles to himself.
Charles and Mary were still talking in the same style; he, half serious and half joking, stuck to the plan for the play, and she, always serious, resisted it warmly and did not fail to announce that, as determined as she may be to go to Camden Place herself, she should not dare to go to the theater without her. Ms. Cumberland interfered.
"We had better postpone it. Charles, you'd much better go back and change the box for Tuesday. It would be a pity if we were divided, and we would also lose Miss Anne if there was a party at her father's house; and I'm sure neither Grace nor I would even care about the play if Miss Anne couldn't be with us.
Anne was truly committed to this kindness; and especially for the opportunity it gave her to say decisively –
"If it only depended on my inclination, Ma'am, the party at home (except because of Marys) would not be the slightest obstacle. I don't enjoy the kind of meeting and would be too happy to trade it for another and play with you. But maybe it shouldn't be tried." She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was done, aware that her words were being heard, and did not even dare to try to observe their effect.
Soon it was generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles only had the advantage of still annoying his wife by insisting that he would go to the theater tomorrow if no one else would.
Captain Cambridge left his seat and went to the fireplace; probably to walk away from it soon after and take a station with less shameless design from Anne.
"You have not been long enough in Bath," said he, "to enjoy the evening parties of the place."
"Oh! No. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player."
"You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes."
"I am not yet so much changed," cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction. After waiting a few moments he said, and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, "It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a half is a period."
Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Grace, eager to make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in.
They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that could Grace have known the regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her.
Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarming sounds were heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Hightower, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill. Anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms of the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister. How mortifying to feel that it was so!
Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain Cambridge was acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before. She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once. Elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure. The sequel explained it. After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all the remaining dues of the Cumberlands. "To-morrow evening, to meet a few friends: no formal party." It was all said very gracefully, and the cards with which she had provided herself, the "Miss Hightower at home," were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Cambridge. The truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his. The past was nothing. The present was that Captain Cambridge would move about well in her drawing-room. The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter and Elizabeth arose and disappeared.
The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to Anne. She could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite acknowledgment rather than acceptance. She knew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for all the insolence of the past. Her spirits sank. He held the card in his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it.
"Just think of Elizabeth, including everyone!" whispered Mary very audibly. "I'm not surprised that Captain Cambridge is delighted! You see, he can't take the card out of his hand."
Anne caught his gaze, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth turned into an expression of contempt for a moment, and turned away so that she could no longer see or hear anything to annoy her.
The party split. The gentlemen had their own occupations, the ladies went about their own business, and they no longer met as long as Anne was one of them. She was earnestly asked to return and dine and give them the rest of the day, but her mind was exhausted for so long that she no longer felt up and was only suitable for home where she could be sure to be silent as she wanted.
Promising to be with them all the next morning, she ended the hardships of the present with an arduous walk to Camden Place to spend the evening mainly listening to Elizabeth and Mrs. Clay's busy preparations for tomorrow's party, the frequent listing of invitees and the ever-improving details of all the embellishments, who were to make it the most elegant of its kind in Bath, while agonizing with the never-ending question of whether or not Captain Cambridge would come? They thought he was safe, but for her it was a nagging worry that was never appeased for five minutes together. She generally thought he was coming because she generally thought he should come; but it was a case that she could not so form into a positive act of duty or judgment,
she only rose out of the brooding of this restless excitement to tell Mrs. Clay that she had been seen with Mr. Hightower, three hours after he had left Bath, because she had looked in vain for a hint of the interview from the office Lady herself, she decided to mention it, and it seemed to her that Mrs. Clay's face had feelings of guilt as she listened. It was ephemeral: cleared away in an instant; but Anne could imagine that she had read there the awareness that a complication of a mutual trick or an arrogant authority had forced him to attend (perhaps for half an hour) his lectures and limitations of her plans for Sir Walter. However, with a very tolerable imitation of nature, she cried out: "
Oh dear goodness! Very true. Just think, Miss Hightower, to my great surprise, I met Mr. Hightower on Bath Street. I've never been so amazed. He turned around and went with me to the pump yard in thornberry, but I really forgot what, because I was in a hurry and could not participate much, and I can only answer that he was determined not to delay his return. He wanted to know how early he was He was full of "tomorrow", and it is very obvious that I have been full of it since I entered the house and the extension of your plan and everything that had happened, or experienced my sight could never have gone so completely out of my head."
Chapter 255
Eleanore now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however sure the mind may be to take it into account, and certainty itself. She now realized that, despite her will, she had always admitted hope, while Edward remained single that something would happen to prevent him from marrying Lucy; that an own decision, a mediation of friends or a more suitable opportunity to settle down for the lady would arise to promote the happiness of all. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery that increased the pain of intelligence so much.
The fact that he was soon to marry before he could (as she imagined) be in order and consequently before he could be in the possession of the living surprised her a little at first. But she soon realized how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-indulgent concern, in her rush to secure him, would overlook everything but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town and now hurried down to their uncle. What had Edward felt when he was only four miles from Barton, when he saw her mother's servant, when he heard Lucy's message!
They would soon, she assumed, be settled in Delaford. – Delaford, – the place where so many had conspired to pique their interest; that she wanted to get to know and yet wanted to avoid. She immediately saw her in her rectory; saw in Lucy, the active, scheming manager who at the same time combined the desire for elegant appearance with extreme frugality and was ashamed to be suspected of half of her economic practices; - pursued in every thought their own interest, courted the favor of Colonel Bridgerton, Mrs. Jennings and every wealthy friend. In Edward – she didn't know what she saw, nor what she wanted to see – happy or unhappy – she didn't like anything; she turned her head away from every sketch of him.
Eleanore flattered herself that one of her connections in London would write to them to announce the event and share more details – but day after day passed and brought no letter, no message. Although she wasn't sure if anyone was to blame, she criticized every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or sluggish.
"When do you write to Colonel Bridgerton, Ma'am?" was a question that arose from her mind's impatience to have something to do.
"I wrote to him last week, my dear, and I expect to see him rather than hear from him again. I have been seriously pushing for him to come to us and should not be surprised to see him today or tomorrow or any other day."
That was a win, something to look forward to. Colonel Bridgerton must have some information to give.
She had hardly determined it when the figure of a man on horseback pulled her eyes to the window. He stopped at her gate. It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Bridgerton himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled with expectation. But – it was NOT Colonel Bridgerton – neither his air – nor his greatness. If it were possible, she would have to say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just been relegated; – she couldn't be wrong – it WAS Edward. She moved away and sat down. "He deliberately comes from Pratt-san to see us. I WILL be calm; I WILL be the mistress of myself."
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change color; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the world to be able to speak—and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behavior to him;—but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Eleanore. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Hargrove, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
He colored, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Eleanore's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.
Marianne had withdrawn from view as much as possible to hide her distress; and Margaret, who understood one part but not the whole case, considered it her duty to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far away from him as she could, keeping strict silence.
When Eleanore had stopped rejoicing in the dryness of the season, a very terrible break occurred. This was put to an end by Mrs. Hargrove, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Gastonois very well. He hastily replied approvingly.
Another break.
Eleanore decided to make an effort, fearing the sound of her own voice, and now said,
"Is Mrs. Gastonois at Longstaple?"
"On longstaple!" he replied in surprise. "No, my mother is in town."
"I wanted," Eleanore said, taking some work off the table, "to inquire about Mrs. EDWARD Gastonois."
She did not dare to look up; – but her mother and Marianne both had their eyes on him. He blushed, seemed perplexed, looked doubtful and, after some hesitation, said,
"Maybe you mean – my brother – you mean Mrs. – Mrs. ROBERT Gastonois."
"Mrs. Robert Gastonois!" – repeated by Marianne and her mother with an accent of extreme amazement – and although Eleanore could not speak, even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient amazement. He rose from his seat and went to the window, apparently because he didn't know what to do; took a pair of scissors that lay there, and while he spoiled her and her vagina by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, he said in a hurried voice,
"Maybe you don't know – maybe you haven't heard that my brother is recently married to – the youngest – Miss Lucy Clayhorn."
His words were reflected with unspeakable astonishment by everyone except Eleanore, who sat there, bending her head over her work, in a state of such excitement that she hardly knew where she was.
"Yes," he said, "they got married last week and are now in Dawlish."
Eleanore could no longer stand it. She almost ran out of the room and, as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy that she initially thought she would never stop. Edward, who until then had looked somewhere rather than at her, saw her rushing away and perhaps saw – or even heard – her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into reveries that could not penetrate any remarks, no questions, no loving address from Mrs. Hargrove, and finally, without saying a word, he furnished the room and went out to the village – leaving the others behind the greatest amazement and confusion about a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden; – a confusion that they could only alleviate through their own assumptions.
Chapter 256
Instead of receiving such a letter of apology from his friend, as Elizabeth half-expected Mr. Woodland would do, he was able to bring Drury to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and before Mrs. Mitchell had time to tell him that they had seen his aunt, whom her daughter was afraid of for a moment, Woodland, who wanted to be alone with Jane, suggested leaving them all. It has been agreed. Mrs. Mitchell was not used to walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. However, Woodland and Jane soon allowed the others to surpass her. They stayed behind while Elizabeth, Kitty and Drury were supposed to talk to each other. Very little has been said of both; Kitty was too afraid of him to speak; Elizabeth secretly made a desperate decision; and maybe he does the same.
They approached the Lucases because Kitty wanted to visit Maria; and since Elizabeth saw no reason to make it a general concern, Kitty, when she left her, boldly went on alone with him. Now the time had come to carry out her decision, and although her courage was great, she immediately said,
'Lord. Drury, I am a very selfish creature; and to alleviate my own feelings, don't care how much I might hurt yours. I can't help but thank you for your unparalleled kindness to my poor sister. Since I know, I have been very anxious to tell you how grateful I feel about it. If it were known to the rest of my family, I wouldn't just have to express my own gratitude."
"I am very sorry," Drury replied in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you were ever informed of what might have worried you in an erroneous light. I didn't think you could trust Mrs. Lockhart so little."
"You can't blame my aunt. Linda's thoughtlessness first revealed to me that you had taken care of the matter; and of course I couldn't rest until I knew the details. On behalf of my entire family, let me thank you again and again for this generous compassion that has led you to put in so much effort and endure so many humiliations to discover them."
"If you want to thank me," he replied, "let it be for you alone. I will not try to deny that the desire to bring you happiness could give strength to the other incentives that carried me on. But your FAMILY owes me nothing. As much as I respect them, I think I only thought of YOU.'
Elizabeth was too embarrassed to say a word. After a short break, her companion added, "You're too generous to play with me. If your feelings are still as they were last April, tell me right away. MY affections and desires are unchanged, but a word from you will silence me forever on this subject.'
Elizabeth, who felt even more than the general awkwardness and fear of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately made him understand, though not very fluently, that her feelings had undergone such a significant change since the time he alluded to that she accepted his present assurances with gratitude and pleasure. The happiness that this answer evoked was as he had probably never felt it before; and he expressed himself on this occasion as reasonably and warmly as one can expect from a man in love fiercely. Had Elizabeth been able to meet his gaze, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt joy that spread across his face suited him; but although she could not look, she could listen, and he told her about feelings that, to prove how important she was to him,
you went on without knowing in which direction. There was too much to think, feel and say to care about any other things. She soon learned that they owed their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who visited him on her return through London and told her trip to Longbourn, her motive and the content of her conversation with Elizabeth; To dwell emphatically on any expression of the latter, which, in the concern of her ladyship, particularly referred to her perversity and self-assurance; Convinced that such a relationship must support her efforts to obtain the promise from her nephew that she had refused. But unfortunately for your ladyhood, its effect had been exactly the opposite.
"It taught me to hope," he said, "as I had hardly ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough about your attitude to be sure that if you had absolutely and irrevocably decided against me, you would have been open and open to Lady Catherine."
Elizabeth blushed and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough about my openness to believe me. After Abusing you so horribly in the face, I could have no qualms about abusing you for all your relatives.'
"What did you say about me that I didn't deserve? For although your accusations were unfounded and based on false premises, my conduct at the time deserved the harshest rebuke towards you. It was unforgivable. I can't think of it without disgust.'
"We're not going to argue about the greater part of the blame that's appropriate that night," Elizabeth said. "The conduct of neither of them will be impeccable under strict scrutiny; but since then, I hope, we have both improved in politeness.'
"I can't reconcile with myself so easily. The memory of what I said at that time, of my behavior, my behavior, my statements during it, is unspeakably embarrassing to me now, and has been for many months. I will never forget your well-applied accusation: "If you had behaved a little more gentlemanly." Those were your words. They don't know, you can hardly imagine how they tortured me; – although it took some time, I confess before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.'
"In any case, I was very far from making such a strong impression. I didn't have the slightest idea they were ever felt that way.'
"I can easily believe it. They thought I was completely insensitive at the time, I'm sure. I will never forget the turn of your expression when you said I could not have approached you in any way that would cause you to accept me.'
'Oh! do not repeat what I said at the time. These memories will not suffice at all. I assure you that I have been ashamed of this for a long time.'
Drury mentioned his letter. "Did it," he said, "soon make you think better of me? When you read it, did you have any confidence in the content?'
She explained how it had affected her and how all her earlier prejudices had gradually been dismantled.
"I knew," he said, "that what I wrote must cause you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part above all, the beginning, that I should fear when you have the power to read it again. I can remember some expressions that could rightly make you hate me.'
"The letter shall certainly be burned if you believe that it is essential for the preservation of my respect; but while we both have reason to believe that my opinions are not entirely immutable, I hope they are not quite as easy to change as that implies."
"When I wrote this letter," Drury replied, "I thought I was completely calm and cool, but since then I am convinced that it was written in a terrible bitterness."
"The letter may have started in bitterness, but it didn't end that way. The goodbye is charity itself. But don't think about the letter anymore. The feelings of the author and the recipient today are so different from then that any unpleasant circumstance that accompanied it should be forgotten. You need to learn something from my philosophy. Just think of the past, because your memory will bring you joy.'
"I can't trust you with a philosophy of this kind. Their retrospective must be so reproachful that the resulting satisfaction does not correspond to philosophy, but, what is much better, to innocence. But it's not like that with me. Painful memories will occur that cannot be warded off, that should not be fended off. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child, I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temperament. I was given good principles, but I had to follow them in pride and imagination. Unfortunately a single son (an only child for many years), I was spoiled by my parents who, although they themselves were good (especially my father, anything that was benevolent and kind), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and presumptuous; not to care for anyone but my own family circle; to think commonly of the rest of the world; to want to think at least little about their meaning and value compared to mine. So I was from eight to eight and twenty; and that might have been me if you hadn't been, dearest, most beautiful Elisabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard at first, but very beneficial. I was really humiliated by you. I came to you without a doubt at my reception. They showed me how inadequate all my pretensions were to please a woman who is worth satisfying." I was really humiliated. I came to you without a doubt at my reception. They showed me how inadequate all my pretensions were to please a woman who is worth satisfying." I was really humiliated. I came to you without a doubt at my reception. They showed me how inadequate all my pretensions were to please a woman who is worth satisfying."
'Did you tell yourself at the time that I should do it?'
"I actually had that. What will you think of my vanity? I thought you wished my addresses were waiting."
"My manners must have been flawed, but not intentionally, I assure you. I never wanted to deceive you, but my mind could often mislead me. How must you have hated me after that night?'
'I hate you! I may have been angry at first, but my anger soon began to take the right direction.'
"I am almost afraid to ask you what you thought of me when we met in Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?'
'Not really; I felt nothing but surprise."
"Your surprise couldn't be greater than MINE to be noticed by you. My conscience told me that I did not deserve extraordinary courtesy, and I confess that I did not expect to receive MORE than I was entitled to.'
"My intention," Drury replied, "was to show you with all courtesy in my power that I was not so mean as to be angry with the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to diminish your bad opinion by letting you see that your allegations had been investigated. I can hardly say how quickly other wishes came about, but I think about half an hour after I saw you.'
Then he told her about Georgiana's joy at her acquaintance and her disappointment at her sudden interruption; which, of course, led to this interruption, she soon learned that his decision to follow her by Derbyshire in search of her sister had been made before he had set up the inn, and that his seriousness and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no struggles other than that such a purpose must understand.
She again expressed her gratitude, but it was too painful an issue for both of them to go into further.
After walking leisurely for several miles and too busy to know anything about it, they finally realized when they looked at their watches that it was time to be home.
'What could become of Mr. Woodland and Jane!' was a miracle that initiated the discussion of their affairs. Drury was thrilled with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information about it.
"I have to ask if you were surprised?" said Elisabeth.
'Not at all. When I left, I felt like it was about to happen.'
"That is, you had given your permission. That's what I thought.« And although he cried out at the term, she found that it was pretty much the case.
"The night before I left for London," he said, "I made him a confession that I think I should have made long ago. I told him everything that made my previous interference in his affairs seem absurd and outrageous. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I also told him that I thought I was wrong if I assumed, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and since I could easily see that his affection for her was unbroken, I had no doubt about their common happiness.'
Elizabeth couldn't resist smiling at his easy-going way of guiding his friend.
"Did you speak from your own observation," she said, "when you told him that my sister loved him, or just from my information from last spring?"
"From the former. I had watched them with little difficulty during the two visits I had recently made here; and I was convinced of their affection.'
"And your assurance, I suppose, convinced him immediately."
"It has. Woodland is most pristinely modest. His restraint had prevented him from relying on his own judgment in such a difficult case, but his reliance on mine made everything easy. I had to confess one thing, which insulted him for a while and not unjustly. I could not hide the fact that your sister was in town for three months last winter, that I knew it and had deliberately concealed it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am convinced, did not last any longer when he doubted your sister's feelings. He has now forgiven me from the bottom of his heart.'
Elizabeth longed to notice that Mr. Woodland had been a delightful friend; so easily managed that its value was invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was too early to start. In anticipation of Woodland's happiness, which of course would only be inferior to his own, he continued the conversation until they reached the house. In the hall they separated.
Chapter 257
It had been a miserable party, and each of the three believed they were the most miserable. Mrs. Norris, however, who was most fond of Mary, really suffered the most. Mary was her first darling, the dearest of all; the match had been her own invention, as she used to feel and say with such a proud heart, and this conclusion of it almost overwhelmed her.
She was a changed creature, calm, stunned, indifferent to everything that was going on. That she stayed with her sister and nephew and the whole house under her care had been a completely discarded advantage; it had not been able to command or dictate, or even consider itself useful. When she was truly touched by sorrow, her active powers had all been stunned; and neither Lady Schmidt nor Tom had received the slightest support or attempt at support from her. She had not done more for them than they had done for each other. They had all been equally lonely, helpless and lost; and now the arrival of the others only established their superiority in misery. Her companions were relieved, but there was nothing good for them. Edmund was almost as welcome to his brother as Esther was to her aunt; but Mrs. Norris, instead of being comforted by both, she was all the more irritated by the sight of the person who, in the blindness of her anger, could have accused her of being the demon of the play. If Esther had accepted Mr. Dorset, this could not have happened.
Susan was also a complaint. She didn't have the courage to notice her in more than a few repulsive looks, but she felt she was a spy, an intruder, a poor niece, and anything highly abhorrent. Susan was received with quiet kindness by her other aunt. Lady Schmidt could not give her much time or many words, but she felt that she was entitled to Mansfield as Esther's sister, and was willing to kiss and like her; and Susan was more than satisfied, for she was fully aware that nothing but a bad mood was to be expected from Aunt Norris; and was so filled with happiness, so strong in this best blessing, an escape from many certain evils, that she could have stood up to much more indifference than she was struck by the others.
She was now left much to herself to familiarize herself with the house and the grounds as best she could, and spent her days very happily with it, while those who would otherwise have taken care of her were trapped or completely occupied with the person who at that time is quite dependent on them for everything like comfort; Edmund tried to bury his own feelings in an effort to ease his brother, and Esther devoted herself to her Aunt Schmidt, returning to every former office with more than earlier zeal, and thinking she could never do enough for someone who seemed to want so much to her.
Talking, talking and complaining about the terrible thing with Esther was Lady Schmidt's consolation. Being listened to and endured and hearing the kind and compassionate voice in return was all you could do for her. To be comforted differently was out of the question. The case allowed no consolation. Lady Schmidt did not think deeply, but, guided by Sir Thomas, she thought correctly on all the important points; and she therefore saw, in all its monstrosity, what had happened, and made no effort, nor did she ask Esther to advise her to think little of guilt and shame.
Her affection was neither sharp, nor was her spirit persistent. After some time, Esther did not find it impossible to direct her thoughts to other topics and revive a certain interest in the usual occupations; but whenever Lady Schmidt was fixated on the event, she could only see it in one light than to conceive of the loss of a daughter, and a shame that would never be extinguished.
Esther learned from her all the details that had happened so far. Her aunt was not a very methodical narrator, but with the help of some letters to and from Sir Thomas and what she herself already knew and could reasonably combine, she was soon able to understand as much as she wanted of the accompanying circumstances of history.
Mrs Rushmore had gone to Twickenham over the Easter holidays with a family she had just become acquainted with: a family with lively, pleasant manners and probably with appropriate morality and discretion, because her house had Mr Dorset's constant access at all times. He had been in the same neighborhood. Esther already knew. Mr Rushmore had gone to Bath at that time to spend a few days with his mother and bring her back to town, and Mary was with these friends without any compulsion, even without Juliet; for Julia had left Wimpole Street two or three weeks ago to visit some of Sir Thomas' relatives; a distance that her father and mother were now willing to attribute to any convenience because of Yates' bill. Very soon after the Rushmores returned to Wimpole Street,
Sir Thomas was preparing to respond to this letter without telling anyone in Mansfield its contents, when he was followed by another who was explicitly sent to him by the same friend to wrest from him the almost desperate situation in which the affairs of the then with the youth of the people were. Mrs. Rushmore had left her husband's house: Mr. Rushmore had been in great anger and sorrow to him (Mr. Harding) for his advice; Mr. Harding feared that there had been at least a very blatant indiscretion. Mrs. Rushmore Sr.'s maid threatened alarmingly. He did everything in his power to silence everything in the hope of Mrs. Rushmore's return, but was so thwarted in Wimpole Street by the influence of Mr. Rushmore's mother that the worst consequences could be feared.
This terrible communication could not be withheld from the rest of the family. Sir Thomas set out, Edmund would walk with him, and the others had been left in a state of misery inferior only to what followed the receipt of the next letters from London. Everything was public at that time without any hope. Mrs. Rushmore's servant, the mother, had exposure in her power and was supported by her mistress, she could not be silenced. The two ladies had not been in agreement even in the short time they were together; and the bitterness of the elders against her daughter-in-law might perhaps stem almost as much from the personal disrespect with which she herself had been treated as from sensitivity to her son.
Be that as it may, it was unmanageable. But if she had been less persistent or less weighty towards her son, who was always guided by the last speaker, by the person who could reach him and silence him, the case would still have been hopeless, because Mrs. Rushmore had not reappeared, and there was every reason to believe that she was hiding somewhere with Mr. Dorset, who had furnished his uncle's house as if for a trip on the same day of their absence.
However, Sir Thomas stayed in town a little longer, hoping to discover it and snatch it from another vice, even though everything on the character's side was lost.
His present state Esther could hardly bear to think of. There was but one of his children who was not at this time a source of misery to him. Tom's complaints had been greatly heightened by the shock of his sister's conduct, and his recovery so much thrown back by it, that even Lady Schmidt had been struck by the difference, and all her alarms were regularly sent off to her husband; and Julia's elopement, the additional blow which had met him on his arrival in London, though its force had been deadened at the moment, must, she knew, be sorely felt. She saw that it was. His letters expressed how much he deplored it. Under any circumstances it would have been an unwelcome alliance; but to have it so clandestinely formed, and such a period chosen for its completion, placed Julia's feelings in a most unfavorable light, and severely aggravated the folly of her choice. He called it a bad thing, done in the worst manner, and at the worst time; and though Julia was yet as more pardonable than Maria as folly than vice, he could not but regard the step she had taken as opening the worst probabilities of a conclusion hereafter like her sister's. Such was his opinion of the set into which she had thrown herself.
Esther felt for him most acutely. He could have no comfort but in Edmund. Every other child must be racking his heart. His displeasure against herself she trusted, reasoning differently from Mrs. Norris, would now be done away. She should be justified. Mr. Dorset would have fully acquitted her conduct in refusing him; but this, though most material to herself, would be poor consolation to Sir Thomas. Her uncle's displeasure was terrible to her; but what could her justification or her gratitude and attachment do for him? His stay must be on Edmund alone.
She was mistaken, however, in supposing that Edmund gave his father no present pain. It was of a much less poignant nature than what the others excited; but Sir Thomas was considering his happiness as very deeply involved in the offense. of his sister and friend; cut off by it, as he must be, from the woman whom he had been pursuing with undoubted attachment and strong probability of success; and who, in everything but this despicable brother, would have been so eligible a connection. He was aware of what Edmund must be suffering on his own behalf, in addition to all the rest, when they were in town: he had seen or conjectured his feelings; and, having reason to think that one interview with Miss Dorset had taken place, from which Edmund derived only increased distress, had been as anxious on that account as on others to get him out of town, and had engaged him in taking Esther home to her aunt, with a view to his relief and benefit, no less than theirs. Esther was not in the secret of her uncle's feelings, Sir Thomas not in the secret of Miss Dorset's character. Had he been privy to her conversation with his son, he would not have wished her to belong to him, though her twenty thousand pounds had been forty.
That Edmund must be for ever divided from Miss Dorset did not admit of a doubt with Esther; and yet, till she knew that he felt the same, her own conviction was insufficient. She thought he did, but she wanted to be assured of it. If he would now speak to her with the unreserve which had sometimes been too much for her before, it would be most consoling; but that she found was not to be. She seldom saw him: never alone. He probably avoided being alone with her. What was to be inferred? That his judgment submitted to all his own peculiar and bitter share of this family affliction, but that it was too keenly felt to be a subject of the slightest communication. This must be his state. He yielded, but it was with agonies which did not admit of speech. Long, long would it be ere Miss Dorset's name passed his lips again, or she could hope for a renewal of such confidential intercourse as had been.
It was long. They reached Mansfield on Thursday, and it was not till Sunday evening that Edmund began to talk to her on the subject. Sitting with her on Sunday evening—a wet Sunday evening—the very time of all others when, if a friend is at hand, the heart must be opened, and everything told; no one else in the room, except his mother, who, after hearing an affecting sermon, had cried herself to sleep, it was impossible not to speak; and so, with the usual beginnings, hardly to be traced as to what came first, and the usual declaration that if she would listen to him for a few minutes, he should be very brief, and certainly never tax her kindness in the same way again; she need not fear a repetition; it would be a subject prohibited entirely: he entered upon the luxury of relating circumstances and sensations of the first interest to himself, to one of whose affectionate sympathy he was quite convinced.
How Esther listened, with what curiosity and concern, with which ?? Pain and joy, how the excitement of his voice was observed, and how carefully their own eyes were directed at anything other than him, one can imagine. The opening was alarming. He had seen Miss Dorset. He had been invited to join her. He had received a message from Lady Stornaway asking him for a call; and considered it to be what was to become the last, last friendship conversation, and considered her with all the feelings of shame and misery that Dorset's sister should have known, and he had gone to her in such a state of mind, so softened, so devoted that esther's fears that it would be the last one became impossible for a few moments. But as he continued in his story, those fears were over. She had met him, he said, with a serious – certainly a serious – even excited expression on his face; but before he could speak an understandable sentence, she had introduced the subject in a way that he knew had shocked him. "'I heard you were in town,' she said; ' I wanted to see you. Let's talk about this sad matter. What can be equal to the folly of our two relationships?' I couldn't answer, but I think my gaze was talking. She felt reprimanded. Sometimes how fast to feel! With a more serious look and a more serious voice, she then added, "I have no intention of defending Henry at the expense of your sister." That's how she started, but how she went on, Esther, is not suitable, is hardly suitable to be repeated to you. I can't remember all her words. I wouldn't go into them if I could. Their substance was great anger at the folly of everyone. She rebuked her brother's stupidity in being lured by a woman who had never meant anything to him to do what the woman he adored had to lose; but even more so the stupidity of poor Mary, to sacrifice such a situation, to plunge into such difficulties, in the idea of being truly loved by a man who had long since made his indifference clear. Guess what I must have felt. To hear the woman who - no harder name given than folly! So voluntary, so free, so cool to advertise it! No restraint, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest aversion? That's what the world does. For where, Esther, are we to find a woman who has given so rich gifts to nature? Spoiled, spoiled!" To hear the woman who - no harder name given than folly! So voluntary, so free, so cool to advertise it! No restraint, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest aversion? That's what the world does. For where, Esther, are we to find a woman who has given so rich gifts to nature? Spoiled, spoiled!" To hear the woman who - no harder name given than folly! So voluntary, so free, so cool to advertise it! No restraint, no horror, no feminine, shall I say, no modest aversion? That's what the world does. For where, Esther, are we to find a woman who has given so rich gifts to nature? Spoiled, spoiled!"
After a short reflection, he continued with a kind of desperate calm. "I will tell you everything and then do it forever. She saw it only as folly, and that folly was only shaped by the revelation. The lack of general discretion, of caution: that he went to Richmond for the whole time she was in Twickenham; she takes control of a servant; it was the recognition, in short – oh, Esther! it was the discovery, not the crime, that she rejected. It was the unwiseness that took things to the extreme and forced her brother to abandon any more expensive plan to fly with her."
He stopped. "And what," said Esther (who thought she needed to speak), "what could you say?"
"Nothing, nothing to understand. I was like a stunned man. She continued, began to speak of you; yes, then she began to speak of you, regretting as best she could the loss of one. She spoke very rationally. But it has always done you justice. "He threw away," she said, "such a woman as he will never see again. She would have repaired it; she would have made him happy forever." My dearest Esther, I hope to bring you more joy than pain through this review of what could have been – but what can never be now. You don't want me to be silent? If so, just give me a look, a word, and I'm done."
No look or word was given.
"Thank God," he said. "We were all inclined to wonder, but it seems to have been the merciful destiny of Providence that the heart, which knew no deceit, should not suffer. She spoke of you with great praise and warm affection; but even here was alloy, a pinch of evil; for in the middle of it all, she could exclaim, "Why shouldn't she have him? It's all their fault. Simple girl! I will never forgive her. Had she accepted him as it should have been, they might have been close to the wedding, and Henry would have been too happy and busy to want anything else. He would have made no effort to be on the same page with Mrs. Rushmore again. It would all have ended in a regular constant flirtation, in annual meetings in Sotherton and Everingham.' Would you have thought it possible? But the charm is broken. My eyes are open."
"Cruel!" said Esther, "quite cruel. In such a moment of cheerfulness, to give in, to speak with ease and to you! Absolute cruelty."
"Cruelty, do you call that? That's where we differ. No, it does not have a cruel nature. I don't see them as an intention to hurt my feelings. The evil lies even deeper: in their complete ignorance, their suspicion of such feelings; in a mental distortion that naturally made it possible for her to treat the subject the way she did. She spoke only as she was used to hearing others speak, as she imagined that everyone else would speak. You are not temperamental mistakes. She would not voluntarily inflict unnecessary pain on anyone, and although I am deceiving myself, I cannot help but believe that for me, for my feelings – yours are fundamental mistakes, Esther; of jaded tenderness and a corrupted, corrupted spirit. Maybe it's best for me as I have so little to regret. But not. I would like to submit to the increased pain of their loss instead of having to think about them as I do. That's what I told her."
"Did you?"
"Yes; When I left her, I told her."
"How long have you been together?"
"Twenty-five minutes. Well, she went on to say that what still needs to be done now is to bring about a marriage between them. She spoke of it, Esther, in a firmer voice than I did." He had to pause more than once while continuing. "'We have to persuade Henry to marry her,' she said; " And what an honor and the certainty of having excluded oneself from Esther forever, I do not despair. He has to give up on Esther. I do not believe that even he can now hope to succeed with one of their stamps, and therefore I hope that we will not find insurmountable difficulties. My influence, which is not small, should all go this way; and once married and adequately supported by her own family, people of standing as they are, she can regain her footing in society to a certain extent. In some circles, we know, she would never be admitted, but at good dinners and big parties there will always be some who will be happy about her acquaintance; and there is undoubtedly more liberality and openness on these points than there used to be. What I advise is that your father is calm. Don't let him hurt his own cause by meddling. Persuade him to let things take their course. If, by some intrusive effort, she is persuaded by him to leave Henry's protection, there will be far fewer chances that he will marry her than if she stays with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust in his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will destroy the chieftains's feasts.'" more freedom of movement and openness on these points than before. What I advise is that your father is calm. Don't let him hurt his own cause by meddling. Persuade him to let things take their course. If, by some intrusive effort, she is persuaded by him to leave Henry's protection, there will be far fewer chances that he will marry her than if she stays with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust in his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will destroy the chieftains's feasts.'" more freedom of movement and openness on these points than before. What I advise is that your father is calm. Don't let him hurt his own cause by meddling. Persuade him to let things take their course. If, by some intrusive effort, she is persuaded by him to leave Henry's protection, there will be far fewer chances that he will marry her than if she stays with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust in his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will destroy the chieftains's feasts.'" there will be much less chance that he will marry her than if she stays with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust in his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will destroy the chieftains's feasts.'" there will be much less chance that he will marry her than if she stays with him. I know how he is likely to be influenced. Let Sir Thomas trust in his honour and compassion, and it may all end well; but if he gets his daughter away, it will destroy the chieftains's feasts.'"
After repeating this, Edmund was so affected that Esther, who watched him with silent but extreme tender concern, almost regretted that the issue had been raised at all. It took him a long time to be able to speak again. Finally, "Well, Esther," he said, "I'll be done soon. I told you the substance of everything she said. As soon as I could speak, I replied that I didn't think it was possible that I came into this house in such a mood as I had done, that anything could happen that made me suffer even more, but that she had inflicted deeper wounds in almost every sentence. Although I had often noticed certain differences of opinion in the course of our acquaintanceship, even on certain points, it had not occurred to me to understand that the difference could be as great as she had now proved. That the way she treated the terrible crime of her brother and my sister (where the greater seduction lay, I did not want to say), but the way she spoke about the crime itself and reproached it for everything except the law; its bad consequences only in view of how they should be defied or overwhelmed by a defiance of decency and impudence in injustice; and last but not least, and above all, she recommended to us a indulgence, a compromise, a consent to the continuation of sin on the occasion of a marriage which, as I now thought of her brother, should be prevented rather than sought; all this together painfully convinced me that I had never understood them before and that, as far as the mind was concerned, it had been the creature of my own imagination, not Miss Dorset, that I had been too inclined to think about it in recent months. That was perhaps the best thing for me; I had less to regret sacrificing a friendship, feelings, hopes that must have been snatched from me now. And yet, I must and will confess, I could have given her back what she had previously seemed to me, I would infinitely prefer any increase in the pain of parting to carry with me the right to tenderness and appreciation. That is what I have said, the meaning of it; but, as you can imagine, not as collected or methodically speaking as I have repeated to you. She was amazed, extremely amazed – more than amazed. I saw her facial expression change. It turned extremely red. I imagined seeing a mixture of many feelings: a big, if short, fight; half desire to surrender to the truths, half shame, but habit, habit carried it. She would have laughed if she had been able to. It was a kind of laugh when she replied, "A pretty good lecture, at my word. Was it part of your last sermon? At this pace, you'll soon be reforming everyone in Mansfield and Thornton Lacey; and the next time I hear from you, perhaps as a celebrated preacher in a great Methodist society, or as a missionary in foreign lands." She tried to speak carelessly, but she wasn't as careless as she wanted to appear. I only replied that I wished her all the best from the bottom of my heart and fervently hoped that she would soon learn to think more justly, and not owe the most valuable knowledge we could acquire, the knowledge of ourselves and our duty, to the lessons of tribulation, and immediately left the room. I had walked a few steps, Esther, when I heard the door open behind me. 'Lord. Schmidt," she said. I looked back. 'Lord. Schmidt," she said with a smile; but it was a smile that was inappropriate for the past conversation, a cheeky, playful smile that seemed to invite me to submit; at least that's how it seemed to me. I fought back; it was the impulse of the moment to resist and still went on. Since then, I have sometimes regretted for a moment that I did not return, but I know that I was right, and that was the end of our acquaintanceship. And what an acquaintance! How wrong I was! Immediately deceived in brother and sister! Thank you for your patience, Esther. That was the greatest relief, and now we've done it." seems to invite me to submit; at least that's how it seemed to me. I fought back; it was the impulse of the moment to resist and still went on. Since then, I have sometimes regretted for a moment that I did not return, but I know that I was right, and that was the end of our acquaintanceship. And what an acquaintance! How wrong I was! Immediately deceived in brother and sister! Thank you for your patience, Esther. That was the greatest relief, and now we've done it." seems to invite me to submit; at least that's how it seemed to me. I fought back; it was the impulse of the moment to resist and still went on. Since then, I have sometimes regretted for a moment that I did not return, but I know that I was right, and that was the end of our acquaintanceship. And what an acquaintance! How wrong I was! Immediately deceived in brother and sister! Thank you for your patience, Esther. That was the biggest relief, and now we've done it." Immediately deceived in brother and sister! Thank you for your patience, Esther. That was the biggest relief, and now we've done it." Immediately deceived in brother and sister! Thank you for your patience, Esther. That was the biggest relief, and now we've done it."
And Esther was so dependent on his words that for five minutes she thought they had made it. But then it started again or something like that, and nothing less than the thorough shaking up of Lady Schmidt could really end such a conversation. Until then, they only talked about Miss Dorset and how she had hung him on herself and how delightful nature had made her and how excellent she would have been if she had fallen into good hands earlier. Esther, who was now allowed to speak openly, felt more than entitled to supplement his knowledge of her true character with an indication of what part his brother's health might play in her desire for complete reconciliation. That was not a pleasant hint. Nature has resisted this for a while. It would have been much more pleasant if she had been more disinterested in her attachment; but his vanity was not strong enough to fight against reason for long. He admitted to believing that Tom's illness had affected her, and only reserving this comforting thought that, given the many counter-effects of conflicting habits, she had certainly been more attached to him than could have been expected, and had been closer to him for his sake on the right. Esther thought exactly the same; and they were also quite unanimous in their opinion about the lasting effect, the indelible impression that such a disappointment must make on his mind. Undoubtedly, time would alleviate some of his suffering, but it was still a kind of thing that he could never quite overcome; and as for his meeting with any other woman who could – it was too impossible to call it without outrage. Esther's friendship was all he had to hold on to.
Chapter 258
Time passed. Tomorrow a few more, and the group from London would arrive. It was an alarming change; and Emma thought about what must have made her very upset and saddened one morning when Mr. Hill came in and disturbing thoughts were pushed aside. After the first pleasurable conversation, he remained silent; and then began in a more serious tone with,
"I have to tell you something, Emma; some news."
"Good or bad?" she said quickly, looking up in his face.
"I don't know what it's called."
"Oh! well, I'm sure. – I see it in your face. You try not to smile."
"I'm afraid," he said, putting his features together, "I'm very afraid, my dear Emma, ?? that you won't smile when you hear it."
"Indeed! But why? – I can hardly imagine that something you like or amuse should not also please and amuse me."
"There's an issue," he replied, "I just hope for one that we don't think the same way." He paused for a moment, smiled again, his eyes on her face. »Can't you think of anything? – Don't you remember? Harriet Smith."
Her cheeks blushed at the name, and she was afraid of something, even though she didn't know what.
"Did you hear from her yourself this morning?" he shouted. "They have, I think, and they know the whole thing."
"No, I didn't; I don't know; please tell me."
"You're prepared for the worst, I see – and it's very bad. Harriet Smith marries Robert Martin."
Emma winced what didn't seem to be prepared – and her eyes said with a tense look, "No, that's impossible!" but her lips were closed.
"That's true," Mr. Hill continued; "I got it from Robert Martin personally. He left me less than half an hour ago."
She still looked at him with the greatest amazement.
"You like it, my Emma, ?? as little as I feared. – I wish we were of the same opinion. But in time, they will. The time, you can be sure, will make one or the other of us think differently; and in the meantime we don't need to talk much about it."
"You're confusing me, you're confusing me quite a bit," she replied, making an effort. "It's not that such a circumstance would make me unhappy now, but I can't believe it. It seems an impossibility! – You can't say that Harriet Smith accepted Robert Martin. You can't think he's proposed to her again – not yet. You just mean he intends to."
"I mean, he did it," Mr. Hill replied with smiling but determined determination, "and was accepted."
"Good God!" she shouted. – "Well!" – Then she took refuge in her work basket, as an excuse for bowing, hiding all the exquisite feelings of joy and entertainment that she knew she had to express, adding, "Well, now tell me everything; makes me understand that. How, where, when? – Let me know everything. I've never been more surprised – but it doesn't make me unhappy, I assure you. – How – how was that possible?"
"It's a very simple story. He was going to town on business three days ago, and I got him to take care of some papers I wanted to send to John. He handed over these papers to John in his chamber and was asked by him to join their company that same evening at Astley's. They wanted to bring the two oldest boys to Astley. The party was to consist of our siblings Henry, John and Miss Smith. My friend Robert couldn't resist. They called for him in their own way; everyone was very amused; and my brother asked him to dine with them the next day—which he did—and in the course of that visit he found (as far as I know) an opportunity to talk to Harriet; and certainly did not speak in vain. – She made him as happy as he deserves by her acceptance. He came down from yesterday's carriage, and was with me this morning right after breakfast to report on what was going on, first on my affairs and then for himself. That's all I can tell about the how, where and when. Your friend Harriet will write a much longer story when you see her. – She will tell you all the details that only a woman's language can make interesting. – In our communications, we deal only with the big. – I must say, however, that Robert Martin's heart seemed very overflowing to him and to me; and that he mentioned without much purpose that my brother, after leaving her lodge at Astley, took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless, first for my affairs and then for herself. That's all I can tell about the how, where and when. Your friend Harriet will write a much longer story when you see her. – She will tell you all the details that only a woman's language can make interesting. – In our communications, we deal only with the big. – I must say, however, that Robert Martin's heart seemed very overflowing to him and to me; and that he mentioned without much purpose that my brother, after leaving her lodge at Astley, took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless, first for my affairs and then for herself. That's all I can tell about the how, where and when. Your friend Harriet will write a much longer story when you see her. – She will tell you all the details that only a woman's language can make interesting. – In our communications, we deal only with the big. – I must say, however, that Robert Martin's heart seemed very overflowing to him and to me; and that he mentioned without much purpose that my brother, after leaving her lodge at Astley, took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless." Your friend Harriet will write a much longer story when you see her. – She will tell you all the details that only a woman's language can make interesting. – In our communications, we deal only with the big. – I must say, however, that Robert Martin's heart seemed very overflowing to him and to me; and that he mentioned without much purpose that my brother, after leaving her lodge at Astley, took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless." Your friend Harriet will write a much longer story when you see her. – She will tell you all the details that only a woman's language can make interesting. – In our communications, we deal only with the big. – I must say, however, that Robert Martin's heart seemed very overflowing to him and to me; and that he mentioned without much purpose that my brother, after leaving her lodge at Astley, took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless." and that he mentioned without much purpose that after leaving their lodge with Astley, my brother took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless." and that he mentioned without much purpose that after leaving their lodge with Astley, my brother took over Mrs. John Hill and Little John, and he followed with Miss Smith and Henry; and that they were once in such a crowd that Miss Smith became quite restless."
He stopped. – Emma did not dare to answer immediately. To speak, she was sure, would betray a highly unreasonable level of happiness. She had to wait a moment, otherwise he would think she was crazy. Their silence disturbed him; and after watching her for a while, he added,
"Emma, ?? my dear, you said that this circumstance would not make you unhappy now; but I'm afraid it's causing you more pain than you expected. His situation is an evil – but you must consider it to be what satisfies your friend; and I will answer for the fact that the more you know him, the better you think of him. His common sense and good principles would please you. - As for the man, you could not wish your friend in better hands. I would change his rank in society, if I could, which says a lot, I assure you, Emma. They laugh at William Larkins; but I could just as well do without Robert Martin."
He wanted her to look up and smile; and now that she had made herself not smile too broadly – she did – she replied cheerfully,
"You don't have to bother reconciling myself with the match. I think Harriet is doing very well. Their connections might be worse than his. There can be no doubt about the honorability of the character that they are. I kept silent only out of surprise, excessive surprise. You can't imagine how suddenly it came over me! how strangely unprepared I was! – because I had reason to believe that she has been more determined against him lately, much more determined than she was before."
"You should know your friend best," Mr. Hill replied; "But I should say that she was a good-natured, soft-hearted girl who probably wasn't very, very determined against a young man who told her he loved her."
Emma couldn't help but laugh when she replied, "At my word, I think you know her as well as I do. But, Mr. Hill, are you absolutely sure that she accepted him absolutely and unreservedly? I could imagine that she could do it over time – but can she already? – Didn't you misunderstand him? You both talk about other things; of shops, cattle shows or new exercises – and couldn't you confuse him in the confusion of so many topics?
The contrast between the facial expression and the expression of Mr. Hill and Robert Martin was so strong for Emma's feelings at that moment, and so strong was the memory of everything that had happened so recently at Harriet's side, so fresh was the sound of those words, said with such ?? Emphasis: "No, I hope I know better than thinking about Robert Martin" that she really expected intelligence to prove premature to some extent. It couldn't be otherwise.
"Do you dare say that?" shouted Mr. Hill. "Do you dare to think of me as such a big fool that I don't know what a man is talking about? – What do you deserve?"
"Oh! I always deserve the best treatment because I never tolerate another; and that is why you must give me a clear, direct answer. Are you sure you understand the conditions that Mr. Martin and Harriet stand by now?"
"I am quite sure," he replied, speaking very distinctly, "that he told me she had accepted him; and that there was no obscurity, nothing doubtful, in the words he used; and I think I can give you a proof that it must be so. He asked my opinion as to what he was now to do. He knew of no one but Mrs. Goddard to whom he could apply for information of her relations or friends. Could I mention any thing more fit to be done, than to go to Mrs. Goddard? I assured him that I could not. Then, he said, he would endeavor to see her in the course of this day."
"I am perfectly satisfied," replied Emma, with the brightest smiles, "and most sincerely wish them happy."
"You are materially changed since we talked on this subject before."
"I hope so—for at that time I was a fool."
"And I am changed also; for I am now very willing to grant you all Harriet's good qualities. I have taken some pains for your sake, and for Robert Martin's sake, (whom I have always had reason to believe as much in love with her as ever,) to get acquainted with her. I have often talked to her a good deal. You must have seen that I did. Sometimes, indeed, I have thought you were half suspecting me of pleading poor Martin's cause, which was never the case; but, from all my observations, I am convinced of her being an artless, amiable girl, with very good notions, very seriously good principles, and placing her happiness in the affections and utility of domestic life.—Much of this, I have no doubt, she may thank you for."
"Me!" cried Emma, shaking her head.—"Ah! poor Harriet!"
She checked herself, however, and submitted quietly to a little more praise than she deserved.
Their conversation was soon afterwards closed by the entrance of her father. She was not sorry. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was in a state of flutter and wonder, which made it impossible for her to be collected. She was in dancing, singing, exclaiming spirits; and till she had moved about, and talked to herself, and laughed and reflected, she could be fit for nothing rational.
Her father's business was to announce James's being gone out to put the horses to, preparatory to their now daily drive to Randalls; and she had, therefore, an immediate excuse for disappearing.
The joy, the gratitude, the exquisite delight of her sensations may be imagined. The sole grievance and alloy thus removed in the prospect of Harriet's welfare, she was really in danger of becoming too happy for security.—What had she to wish for? Nothing, but to grow more worthy of him, whose intentions and judgment had been ever so superior to her own. Nothing, but that the lessons of her past folly might teach her humility and circumspection in future.
Serious she was, very serious in her thankfulness, and in her resolutions; and yet there was no preventing a laugh, sometimes in the very midst of them. She must laugh at such a close! Such an end of the doleful disappointment of five weeks back! Such a heart—such a Harriet!
Now there would be pleasure in her returning—Every thing would be a pleasure. It would be a great pleasure to know Robert Martin.
High in the rank of her most serious and heartfelt felicities, was the reflection that all necessity of concealment from Mr. Hill would soon be over. The disguise, equivocation, mystery, so hateful to her to practice, might soon be over. She could now look forward to giving him that full and perfect confidence which her disposition was most ready to welcome as a duty.
In the gayest and happiest spirits she set forward with her father; not always listening, but always agreeing to what he said; and, whether in speech or silence, conniving at the comfortable persuasion of his being obliged to go to Randalls every day, or poor Mrs. Winstone would be disappointed.
They arrived.—Mrs. Winstone was alone in the drawing-room:—but hardly had they been told of the baby, and Mr. Lodge received the thanks for coming, which he asked for, when a glimpse was caught through the blind, of two figures passing near the window.
"It is Frank and Miss Saxon," said Mrs. Winstone. "I was just going to tell you of our agreeable surprise in seeing him arrive this morning. He stays till to-morrow, and Miss Saxon has been persuaded to spend the day with us.—They are coming in, I hope."
In half a minute they were in the room. Emma was extremely glad to see him—but there was a degree of confusion—a number of embarrassing recollections on each side. They met readily and smiling, but with a consciousness which at first allowed little to be said; and having all sat down again, there was for some time such a blank in the circle, that Emma began to doubt whether the wish now indulged, which she had long felt, of seeing Frank Curcelle once more, and of seeing him with Jane, would yield its proportion of pleasure. When Mr. Winstone joined the party, however, and when the baby was fetched, there was no longer a want of subject or animation—or of courage and opportunity for Frank Curcelle to draw near her and say,
"I have to thank you, Miss Lodge, for a very kind forgiving message in one of Mrs. Winstone's letters. I hope time has not made you less willing to pardon. I hope you do not retract what you then said."
"No, indeed," cried Emma, most happy to begin, "not in the least. I am particularly glad to see and shake hands with you—and to give you joy in person."
He thanked her with all his heart, and continued some time to speak with serious feeling of his gratitude and happiness.
"Is not she looking well?" said he, turning his eyes towards Jane. "Better than she ever used to do?—You see how my father and Mrs. Winstone doat upon her."
But his spirits were soon rising again, and with laughing eyes, after mentioning the expected return of the Campbells, he named the name of Dixon.—Emma blushed, and forbade its being pronounced in her hearing.
"I can never think of it," she cried, "without extreme shame."
"The shame," he answered, "is all mine, or ought to be. But is it possible that you had no suspicion?—I mean of late. Early, I know, you had none."
"I never had the smallest, I assure you."
"That appears quite wonderful. I was once very near—and I wish I had—it would have been better. But though I was always doing wrong things, they were very bad wrong things, and such as did me no service.—It would have been a much better transgression had I broken the bond of secrecy and told you every thing."
"It is not now worth a regret," said Emma.
"I have some hope," resumed he, "of my uncle's being persuaded to pay a visit at Randalls; he wants to be introduced to her. When the Campbells are returned, we shall meet them in London, and continue there, I trust, till we may carry her northward.—But now, I am at such a distance from her—is not it hard, Miss Lodge?—Till this morning, we have not once met since the day of reconciliation. Do not you pity me?"
Emma spoke her pity so very kindly, that with a sudden accession of gay thought, he cried,
"Ah! by the bye," then sinking his voice, and looking demure for the moment—"I hope Mr. Hill is well?" He paused.—She colored and laughed.—"I know you saw my letter, and think you may remember my wish in your favor. Let me return your congratulations.—I assure you that I have heard the news with the warmest interest and satisfaction.—He is a man whom I cannot presume to praise."
Emma was delighted, and only wanted him to go on in the same style; but his mind was the next moment in his own concerns and with his own Jane, and his next words were,
"Did you ever see such a skin?—such smoothness! such delicacy!—and yet without being actually fair.—One cannot call her fair. It is a most uncommon complexion, with her dark eye-lashes and hair—a most distinguishing complexion! So peculiarly the lady in it.—Just color enough for beauty."
"I have always admired her complexion," replied Emma, archly; "but do not I remember the time when you found fault with her for being so pale?—When we first began to talk of her.—Have you quite forgotten?"
"Oh! no—what an impudent dog I was!—How could I dare—"
But he laughed so heartily at the recollection, that Emma could not help saying,
"I do suspect that in the midst of your perplexities at that time, you had very great amusement in tricking us all.—I am sure you had.—I am sure it was a consolation to you."
"Oh! no, no, no—how can you suspect me of such a thing? I was the most miserable wretch!"
"Not quite so miserable as to be insensible to mirth. I am sure it was a source of high entertainment to you, to feel that you were taking us all in.—Perhaps I am the readier to suspect, because, to tell you the truth, I think it might have been some amusement to myself in the same situation. I think there is a little likeness between us."
He bowed.
"If not in our dispositions," she presently added, with a look of true sensibility, "there is a likeness in our destiny; the destiny which bids fair to connect us with two characters so much superior to our own."
"True, true," he answered, warmly. "No, not true on your side. You can have no superior, but most true on mine.—She is a complete angel. Look at her. Is not she an angel in every gesture? Observe the turn of her throat. Observe her eyes, as she is looking up at my father.—You will be glad to hear (inclining his head, and whispering seriously) that my uncle means to give her all my aunt's jewels. They are to be new set. I am resolved to have some in an ornament for the head. Will not it be beautiful in her dark hair?"
"Very beautiful, indeed," replied Emma; and she spoke so kindly, that he gratefully burst out,
"How delighted I am to see you again! and to see you in such excellent looks!—I would not have missed this meeting for the world. I should certainly have called at Hartfield, had you failed to come."
The others had been talking of the child, Mrs. Winstone giving an account of a little alarm she had been under, the evening before, from the infant's appearing not quite well. She believed she had been foolish, but it had alarmed her, and she had been within half a minute of sending for Mr. Perry. Perhaps she ought to be ashamed, but Mr. Winstone had been almost as uneasy as herself.—In ten minutes, however, the child had been perfectly well again. This was her history; and particularly interesting it was to Mr. Lodge, who commended her very much for thinking of sending for Perry, and only regretted that she had not done it. "She should always send for Perry, if the child appeared in the slightest degree disordered, were it only for a moment. She could not be too soon alarmed, nor send for Perry too often. It was a pity, perhaps, that he had not come last night; for, though the child seemed well now, very well considering, it would probably have been better if Perry had seen it."
Frank Curcelle caught the name.
"Perry!" said he to Emma, and trying, as he spoke, to catch Miss Saxon's eye. "My friend Mr. Perry! What are they saying about Mr. Perry?—Has he been here this morning?—And how does he travel now?—Has he set up his carriage?"
Emma soon recollected, and understood him; and while she joined in the laugh, it was evident from Jane's countenance that she too was really hearing him, though trying to seem deaf.
"Such an extraordinary dream of mine!" he cried. "I can never think of it without laughing.—She hears us, she hears us, Miss Lodge. I see it in her cheek, her smile, her vain attempt to frown. Look at her. Do not you see that, at this instant, the very passage of her own letter, which sent me the report, is passing under her eye—that the whole blunder is spread before her—that she can attend to nothing else, though pretending to listen to the others?"
Jane was forced to smile completely, for a moment; and the smile partly remained as she turned towards him, and said in a conscious, low, yet steady voice,
"How you can bear such recollections, is astonishing to me!—They will sometimes obtrude—but how you can court them!"
He had a great deal to say in return, and very entertainingly; but Emma's feelings were chiefly with Jane, in the argument; and on leaving Randalls, and falling naturally into a comparison of the two men, she felt, that pleased as she had been to see Frank Curcelle, and really regarding him as she did with friendship, she had never been more sensible of Mr. Hill's high superiority of character. The happiness of this most happy day, received its completion, in the animated contemplation of his worth which this comparison produced.
Chapter 259
Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;—for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Eleanore to marry him;—and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;—and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learned to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;—and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Eleanore, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world—and want of employment. Had my mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think—nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too—at least I thought so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly."
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Hargrove's, was such—so great—as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Hargrove, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Eleanore enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur—regrets would arise;—and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Eleanore—how are HER feelings to be described?—From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,—saw him honorably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,— she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;—and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquility to her heart.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;—for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Eleanore's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future;—for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will dispatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;—and Eleanore's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,—a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family—it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only try one explanation, assuming that perhaps at the first chance encounter, the vanity of one had been processed by the flattery of the other in such a way that it gradually led to all the others. Eleanore recalled what Robert had told her on Harley Street about his opinion of what his own mediation could have done in his brother's affairs if it had been applied in time. She repeated it to Edward.
"THAT was just like Robert," – was his immediate observation. "And THAT," he added, "may have been in HIS head when the acquaintance between them began. And Lucy may have only thought at first of procuring his good services in my favor. Other designs could emerge later."
How long it had taken between them, however, was just as perplexed to find out; for in Oxford, where he had a free choice since his departure from London, he had heard nothing of her but of herself, and her letters to the end were neither less frequent nor less loving than usual. Not the slightest suspicion had ever come to him to prepare him for the following; – and when he finally came upon himself in a letter from Lucy himself, he believed that he had been half stunned for some time between the miracle, the horror and the joy of such a liberation. He placed the letter in Eleanore's hands.
"DEAR LORD,
"Since I am very sure that I have long since lost your affection, I have taken the liberty to give my own to another and have no doubt that I will be as happy with him as I used to think I could be with you; but I despise accepting a hand while the heart belonged to another. Sincerely wish you a lot of joy in your choice, and it should not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our close relationship rightly does now. I can safely say that I don't owe you anything bad. and I am sure you will be too generous to serve us any badly. Your brother has completely won my affection, and since we could not live without each other, we have just returned from the altar and are now on the way there Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother would like to see with great curiosity, but thought I would harass you first with these few lines and always stay,
"Her sincere gratuitous friend, friend and sister, "LUCY FERRARS.
"I have burned all your letters and will return your picture at the first opportunity. Please destroy my doodles – but you are welcome to keep the ring with my hair."
Eleanore read it and returned it without comment.
"I don't want to ask you for your opinion on how it's put together," Eduard said. – "By worlds you would not have seen a letter from her earlier. – With a sister it is bad enough, but with a woman ! – how I turned red over the pages of her writing! – and I think I can say that since the first six months of our foolish – business – this is the only letter I have ever received from her, from which the content has made me a reparation for the lack of style."
"However it turned out," Eleanore said after a break, "they are certainly married. And your mother has imposed a most appropriate punishment on herself in his power to make her own choice, and she has actually bribed a son with a thousand a year to accomplish the very act for which she disinherited the other because she intended Robert married Lucy when it would be if you had married her."
"She will be hurt even more because Robert has always been her favourite.
In which ?? Edward did not know that the matter was currently between them, because until now he had not made any attempt to communicate with anyone from his family. He had equipped Oxford within twenty-four hours of Lucy's letter arriving, and with only one destination in front of him, the road closest to Barton, he had had no leisure to develop a plan of conduct with which this road did not have the closest connection. He could do nothing until he was sure of his fate with Miss Hargrove; and his speed in the search for THIS fate can be guessed, despite the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Bridgerton, despite the modesty with which he evaluated his own desserts, and the courtesy with which he spoke of his doubts, he by and large did not expect a very cruel reception. However, it was up to him to say that he DID, and he said it very pretty. What he could say twelve months later on this subject must be related to the imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy, in her message from Thomas, had certainly intended to deceive him, to act against him with a sweep of wickedness, was perfectly clear to Eleanore; and Edward himself, who was now thoroughly enlightened about her character, had no scruples about considering her capable of the ultimate meanness of wanton nausea. Although his eyes were open long before his acquaintance with Eleanore began, for her ignorance and a lack of generosity in some of her opinions – they had been equally attributed by him to her lack of education; and until her last letter reached him, he had always believed that she was a kind-hearted, kind-hearted girl and fundamentally bound to herself. Nothing but such a conviction could have prevented him from ending an engagement that exposed him to his mother's wrath long before it was discovered,
"I felt it was my duty," he said, "regardless of my feelings, to give her the choice to continue the engagement or not, when I was abandoned by my mother and apparently stood at the aid of a friend in the world. in which nothing seemed to irritate the stinginess or vanity of any living creature, assume that if someone insisted so earnestly and so warmly on sharing my fate, whatever it may be What was her cause, but the most altruistic affection? And even now I can't understand from which ?? Motive she acted or what advantage it imagined for her to be tied to a man for whom she did not have the slightest respect, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She couldn't have foreseen that Colonel Bridgerton would make a living for me."
"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favor; that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry YOU than be single."
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
Eleanore scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
"Your behavior was certainly very wrong," said she; "because—to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be."
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
"I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honor. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I WAS wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these:—The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but myself."
Eleanore smiled, and shook her head.
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Bridgerton's being expected at the Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford—"Which, at present," said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."
NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Eleanore herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Bridgerton, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain—and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thousand pounds, and Eleanore one, which, with Delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs. Hargrove should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favorable change in his mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their income. But Eleanore had no such dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Gastonois's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his choosing Lucy Clayhorn, she feared that Robert's offense. would serve no other purpose than to enrich Esther.
About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Bridgerton appeared, to complete Mrs. Hargrove's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and Colonel Bridgerton therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast.
A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. No rumor of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:—he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was explained to him by Mrs. Hargrove, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Gastonois, since eventually it promoted the interest of Eleanore.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in Eleanore's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.— "I do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Gastonois, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world;—so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him."
Mr. Hargrove's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Gastonois was the most unfortunate of women—poor Esther had suffered agonies of sensibility—and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offense. was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Gastonois; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Eleanore to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family.— He thus continued:
"Mrs. Gastonois has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to Esther, and by her shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of Mrs. Gastonois's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children."
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of honor to ME?—I can make no submission—I am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.—I am grown very happy; but that would not interest.—I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make."
"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Eleanore, "because you have offended;—and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's anger."
He agreed that he might.
"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in HER eyes as the first."
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Esther, he should go to London, and personally entreat her good offices in his favor.— "And if they really DO interest themselves, " said Marianne, in her new character of candor, "in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Esther are not entirely without merit."
After a visit to Colonel Bridgerton's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen equipped Barton together. They should go to Delaford immediately so that Edward could learn something personal about his future home and help his patron and friend decide what improvements were needed; and from there, after staying there for a few nights, he was to continue his journey to the city.
Chapter 260
"My dear Lizzy, where did you go?" was a question Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered her room and from everyone else when they sat down at the table. She only had to answer that they had wandered around until she had eluded her own knowledge. She blushed as she spoke; but neither that nor anything else aroused suspicion of the truth.
The evening was quiet, not marked by anything extraordinary. The admitted lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged remained silent. Drury was not so predisposed that happiness overflows into cheerfulness; and Elizabeth, excited and confused, KNEW she was happy rather than FEELING herself that way; for apart from the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She sensed what would be felt in the family if her situation became known; she was aware that no one but Jane liked him; and even feared that it was an aversion among the others, which could not eliminate all his wealth and consequences.
At night, she opened her heart to Jane. Although mistrust was far from Miss Mitchell's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
"You're kidding, Lizzy. This can't be! – engaged to Mr. Drury! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it's impossible."
"This is indeed a miserable start! My only dependence was on you; and I'm sure no one else will believe me if you don't. And yet I mean it. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we're engaged.'
Jane looked at her in doubt. "Oh Lizzi! It cannot be. I know how much you don't like him."
"They don't know anything about it. THAT is all to forget. Maybe I haven't always loved him as much as I do now. But in such cases, a good memory is unforgivable. This is the last time I remember it myself."
Miss Mitchell still looked quite amazed. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of his truth.
'Good heavens! that can really be the case! But now I have to believe you," Jane shouted. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would – I congratulate you – but are you sure? forgive the question: Are you quite sure that you can be happy with him?'
"There is no doubt about that. It is already clear between us that we should become the happiest couple in the world. But are you satisfied, Jane? Do you want to have such a brother?'
'A lot. Nothing could give Woodland or me more pleasure. But we thought it was impossible, we talked about it. And do you really love him well enough? Oh Lizzi! do everything instead of getting married without affection. Are you sure you feel like you should be doing?'
'Oh yes! You'll just think I feel MORE than I should when I tell you everything.'
'What do you think?'
"Well, I have to admit that I love him more than Woodland. I'm afraid you'll be angry."
"My dearest sister, be serious now. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know immediately everything I need to know. Will you tell me how long you've loved him?'
"It has developed so gradually that I hardly know when it started. But I think I've had to date it since I first saw his beautiful property in Pemberley."
Another request, she would be serious, but had the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane with her serious assurances of attachment. When Miss Mitchell was convinced of this article, she had nothing more to wish for.
"Now I'm very happy," she said, "because you will be as happy as I am. I always had value to him. If it had only been his love for you, I would always have appreciated him; but now, as Woodland's boyfriend and her husband, there can only be Woodland and yourself who I prefer. But Lizzy, you were very smart, very reserved towards me. How little did you tell me about what happened in Pemberley and Lambton! I owe everything I know about it to someone else, not you."
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had not wanted to mention Woodland; and the restless state of her own feelings had also led her to avoid his friend's name. But now she would no longer conceal his share of Linda's marriage. Everything was acknowledged and half the night was spent talking.
* * * * * *'
Oh my goodness!' cried Mrs. Mitchell as she stood at a window the next morning, "if that awkward Mr. Drury doesn't come here again with our dear Woodland! What is he supposed to mean by being so annoying, always coming here? I had no idea, but he would go shooting or one way or another, and wouldn't bother us with his company. What should we do with him? Lizzy, you have to go out with him again so that he doesn't stand in Woodland's way."
Elizabeth couldn't help but laugh at such a convenient proposal; but was really upset that her mother always gave him such an epithet.
As soon as they entered, Woodland looked at her so expressively and shook her hand with such warmth that he left no doubt about his good information; and soon after, he said out loud, "Mrs. Mitchell, do you have no more alleys here nearby where Lizzy could get lost again today?"
"I advise Mr. Drury and Lizzy and Kitty," Mrs. Mitchell said, "to go to Oakham Mount this morning. It's a nice long walk, and Drury-san has never seen the view."
"It may be very good for the others," Mr. Woodland replied. but I'm sure it will be too much for Kitty. Isn't it, Kitty?" Kitty admitted that she should rather stay at home. Drury expressed his great curiosity to see the view from the mountain, and Elizabeth tacitly agreed. When she went upstairs to get ready, Mrs. Mitchell followed her and said,
"I'm very sorry, Lizzy, that you're forced to have this unpleasant man all to yourself. But I hope you don't mind: it's all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no opportunity to talk to him except once in a while. So don't cause yourself any inconvenience.'
During their walk, it was decided that Mr. Mitchell's consent should be obtained during the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved the application for her mother's. She couldn't say how her mother would take it; sometimes she doubted whether all his wealth and greatness would be enough to overcome her disgust for the man. But whether she was fiercely opposed to the match or fiercely delighted by it, it was certain that her manner would be just as poorly adapted to honor her mind; and she could not bear it any more that Mr. Drury should hear the first delights of her joy than the first vehemence of her disapproval.
In the evening, shortly after Mr. Mitchell retired to the library, she saw Mr. Drury also get up and follow him, and her excitement when she saw that was extreme. She did not fear her father's resistance, but he would be made unhappy; and that it was to be done by her means — that SHE, his favorite child, should worry him by her choice, fill him with fears and regrets by getting rid of her — was a pathetic contemplation, and she sat there in misery until Mr. Drury reappeared when, when she looked at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. After a few minutes, he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and while pretending to admire her work, she said in a whisper, 'Go to your father, he wants you in the library.' She was right away.
Her father walked around the room and looked serious and anxious. "Lizzy," he said, "what are you doing? Are you of senses to accept this man? Didn't you always hate him?'
How much she wished at the time that her earlier opinions had been more reasonable, her statements more moderate! It would have spared her explanations and confessions, which were extremely cumbersome to give; but now they were necessary, and she assured him somewhat confused of her affection for Mr. Drury.
"Or in other words, you are determined to have him. He is certainly rich, and you may have nicer clothes and more beautiful carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?'
"Do you have anything else to object," Elizabeth said, "than that you believe in my indifference?"
'None at all. We all know him as a proud, unpleasant man; but that wouldn't be anything if you really like him."
"Yes, I like him," she replied with tears in her eyes, "I love him. In fact, he has no undue pride. He is absolutely gracious. You don't know what he really is; then please don't hurt me if you talk about him like that.'
"Lizzy," said her father, "I gave him my consent. He is, in fact, the kind of man I would never dare to reject anything he let down to demand. I'll give it to you now when you're determined to have him. But let me advise you to think better about it. I know your attitude, Lizzy. I know you couldn't be happy or decent if you didn't really appreciate your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your vibrant talents would put you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could hardly escape disrepute and misery. My child, don't let me have the grief of seeing YOU unable to respect your partner in life. You don't know what it's all about.'
Elizabeth, even more concerned, was serious and serious in her response; and finally, by repeatedly assuring that Mr. Drury was really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change that her assessment had experienced from him, and telling her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of one day, but endured the examination of many months of tension, and the enumeration with the energy of all his good qualities, she really defeated her father's disbelief and reconciled him with the match.
"Well, my dear," he said when she stopped speaking, "I have nothing more to say. If that's the case, he deserves you. I couldn't have parted with you, my Lizzy, to a less worthy person."
To complete the positive impression, she then told him what Mr. Drury had voluntarily done for Linda. Astonished, he heard them.
"This is truly an evening full of wonders! And so Drury did everything; made the match, gave the money, paid the guy's debts and got him his commission! So much better. It will save me a world of anger and thrift. If it had been your uncle's work, I would have had to pay him and WOULD have paid him; but these violent young lovers wear everything in their own way. I will offer him to pay him tomorrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and the matter will come to an end.'
Then he remembered her embarrassment a few days ago when he had read Mr. Collins' letter; and after laughing at her for some time, I finally allowed her to leave – and said, while she was furnishing the room, 'If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, because I'm completely free.'
Elizabeth's spirit was now freed from a very heavy weight; and after half an hour of silent reflection in her own room, she was able to join the others with bearable serenity. Everything was too new for cheerfulness, but the evening passed quietly; there was nothing material left to fear, and the comfort of lightness and familiarity would come with time.
When her mother went up to her dressing room at night, she would follow her and make the important announcement. Its impact was extraordinary; for when Mrs. Mitchell first heard it, she sat quietly and unable to produce a syllable. Nor did it take many, many minutes for her to comprehend what she heard; although she was generally not backward to acknowledge what was to the benefit of her family, or what came to one of them in the form of a lover. Finally she began to recover, fidgeting in her chair, getting up, sitting down again, wondering and blessing herself.
'Oh my goodness! Lord bless me! Just think! Love me! Mr Druri, I would like to thank you for your kind words Who would have thought that! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how tall you will be! What pin money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Janes is nothing against it – nothing at all. I am so satisfied – so happy. Such a charming man! – so handsome! so big! – Oh, my dear Lizzy! Please excuse me for not liking him so much before. I hope he overlooks it. Love, dear Lizzy. A house in the city! Everything that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh God! What will become of me. I'm going to leave distracted.'
That was enough to prove that her approval need not be doubted: and Elizabeth, who was pleased that such an effusion was only heard from her, soon left. But before she was in her own room for three minutes, her mother followed her.
"My dearest child," she exclaimed, "I can't think of anything else! Ten thousand a year and most likely more! That is as good as a gentleman! And a special permit. They must and should be married with a special license. But my dearest, tell me which dish Mr. Drury particularly likes so I can have it tomorrow."
This was a sad omen for her mother's behavior toward the Lord Himself; and Elizabeth found that, although in safe possession of his warmest affection, and the approval of her relatives, there was still something to desire. But the morning passed much better than she expected; for Mrs. Mitchell, fortunately, had such reverence for her intended son-in-law that she dared not to speak to him unless it was in her power to pay attention to him or to express her reverence for his opinion.
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father make an effort to get to know him; and Mr. Mitchell soon assured her that he was rising in his respect every hour.
"I greatly admire all three of my sons-in-law," he said. "Waterhouse may be my favorite; but I think I'll like YOUR husband as much as Jane's."
Chapter 261
Catherine's nature was not inherently sedentary, nor had her habits ever been very diligent; but whatever their shortcomings of this kind may have been so far, their mother could not help but perceive them as much more abundant now. She could neither sit still nor occupy herself for ten minutes, walk through the garden and orchard again and again, as if nothing but exercise was voluntary; and it seemed like she could even walk around the house instead of staying stuck in parkour for some time. Their loss of mood was an even bigger change. In her chatter and idleness, she may only be a caricature of herself; but in her silence and sadness, she was the exact opposite of everything she had been before.
For two days, Mrs. Fenmore even let it pass without a clue; but when a third night's sleep had neither restored her happiness nor improved her useful activity, nor had given her a greater inclination to manual work, she could no longer refrain from the gentle rebuke: "My dear Catherine, I fear you will quietly become a fine lady. I don't know when poor Richard's ties would be ready if he had no friend but you. Your head runs too much over Bath; but there is a time for everything – a time for balls and games and a time for work. You enjoyed yourself for a long time, and now you have to try to be useful."
Catherine immediately took up her work and said in a dejected voice that "her head was not running on Bath – a lot."
"Then you worry about General Alsina, and that is very easy of you; for ten to one, whether you will ever see him again. You should never be annoyed by little things." After a brief silence: "I hope, my Catherine, you don't despair of home because it's not as great as Northanger. That would indeed make your visit an evil. Wherever you are, you should always be satisfied, but especially at home because that's where you have to spend most of your time. I didn't like hearing you talk so much about the French bread in Northanger at breakfast."
"I'm sure I don't care about bread. I don't care what I eat."
"In one of the books above, there's a very clever essay on a similar topic, about young girls who have been spoiled by a great acquaintance at home – The Mirror, I believe. I will take care of you one or the other time because I'm sure it will do you good."
Catherine said nothing more and turned to her work with an effort to do the right thing; but after a few minutes she sank again, without knowing it herself, in inertia and listlessness, moving from exhaustion much more often in her chair than she moved her needle. Mrs. Fenmore observed the course of this relapse; and when she saw in the absent and dissatisfied gaze of her daughter the full proof of that plaintive spirit to which she had now begun to attribute her lack of happiness, she hastily left the room to retrieve the book in question, anxious not to waste time attacking it terrible disease. It took some time for her to find what she was looking for; and other family matters that stopped her had passed a quarter of an hour before she returned down with the hoped-for tape. Since her side hustles had blocked out all the sounds except what she had created herself, she didn't know that a visitor had arrived in the last few minutes until when she entered the room, she first saw a young man she had never seen before. With a respectful look, he immediately rose and became to her by her unconscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Alsina", began to apologize with the embarrassment of genuine sensitivity for his appearance there, admitted that after what had passed, he had little right to expect a reception in Fullerton, and expressed his impatience to be sure, that Miss Fenmore had reached her home security as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address a disingenuous judge or a resentful heart. Far from understanding him or his sister for her father's misconduct, Mrs. Fenmore said had always been kind to everyone and received him immediately, pleased with his appearance, with the simple confessions of unadulterated goodness; She thanked him for this attention to her daughter, assured him that her children's friends were always welcome there, and begged him not to say a word more about the past.
He was not averse to complying with this request, for although his heart was greatly relieved by such unexpected gentleness, it was not exactly in his power to say anything meaningful at that moment. He returned to his seat in silence and remained highly polite for a few minutes to answer all of Mrs. Fenmore's usual remarks about the weather and the streets. Catherine, meanwhile – the anxious, excited, happy, feverish Catherine – didn't say a word; but her glowing cheek and shining eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would calm her heart for at least a while, and so she gladly set aside the first volume of the mirror for an hour to come.
Eager for Mr. Fenmore's help, both in giving encouragement and in finding conversations for her guest, whose embarrassment at his father's bill she seriously felt sorry for, Mrs. Fenmore had sent one of the children very early to call him; but Mr. Fenmore was from home – and since she was so without any support, she had nothing to say after a quarter of an hour. After a few minutes of uninterrupted silence, Henry turned to Catherine for the first time since her mother entered and asked her with sudden zeal if Mr. and Mrs. Everyone is now in Fullerton? And when, out of all her embarrassment of the answer words, he developed the meaning that a short syllable would have given, he immediately expressed his intention to give them his respect, and with increasing color, she asked if she had the goodness to show him the way. "You can see the house from this window, sir," was a piece of information from Sarah's side that only evoked an appreciative bow from the Lord and a silent nod from her mother; for Mrs. Fenmore, who thinks it is likely that as a secondary consideration in his desire to serve her worthy neighbors, he has to give an explanation for his father's behavior, which must be more comfortable for him to tell only Catherine, she would in no way prevent her from accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Fenmore was not entirely mistaken in his intention to wish it. He had to give some explanation about his father's bill; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen. On the grounds that he had done so well that Catherine didn't think it could ever be repeated too many times. She was assured of his affection; and this heart was asked for it, which they perhaps knew quite well that it was already quite his own; for although Henry was now sincerely attached to her, although he felt and enjoyed all the virtues of her character and truly loved her company, I must confess that his affection came from nothing but gratitude, or in other words, that a conviction of her preference for him had been the only reason to think seriously about her. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole. She was assured of his affection; and this heart was asked for it, which they perhaps knew quite well that it was already quite his own; for although Henry was now sincerely attached to her, although he felt and enjoyed all the virtues of her character and truly loved her company, I must confess that his affection came from nothing but gratitude, or in other words, that a conviction of her preference for him had been the only reason to think seriously about her. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole. She was assured of his affection; and this heart was asked for it, which they perhaps knew quite well that it was already quite his own; for although Henry was now sincerely attached to her, although he felt and enjoyed all the virtues of her character and truly loved her company, I must confess that his affection came from nothing but gratitude, or in other words, that a conviction of her preference for him had been the only reason to think seriously about her. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole. Although Henry was now sincerely attached to her, although he felt and enjoyed all the virtues of her character and really loved her company, I must confess that his affection was based on nothing better than gratitude or, in other words, on a belief that her preference for him had been the only reason to think seriously about her. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole. Although Henry was now sincerely attached to her, although he felt and enjoyed all the virtues of her character and really loved her company, I must confess that his affection was based on nothing better than gratitude or, in other words, on a belief that her preference for him had been the only reason to think seriously about her. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole. that a conviction of her preference for him had been the only reason to give her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole. that a conviction of her preference for him had been the only reason to give her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I admit, and horribly degrading for the dignity of a heroine; but if it is so new in ordinary life, the merit of a wild imagination will at least be my whole.
A very short visit to Mrs. Allen, in whom Henry spoke arbitrarily, without meaning and context, and Catherine, immersed in the contemplation of her own unspeakable happiness, barely opened her lips, released her into the ecstasy of another Tete-a- tete; and before it was closed, it was able to assess the extent to which he was sanctioned by the parental authority in his present application. On his return from Woodston two days ago, he had been received near the abbey by his impatient father, who had hastily and angrily informed him of Miss Fenmore's departure and ordered him to stop thinking about her.
That was the permission on which he had now offered her his hand. The frightened Catherine, listening to this story, in the midst of all the horrors of expectation, could rejoice at the kind caution with which Henry had saved her from the need for conscientious rejection by believing her before mentioning the subject; and as he continued to give the details and explain the motives of his father's behavior, their feelings soon hardened into a triumphant joy. The general had nothing to reproach her for, nothing to reproach her, except that she was the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception that his pride could not forgive and that would admit a better pride. She was only guilty of being less rich than he had assumed. Under a false conviction of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, requested her company in Northanger and designed it for his daughter-in-law. When he discovered his mistake, it seemed best to drive her out of the house, even though for his feelings he was insufficient proof of his resentment against himself and his contempt for their family.
John Dorfman had first misled him. The general, who had noticed that his son was paying close attention to Miss Fenmore one evening at the theater, had accidentally asked Dorfman if he knew more about her than just her name. Dorfman, who was very happy to speak to a man of General Alsina's importance, had been joyful and proudly communicative; and since at that time he was not only waiting daily for Fenmore's engagement to Bella, but was also quite determined to marry Catherine himself, his vanity led him to portray the family as even richer than his vanity and stinginess had led him to believe. With whomever he was or could be connected, his own consequence always required that theirs be great, and as his intimacy grew with each acquaintance, their fortune grew so regularly. The expectations of his friend Fenmore had therefore gradually risen, overestimated from the beginning, since his introduction to Bella; and by simply adding twice as much for the size of the moment, by doubling the height of Mr. Fenmore's preference, what he wished to think, tripling his private fortune, giving a rich aunt, and sinking half of the children, he was able to represent the whole family to the general in a most respectable light. For Catherine, however, the particular object of the general's curiosity and his own speculations, he had a little more in reserve, and the ten or fifteen thousand pounds her father could give her would be a nice addition to Mr. Allen's fortune. Her intimacy there had earnestly led him to leave her a handsome legacy; and therefore to speak of her as the almost recognized future heiress of Fullerton followed, of course. The general had responded to such a message; for it had never occurred to him to doubt his authority. Dorfman's interest in the family, through his sister's approaching connection with one of her members, and his own views on another (circumstances of which he boasted with almost equal openness) seemed sufficient evidence of his truth; and to these were added the absolute facts that the Allens were wealthy and childless, that Miss Fenmore was under their care, and – as soon as his acquaintance allowed him to judge this – that they treated them with parental kindness. His decision was soon made. He had already recognized an affection for Miss Fenmore in his son's facial expression; and grateful for Mr. Dorfman's message, he decided almost immediately to spare no effort to weaken his vaunted interest and ruin his favorite hopes. Catherine herself could not be more ignorant than his own children at this point. Henry and Eleanor, who did not perceive anything in their situation that could arouse their father's special respect, had seen with astonishment the suddenness, duration and extent of his attention; and although Henry was recently convinced that his father believed it was an advantageous connection due to some hints that had accompanied an almost unequivocal order to his son to do everything in his power to bind them, this only happened with the late declaration in Northanger that they had the slightest idea of the false calculations, who had driven him forward. That they were wrong, because after eagerly responding to the first overture of a marriage between families with the most generous proposals, when he was summed up by the wisdom of the rapporteur, he had to realize that he was unable to do justice to the young people a decent support. They were indeed a necessary family; also numerous, almost without precedent; by no means respected in their own neighborhood., as he has recently had special opportunities to discover; the pursuit of a lifestyle that their wealth could not justify; try to improve through wealthy connections; a forward-looking, boasting, scheming race. Forced to admit to being incapable of providing even decent support to the young people. They were indeed a necessary family; also numerous, almost without precedent; by no means respected in their own neighborhood., as he has recently had special opportunities to discover; the pursuit of a lifestyle that their wealth could not justify; try to improve through wealthy connections; a forward-looking, boasting, scheming race. Forced to admit to being incapable of providing even decent support to the young people. They were indeed a necessary family; also numerous, almost without precedent; by no means respected in their own neighborhood., as he has recently had special opportunities to discover; the pursuit of a lifestyle that their wealth could not justify; try to improve through wealthy connections; a forward-looking, boasting, scheming race.
The frightened general pronounced the name Allen with a questioning look; and here, too, Dorfman had learned his mistake. The Allens, he believed, had lived near them for too long, and he knew the young man to whom the Fullerton estate had to fall. That's all the general needed. Angry at almost everyone in the world except himself, he made his way to the abbey the next day, where his performances could be seen.
I leave it to my reader's acumen to determine how much of all this Henry was able to tell Catherine at the time, how much he could have learned from his father, where his own guesses could help him, and what part has yet to be told in a letter from James. I have united for their convenience what they have to share for me. Catherine, in any case, heard enough to feel that when she suspected General Alsina of either murdering or silencing his wife, she had hardly sinned against his character or increased his cruelty.
Henry, who had such things to say about his father, was almost as pathetic as in her first confession to herself. He blushed because of the narrow-minded advice he had to reveal. The conversation between them in Northanger had been of the most unfriendly kind. Henry's outrage when he heard how Catherine had been treated, when he understood his father's views and was ordered to join them, had been open and bold. The general, who was accustomed to giving the law in his family at every ordinary opportunity, ready for no reluctance except the feeling, no reluctant desire to dare to dress in words, could hardly bear the resistance of his son, as constant as the sanction reason and the dictate of conscience could make it. But in such a matter, his anger, although shocking, could not intimidate Henry, who was supported in his project by a conviction of his justice. He felt connected to Miss Fenmore in both honor and affection, and because he believed that this heart was his own, which he had been instructed to win, no undignified revocation of tacit consent, no reversing decree out of unjustified anger could shake his loyalty, or influence the decisions he initiated.
He constantly refused to accompany his father to Herefordshire, an appointment that was made almost at the moment to encourage Catherine's dismissal, and also constantly declared his intention to offer her his hand. The general was furious with rage, and they parted in terrible disagreement. Henry had returned to Woodston almost instantly, in an excitement of the mind that took many lonely hours to overcome, and had begun his journey to Fullerton the afternoon of the following day.
Chapter 262
Only one day had passed since Anne's conversation with Mrs. Smith; but a greater interest had succeeded, and she was now so unmoved by Mr. Hightower's behavior, apart from its impact in one neighborhood, that the next morning it became a matter of course to postpone her explanatory visit to Rivers Street. She had promised to be with the Cumberlands from breakfast to dinner. Their faith was shaken, and Mr. Hightower's character, like the head of Sultan Scheherazade, must live on for another day.
However, she was unable to meet her deadline on time; the weather was unfavorable, and she had regretted the rain because of her friends and felt it very much herself before she could try the walk. When she reached White Hart and made her way to the right apartment, she found that she didn't arrive on time or first. The group before her was Mrs. Cumberland, who spoke with Mrs. Field, and Captain Cheval with Captain Cambridge; and she immediately heard that Mary and Grace, who were too impatient to wait, had gone out the moment it cleared up, but would soon be back, and that Mrs. Cumberland had been given the strictest orders to keep her there until they returned. All she had to do was submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and immediately felt immersed in all the excitement she had tasted just before the end of the morning just before the end of the morning. There was no delay, no waste of time. She was instantly immersed in the happiness of such misery or the misery of such happiness. Two minutes after she entered the room, Captain Cambridge said,
"We will write the letter we were talking about, Cheval, now if you give me material."
Materials were on hand on a separate table; he walked towards them and almost turned his back on them, immersed in writing.
Mrs. Cumberland told Mrs. Field the story of her eldest daughter's engagement in that uncomfortable tone that was quite audible while pretending to be a whisper. Anne felt that she was not part of the conversation, and yet, since Captain Cheval seemed thoughtful and unwilling to talk, she could not avoid hearing many unwanted details; such as "how Mr. Cumberland and my brother Hayter had met again and again to talk about it; what my brother Hayter had said one day and what Mr. Cumberland had suggested the next and what my sister Hayter had come up with and what the young people had wanted, and what I said at first, I could never agree, but was later convinced that it could do very well," and much in the same style of open-hearted communication: Little things that, even with all the taste and fine advantages that the good Mrs. Cumberland could not offer, she could actually only be interesting for the rectors. Mrs. Field was present in a very good mood, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very reasonable. Anne hoped that perhaps the gentlemen were both too busy with themselves to hear it.
"And so, Ma'am, considering all these things," Mrs. Cumberland said in her powerful whisper, "although we could have wished otherwise, overall we didn't think it was fair to stand out for Charles any longer Hayter was pretty wild on it, and Grace was almost as bad, and so we thought they had better get married right away and make the most of it, as many others before them have done, be better than a long engagement."
"That's exactly what I wanted to observe," exclaimed Mrs. Field. "I'd rather young people suddenly come to terms with a small income and struggle with a few difficulties together than get involved in a long commitment. I always think there's no reciprocity--"
"Oh, dear Mrs. Field," exclaimed Mrs. Cumberland, who couldn't let her make excuses, "there's nothing I detest for young people like a long engagement. I have always protested against this for my children. It's all very well, I used to say, young people should get engaged if they are sure they can get married in six months or even twelve months; but a long engagement – "
Yes, dear Ma'am," said Mrs. Field, "or an uncertain engagement, an engagement that can be long. To start without knowing that at such a time the means to get married will be available, I think is very uncertain and unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as much as possible."
Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous shiver over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively looked at the distant table, Captain Cambridge's feather stopped moving, his head was raised, stopped, listened, and the next moment he turned around to take a look, a quick, conscious look at her.
The two ladies continued to converse to re-emphasize the same admitted truths and to substantiate them with such examples of the harmful effects of an opposing practice as they had fallen into their observation, but Anne heard nothing clearly; it was just a hum of words in her ear, her mind was confused.
Captain Cheval, who in truth had not heard of it, now left his place and stepped against a window, and Anne, who seemed to be watching him, although it was out of complete thoughtlessness, gradually realized that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile and a small head movement that expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say," and the unadulterated, slight kindness of the kind that indicated the feelings of an older acquaintance when he was really forced the invitation emphatically. She picked herself up and went to him. The window where he was standing was at the other end of the room as the two ladies sat, closer to Captain Cambridge's table, but not very close. When she joined him, Captain Cheval's face took a serious one again,
"Look," he said, unfolding a package in his hand and showing a small miniature painting, "Do you know who that is?"
"Sure: Captain Bean."
"Yes, and you can imagine who it is for. But" (in a low tone) "it was not done for them. Miss Hightower, do you remember that we walked together in Lyme and mourned for him? I thought little about it then - but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and on a promise to my poor sister, he sat down with him and brought it home for her; and I "I now have the task of setting it up properly for someone else! It was a mission for me! But who else should you employ? I hope I can allow him. I really don't feel sorry to leave it to someone else. He." does it;" (looking at Captain Cambridge) "he's writing about it now." And with a trembling lip, he closed the whole thing by adding, "Poor Esther! She wouldn't have forgotten him so quickly!"
"No," Anne replied in a quiet, soulful voice. "I can easily believe that."
"It wasn't in their nature. She was infatuated with him."
"It wouldn't be the nature of a woman who really loves."
Captain Cheval smiled as if to say, "Do you claim this for your gender?" and she also answered the question with a smile, "Yes. We certainly won't forget you as soon as you forget us. It is perhaps more our destiny than our merit. We cannot help each other. We live at home, quiet, imprisoned, and our feelings bother us. They are forced to make an effort. They always have a profession, occupations, any business to bring you back into the world immediately, and constant occupation and change soon weaken the impressions.
"Admit to your claim that the world is doing all this for people so soon (which I won't admit, though), this is not true of Bean. He was not forced to make any effort. Peace brought him ashore at the moment, and since then he has been living with us, in our small family circle."
"True," Anne said, "very true; I didn't remember; but what can we say now, Captain Cheval? If the change does not come from external circumstances, it must come from within; did the business for Captain Bean."
"No, no, it's not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more the nature of the man than that of the woman to be volatile and forget those who love or have loved them. I believe the opposite. I believe in a real analogy between our body and our psyche; and since our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; they are able to endure the toughest stress and survive the heaviest weather.
"Their feelings may be the strongest," Anne replied, "but the same spirit of analogy will entitle me to claim that ours are the most tender. The man is more robust than the woman, but he is no longer lived; that explains exactly my view of the nature of their bonds. No, it would be too hard for you if it were different. You have enough difficulties and deprivations and dangers to deal with. You are always laborious and laborious, exposed to every risk and every need. Your home, country, friends, everything equipped, neither time nor health nor life to be your own. It would indeed be hard" (in a faltering voice) "if all this were to be compounded by a woman's feelings."
"We will never agree on this issue," Captain Cheval was about to say as a soft noise drew her attention to Captain Cambridge's hitherto completely silent layout of the room. It was nothing more than that his feather had fallen down; but Anne was frightened to find him closer than she had assumed, and was half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen down because he had been busy with them and was trying to catch sounds, which she did not believe it could have caught her.
"Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Cheval.
"Not quite, a few more lines. I'll be done in five minutes."
"I'm not in a hurry. I'm just ready whenever you are. I am here in a very good anchorage" (Anne smiles) "well taken care of and nothing is missing. I'm not in a hurry at all with a signal. Well, Miss Hightower," (lowers the voice) "as I said, we will probably never agree on this point. Probably not a man or a woman. But let me note that all stories are against you – all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Bean, I could bring you fifty quotes from my side in an instant, and I don't think I've ever opened a book in my life that wouldn't have something to say about women's impermanence. Songs and proverbs, everyone talks about the fickleness of women. But maybe you'll say these were all written by men."
"Maybe I will. Yes, yes, please, no reference to examples in books. Men had every advantage of us by telling their own story. Education was theirs to such a much greater extent; the feather was in her hands. I'm not going to let books prove anything."
"But how are we supposed to prove something?"
"We never will. We can never expect to prove anything on such a point. It is a disagreement that does not allow any evidence to justify every circumstance that has occurred in our own circle; many of these circumstances (perhaps the very cases that affect us the most) may be precisely those that cannot be brought forward without betraying trust, or in some ways what to say should not be said."
"Ah!" shouted Captain Cheval in a strong tone, "if only I could make you understand what a man suffers when he takes one last look at his wife and children and watches the boat in which he dropped them off while it is in sight and then turns away and says, 'God knows if we'll ever see each other again!' And then, if I could convey to you the splendor of his soul, if he sees it again, when he comes back, perhaps after twelve months of absence, and is forced to call at another port, calculates how soon it will be possible to get them there, pretends to deceive himself, and said, "Until this day they can not be here", but hoped all the time to find them twelve hours earlier, and finally saw them arrive by many hours, as if heaven had given them wings even earlier! If I could explain all this to you, and all that a person for the sake of these treasures of his existence endures and praises and do and do! I speak, you know, only of those men who have a heart!" and pressed his own with emotion.
"Oh!" anne shouted eagerly, "I hope I will do justice to everything that you and those who are like you feel. God forbid that I underestimate the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow creatures! I dared to assume that true attachment and permanence only the woman knows. No, I trust you to do everything great and good in your married life. I keep you up to every important effort and domestic abstinence, as long as – if I may allow the expression – as long as you have an object. I mean, while the woman you love lives and lives for you. All the privileges I claim for my own gender (it's not a very enviable; you don't have to covet it) is the one to love the longest when existence or hope is gone."
She could not have said another sentence immediately; her heart was too full, her breath too pressed.
"You are a good soul," shouted Captain Cheval and lovingly put his hand on her arm. "There is no quarrel with you. And when I think of Bean, my tongue is tied."
Their attention was drawn to the others. Mrs. Field said goodbye.
"Here, Frederick, you and I are separating, I believe," she said. "I'm going home, and you have an appointment with your boyfriend. Tonight we may have the pleasure of seeing each other again at your party." (Turned to Anne.) "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederick also had a card, even though I didn't see it, and you're free, Frederick, aren't you, as good as we are?"
Captain Cambridge folded up a letter in a hurry and could not or did not want to answer completely.
"Yes," he said, "very true; here we separate, but Cheval and I will soon be after you; that is, Cheval, when you're ready, I'll be there in half a minute. I know you won't regret disappearing. I'll be there for you in half a minute."
Mrs. Field left her, and Captain Cambridge, who had sealed his letter with great speed, was indeed ready and even had a hurried, excited expression that betrayed his impatience. Anne didn't know how to understand it. She had the friendliest "Good morning, God bless you!" from Captain Cheval, but not a word, no look from him! He had walked out of the room without a look!
However, she only had time to approach the table where he had written when steps returned; The door opened, it was him. He asked her for forgiveness, but he had forgotten his gloves, and immediately went through the room to the desk, pulled out a letter from under the scattered paper, put it in front of Anne, the eyes of the glowing request pointed at her for a while, and hastily collected his gloves, was out of the room again, almost before Mrs. Cumberland noticed, that he was in it: the work of a moment!
The revolution that a moment had made in Anne was almost indescribable. The letter with a barely legible direction to "Miss AE..." was obviously the one he had folded so hastily. Although he was only supposed to write to Captain Bean, he had also turned to her! Everything this world could do for them depended on the content of this letter. Everything was possible, everything could be challenged rather than tension. Mrs. Cumberland had made small arrangements at her own table; She had to rely on her protection, and by sinking into the chair where he was sitting, to the place where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:
You lower your voice, but I can distinguish the sounds of that voice if they were lost in others. Too good, too excellent creature! They do indeed do us justice. They believe that there is true attachment and consistency among men. Believe that in FW it is
the most passionate and unwavering "I have to go, unsure of my fate; but I will return here as soon as possible or follow your company. One word, one look will be enough to decide whether or never I will enter your father's house tonight."
Such a letter could not be found so quickly. Half an hour of solitude and reflection might have calmed her down; but the only ten minutes that now passed before it was interrupted could not help to calm it down, despite all the limitations of its situation. Rather, every moment brought new excitement. It was overwhelming luck. And before she was past the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Grace all came in.
The absolute need to appear as themselves then created an immediate struggle; but after a while she couldn't anymore. She began not to understand a word they were saying and had to invoke discomfort and apologize. They could then see that she looked very sick, was shocked and worried, and would not move for anything in the world without her. That was terrible. If only they had left and left them in quiet possession of this room, it would have been their healing; but that they were all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in her desperation she said she would go home.
"Definitely, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Cumberland, "go home immediately and make sure you're fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to treat you, but I'm not a doctor myself. Charles , ring the bell and order a chair. She must not leave."
But the chair would never do it. Worse than anything! Losing the opportunity to speak two words with Captain Cambridge (and she was almost certain to meet him) during her quiet, lonely walk through the city was unbearable. The chair was seriously protested, and Mrs. Cumberland, who thought only of one type of disease, assured herself with some concern that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had never slipped down lately and had received a blow to the head; that she was completely convinced that she had not had a fall; was able to happily separate from her and trust her to find her better at night.
Careful not to leave out any possible precaution, Anne resisted, saying,
"I'm afraid, Ma'am, that it's not fully understood. Please be kind enough to tell the other gentlemen that we hope to see all your company tonight You assure in particular Captain Cheval and Captain Cambridge that we hope to see them both.
"Oh! My dear, it is quite clear, I give you my word. Captain Cheval is just thinking of leaving."
"Do you think? But I'm afraid, and I should be very sorry. Do you promise me to mention it when you see her again? You'll see them both this morning, dare I say. Promise me."
"Of course I will do that if you wish. Charles, if you see Captain Cheval somewhere, remember to deliver Miss Anne's message. But in fact, my dear, you don't need to worry. Captain Cheval is very committed, I will answer for that; and Captain Cambridge the same, dare I say.
Anne couldn't do more; but her heart prophesied some coincidence to dampen the perfection of her bliss. However, it could not be very sustainable. Even if he didn't come to Camden Place himself, it would be in their power to convey an understandable sentence from Captain Cheval. Another temporary trouble occurred. Charles would go home with her in his real concern and kindness; there was no hindrance. That was almost cruel. But she could not be ungrateful for long; he sacrificed a job with a gunsmith to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude.
They were on Union Street when a quick step backwards, a familiar sound, prepared them for the sight of Captain Cambridge for two moments. He joined them; but, as if he was undecided whether to join in or move on, he said nothing, just looked. Anne could control herself enough to endure this look, and not repulsively. The pale cheeks were now glowing, and the hesitant movements were decided. He walked by her side. Suddenly, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said,
"Captain Cambridge, in which direction are you going? Just to Gay Street or further up in town?"
"I hardly know," Captain Cambridge replied in surprise.
"Do you go as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because if so, I will ask you without scruples to take my place and give your arm to Anne at her father's door. It's pretty much done This morning I can't go that far without help, and I should be with the guy in the marketplace." He promised me the sight of a capital weapon that he was about to send, said he would unpack it by December 21st last moment so I could see it, and if I don't turn back now, I have no chance. According to his description, quite a lot like my second double run that you shot with a day around Winthrop. "
There can be no contradiction to this. There could only be the most appropriate willingness, an extremely pleasing indulgence for the public; and smiles restrained and ghosts dance in private rapture. In half a minute, Charles was back at the end of Union Street, and the other two went on together: and soon enough words were exchanged between them to determine their direction to the comparatively quiet and secluded gravel road, where the power of entertainment would make the way present hour in fact a blessing, and prepare them for all the immortality, that could give the happiest memories of their own future lives. There they exchanged again those feelings and promises that once seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and alienation. There they returned to the past, perhaps extraordinarily happy in their reunion, as if it had been projected first; more tender, more tested, firmer in the knowledge of the character, truth and attachment of the other; act more equally, act more justified. And there, as they slowly passed through the gradual ascent, without regard for any group around them, they saw neither strolling politicians, busy housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nannies and children, they could indulge in these retrospectives and acknowledgements, and especially these explanations of what had immediately preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so incessantly of interest. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today. more tested, firmer in the knowledge of the character, truth and attachment of the other; act more equally, act more justified. And there, as they slowly passed through the gradual ascent, without regard for any group around them, they saw neither strolling politicians, busy housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nannies and children, they could indulge in these retrospectives and acknowledgements, and especially these explanations of what had immediately preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so incessantly of interest. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today. more tested, firmer in the knowledge of the character, truth and attachment of the other; act more equally, act more justified. And there, as they slowly passed through the gradual ascent, without regard for any group around them, they saw neither strolling politicians, busy housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nannies and children, they could indulge in these retrospectives and acknowledgements, and especially these explanations of what had immediately preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so incessantly of interest. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today. regardless of any group around them who saw neither strolling politicians, busy housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nannies and children, they could indulge in these retrospectives and affirmations, and especially the explanations of what had immediately preceded the present moment so poignantly and so incessantly interested. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today. regardless of any group around them who saw neither strolling politicians, busy housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nannies and children, they could indulge in these retrospectives and affirmations, and especially the explanations of what had immediately preceded the present moment so poignantly and so incessantly interested. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today. All the small variations of the last week were played through; and there could hardly be an end to yesterday and today.
She had not deceived him. Jealousy of Mr. Hightower had been the inhibiting weight, the doubt, the torment. It had already started the hour I first met her in Bath; who had returned after a short break to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and done or failed to say and do in the last twenty-four hours. It had gradually yielded to the better hopes that occasionally encouraged its appearance, words, or actions; it had finally been defeated by those feelings and those tones that had reached him while she was talking to Captain Cheval; and under the irresistible guidance from which he had grabbed a piece of paper and poured out his feelings.
Nothing of what he had written at that time could be taken back or relativized. He insisted that he had loved no one but her. It had never been displaced. He had never thought he would see her right away. In fact, he had to acknowledge this much: that he had been unconscious, no unintentional, constant; that he had intended to forget them and believed that it was done. He had imagined himself indifferent, even though he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to their merits because he had suffered as a result. Their character was now anchored in his mind as perfection itself, preserving the most beautiful medium of strength and gentleness; but he had to admit that he had only learned to do justice to her in Uppercross, and it wasn't until Lyme that he began to understand himself. In Lyme he had received more than one kind of lesson.
In his previous attempts to bind himself to Lois Cumberland (the attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had always thought it impossible; that he hadn't taken care of Lois, couldn't take care of it; although until that day, until the leisure of reflection that followed, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which Lois could so poorly bear a comparison, or the perfect incomparable power he possessed over his own. There he had learned to distinguish between the persistence of principle and the stubbornness of self-will, between the audacity of carelessness and the determination of a gathered mind. There he had seen everything to lift the woman he had lost in his esteem; and there began to lament the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment that had prevented him from trying to regain it when he was thrown in his way.
From that time on, his penance had become severe. No sooner had he been freed from the horror and remorse that had accompanied the first few days of Lois' accident, as soon as he had begun to feel alive again, he had begun to feel alive but not free.
"I found," he said, "that I was considered an engaged man by Cheval! That neither Cheval nor his wife had any doubts about our mutual bond. I was frightened and shocked. To a certain extent, I could immediately disagree; but when I started to think that others might have felt the same way – their own family, maybe even themselves – I was no longer at my own disposal. I was in her honor when she wished. I had been unguarded. I hadn't seriously thought about this topic before, I hadn't considered that my excessive intimacy in many ways had to be at risk of negative consequences and that I had no right to try to commit myself to either of the two girls at risk of even making an unpleasant report if there were no other negative effects. I was grossly wrong and have to bear the consequences."
In short, he found it too late that he had gotten tangled; and that just when he was completely satisfied that he didn't care about Lois at all, he had to consider himself bound to her if her feelings for him were what the Chevals assumed. He decided to leave Lyme and wait elsewhere for her full recovery. He would like to use all fair means to weaken all feelings or speculation about him; and he therefore went to his brother, which meant returning to Kellynch after a while and acting as circumstances would require.
"I was with Edward for six weeks," he said, "and I saw him happy. I couldn't have any other pleasure you could never change."
Anne smiled and let it pass. It was too pleasing a mistake for an accusation. It is something for a woman to be assured in her twenty-eighth year that she has not lost a charm of earlier youth; but the value of such reverence was unspeakably increased for Anne, comparing it to earlier words and seeing it as a result, not as the cause, of a revival of his warm affection.
He had remained in Shropshire and had lamented the blindness of his own pride and the errors of his own calculations until he was immediately freed by Lois through the amazing and happy intelligence of her engagement to Bean.
"Here," he said, "my worst condition has come to an end; because now I could at least stand in the way of happiness, I could make an effort, I could do something. But to wait idly for so long and wait only for evil had been terrible. Within the first five minutes, I said, "I'll be in Bath on Wednesday." And that's what I did, "You were single. It was possible that you would keep the feelings of the past as I did; and an encouragement came from me by chance. I could never doubt that you would be loved and sought after by others, but I knew for sure that you had rejected at least one man with better demands than me; and I couldn't help but say, 'Was that for me?'"
Their first meeting on Milsom Street offered a lot to say, but the concert offered even more. This evening seemed to consist of exquisite moments. The moment she stepped forward in the Octagon Room to talk to him: the moment Mr. Hightower appeared and tore her away, and one or two subsequent moments marked by recurring hope or increasing depression were lingered with energy.
"To see you," he exclaimed, "in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; To see your cousin near you, talking and smiling, and feeling all the terrible appropriateness and decency of the game! it as the sure desire of every being who could hope to influence you! If even your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent to consider what powerful supports his would be! Wasn't it enough to fool me with what I appeared? How could I? I'm watching without agony?" Wasn't the sight of the girlfriend sitting behind you, wasn't the memory of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immovable impression of what persuasion had once done – or not all against me?"
"You should have distinguished," Anne replied. "You shouldn't have suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different. If I have ever been wrong about giving in to the conviction, remember that it was about persuading on the side of safety and not risk. When I gave in, I thought it was duty, but here no duty could be called for help. If I married a man who I was indifferent to, every risk would have been taken and every duty would have been violated.
"Maybe I should have argued like that," he replied, "but I couldn't. I couldn't take advantage of the late realization I had gained about your character. I couldn't bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings I had suffered from year after year, I could think of you only as one who had given in, who had given up on me, who had been influenced by anyone more than by me. I saw you exactly person who had led you in this year of misery. I had no reason to trust her with less authority now. The power of habit was added."
"I should have thought," Anne said, "that my way of self would have saved you a lot or all of it."
"No, no! Your kind could just be the ease that your engagement to another man would give. I left you in this belief, and yet I was determined to see you again. My mood recovered with the morning, and I felt that I still had a motive to stay here."
Anne was finally back home and happier than anyone in this house could have imagined. All the surprise and tension and every other painful part of the morning that was scattered by this conversation, she entered the house so happily that she was forced to find a mixture of some momentary fears that it would be impossible to last. A serious and grateful pause in meditation was the best corrective to everything dangerous in such highly worked bliss; and she went to her room and became steadfast and fearless in the gratitude of her pleasure.
The evening came, the salons were enlightened, society gathered. It was just a card party, it was just a mix of those who had never met before and those who had met too often; an everyday business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne had never found a shorter evening. Radiant and sweet in sensitivity and cheerfulness and more generally admired than she thought or cared about, she had happy or indulgent feelings for every creature around her. Mr Hightower was there; she avoided it, but she could pity him. The People of Valais, she enjoyed understanding them. Lady Galloway and Miss Carteret – they would soon be dangerous cousins to her. She didn't care about Mrs. Clay and had nothing to blush about the public manners of her father and sister. With the Cumberlands there was the joyful conversation of complete lightness; with Captain Cheval the kind-hearted intercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell attempts at conversation, which broke off a delicious consciousness; with Admiral and Mrs. Field everything of particular cordiality and fervent interest, which tried to hide the same consciousness; and with Captain Cambridge there were always some moments of communication and always the hope for more and always the knowledge that he was there.
At one of these short meetings, each of which was obviously busy admiring a beautiful exhibition of greenhouse plants, she said:
as far as such a feeling is permissible in human nature, I have nothing to blame myself; and if I'm not mistaken, a strong sense of duty is not a bad part of a woman's portion.
He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, looked at her again, and replied, as if in a cool reflection,
"Not yet. But there is hope that you will be forgiven in time. I trust that I will soon be with her in charity even more my enemy than this lady? Myself. Tell me, if I returned to England in year eight with a few thousand pounds and was transferred to Laconia, if I had written to you at the time, would you have replied to my letter? Would you have renewed the engagement?
"I would!" was her whole answer; but the accent was decisive enough.
"Good God!" he shouted, "You would! It's not that I didn't think of it or wish it to be what alone could crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you and would not understand you or do justice to you. This is a memory that should forgive everyone rather than myself. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. It's also a kind of pain, which is new to me. I am used to the satisfaction of believing that I deserve every blessing I have enjoyed. I appreciated myself for honorable work and just rewards. Like other great men under setbacks," he added with a smile. I must strive to submit my mind to my happiness. I have to learn to be happier than I deserve."
Chapter 263
When Elizabeth was soon lost again, she wanted Mr. Drury to account for ever falling in love with her. "How did you get started?" she said. "I can understand that once you've made a start, you go on lovely; but what could upset you at all?'
"I can't commit myself to the hour or the place or the look or the words that laid the foundation. It was too long ago. I was right in the middle of it before I knew I had started.'
"You resisted my beauty early on, and as far as my manners are concerned – my behavior towards YOU was at least always on the verge of being rude, and I never talked to you without wanting to inflict pain on you rather than not. Be sincere now; did you admire me for my impudence?'
'I did it for the vitality of your mind.'
"You might as well call it impudence. It was very little less. The fact is that you were tired of politeness, reverence, intrusive attention. You were disgusted by the women who always spoke, looked and thought only for YOUR approval. I aroused and interested you because I was so dissimilar to YOU. Had you not been truly kind, you would have hated me for it; but despite the efforts you took to dress up, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your heart you have thoroughly despised the people who have so diligently courted you. There - I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all in all, I'm starting to think it's completely reasonable. You didn't know anything good about me – but nobody thinks about that when they fall in love."
"Wasn't your loving attitude towards Jane good when she was sick at Netherfield?"
"Dearest Jane! Who could have done less for them? But definitely make a virtue of it. My good qualities are under your protection, and you should exaggerate them as much as possible; and in return, it is incumbent upon me to find opportunities to tease and argue with you as often as possible; and I'll start by asking you why you were so unwilling to finally get down to business. What made you so shy towards me when you first called and then ate here? Why, especially when you called, did you look like you didn't care about me?'
'Because you were serious and quiet and didn't encourage me.'
"But I was embarrassed."
'And so do I.'
"You might have talked to me more than you came to dinner."
'A man who had felt less, perhaps.'
"How unfortunate that you should have a reasonable answer, and that I should be reasonable enough to admit it! But I wonder how long you would have continued if you had been left to your own devices. I wonder when you would have spoken if I hadn't asked you! My resolution to thank you for your kindness to Linda certainly had a big impact. TOO MUCH, I'm afraid; for what happens to morality when our consolation springs from a breach of promise? because I should not have mentioned the subject. That will never be enough.'
"You don't need to torture yourself. Morality will be perfectly fair. Lady Catherine's unjustified efforts to separate us were the means to dispel all my doubts. I do not owe my present happiness to your eager desire to express your gratitude. I was not in the mood to wait for an opening from you. My aunt's intelligence had given me hope, and I was determined to know everything immediately.'
"Lady Catherine was infinitely useful, which should make her happy because she loves to be of use. But tell me, why did you come to Netherfield? Was it just to go to Longbourn and be ashamed? or did you intend more serious consequences?"
"My real goal was to see YOU and judge if I could ever hope you loved me. My confession, or what I swore to myself, was to see if your sister was still fond of Woodland, and if so, to give him the confession I've since made."
"Will you ever have the courage to announce to Lady Catherine what will happen to her?"
"I need more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it should be done, and if you give me a piece of paper, it should be done directly.'
"And if I didn't have a letter to write myself, maybe I would sit next to you and admire the regularity of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I also have an aunt who can no longer be neglected.'
Out of reluctance to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Drury had been overestimated, Elizabeth had never answered Mrs. Lockhart's long letter; but now that she had to share THAT that she knew would be very welcome, she was almost ashamed when she realized that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote the following:
"I would have thanked you earlier for your long, kind, satisfying details, my dear aunt, as I should have done; but to tell the truth, I was too evil to write. You have assumed that more exists than really exists. But accept NOW as much as you choose; Let your imagination run wild, give free rein to your imagination, and if you don't think I'm really married, you can't be very wrong. You have to write again very soon and praise him much more than your last one. I thank you again and again for not going to the lakes. How could I be so stupid as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will circle the park every day. I am the happiest being in the world. Perhaps others have said this, but none with such justice. I'm even happier than Jane; she just smiles, I laugh. Drury-san sends you all the love in the world that he can do without from me. They all come to Pemberley for Christmas. Your etc.
Mr. Drury's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and was still different from the two, which Mr. Mitchell sent to Mr. Collins in response to his last one.
'DEAR LORD,
'I must ask you once again for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon be Mr. Drury's wife. Comfort Lady Catherine as best you can. But in your place, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
'Sincerely, etc.'
Miss Woodland's congratulations to her brother on his upcoming wedding were all that was loving and disingenuous. She even wrote to Jane on this occasion to express her joy and to repeat all her previous expressions of respect. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and although she didn't feel trust in her, she couldn't help but write her a much friendlier answer than she knew it deserved.
The joy Miss Drury expressed at receiving similar information was as sincere as that of her brother when he sent her. Four pages of paper were not enough to contain all her joy and earnest desire to be loved by her sister.
Before a response from Mr. Collins or any congratulations from his wife to Elizabeth could arrive, the Longbourn family heard that the Collinses themselves had come to Lucas Lodge. The reason for this sudden removal was soon obvious. Lady Catherine had become so extraordinarily angry at the contents of her nephew's letter that Charlotte, who was really excited about the match, was anxious to get away until the storm was over. At such a moment, the arrival of her boyfriend was a sincere pleasure for Elizabeth, although in the course of her meetings she sometimes had to think that the pleasure was expensively bought when she saw Mr. Drury exposed to the whole parade and submissive politeness of her husband. However, he wore it with admirable calmness. He could even listen to Sir William Lucas compliment him for carrying away the brightest jewel in the country and expressing his hopes for a frequent meeting of all in St. James with very decent serenity. If he shrugged his shoulders, it wasn't until Sir William was out of sight.
Mrs Phillips' vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his forbearance; and although Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in too much reverence for him to speak to the familiarity that fostered Woodland's good mood, she had to be vulgar whenever she spoke. Even her respect for him, although he made her calmer, was by no means suitable to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did everything she could to protect him from the frequent attention of both, and was always anxious to keep him to herself and to those of her family with whom he could converse without humiliation; and although the uneasy feelings that resulted from all this took away much of their joy from the time of courtship, they contributed to the hope of the future; and she rejoiced in the time when they were to be removed from the society that was so unpleasant for both of them,
Chapter 264
After a reasonable resistance from Mrs. Gastonois, who was just so fierce and so steadfast that he saved her from the accusation that she always seemed to fear, the accusation, to be too gracious, Edward was allowed into her presence and pronounced to be her son again.
Her family had been extremely volatile lately. For many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edwards a few weeks ago had robbed her of one thing; the similar destruction of Robert had left them for fourteen days without anyone; and now, through the revival of Edward, she had one again.
Despite his re-approval, however, he did not feel certain of the continuation of his existence until he had revealed his current engagement; for the publication of this circumstance, he feared, could give his constitution a sudden turn and tear it away as quickly as before. With anxious caution, therefore, it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calm. Mrs. Gastonois first reasonably tried to dissuade him from marrying Miss Hargrove with all the arguments at her disposal; – told him that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and greater fortune – and put the claim by observation by observation that Miss Morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Hargrove was only the daughter of a private lord with no more than THREE; but when she found that,
the next thing to think about was what she would do to increase her income; and here it seemed simple that although Edward was now their only son, he was by no means their eldest; for while Robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the slightest objection was raised to the fact that Edward took orders at most two hundred and fifty orders; nor was anything promised for the present or for the future, except for the ten thousand pounds given to Esther.
However, it was as much as was desired, and more than was expected of Edward and Eleanore; and Mrs. Gastonois herself, through her shuffling apologies, seemed to be the only person surprised that she didn't give more.
With an income sufficient for their needs, they had nothing to expect after Edward had come into possession of the livelihood, when the completion of the house, to which Colonel Bridgerton with the zealous desire for the accommodation of Eleanore, made significant improvements; and after waiting for some time for its completion, having experienced, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays due to the inexplicable everyday life of the workers, Eleanore, as usual, made the first positive decision not to marry until everything was ready, and so on The ceremony took place early in the autumn in the church of Barton.
The first month after their marriage they spent with their boyfriend in the mansion; from where they could monitor the progress of the rectory and direct everything on the spot as they wished; they could choose papers, design bushes and invent a swing. The prophecies of Mrs. Jennings, although rather mixed up, were mainly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their rectory until Michaeli, and she found in Eleonore and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. In fact, they had nothing to wish for but the marriage of Colonel Bridgerton and Marianne and a little better grazing land for their cows.
They were visited by almost all their relatives and friends at their first settlement. Mrs. Gastonois came to inspect the happiness for which she was almost ashamed to have authorized it; and even the Hargroves took a trip from Sussex to pay tribute to them.
"I don't want to say I'm disappointed, my dear sister," John said as they walked together to the gates of Delaford House one morning, "THAT would say too much, because surely you were one of the happiest young women in the world as they are. But I confess, I would be very happy to call Colonel Bridgerton Brother. His property here, his apartment, his house, everything is in such a respectable and excellent condition! - and its forests! – Nowhere in Dorset'shire have I seen such wood as it is now in Delaford Hanger! – And although Marianne may not seem to be the person who attracts him – nevertheless, I think it would be advisable that you let her live with you frequently now, because since Colonel Bridgerton seems to be at home a lot, no one can say what could happen – because if people are a lot mixed up and see little of someone else – and it will always be in your power, to take advantage of them and so on; - in short, you might as well give her a chance - you understand me. "—
But although Mrs. Gastonois had come to visit them and always treated them with the appearance of decent affection, they were never offended by their real favor and preference. THAT was because of Robert's stupidity and his wife's cunning; and it was earned by them before many months had passed. The selfish acumen of the latter, who had first scratched Robert, was the main instrument of his liberation from it; for her respectful humility, zealous attentions, and endless flattery reconciled Mrs. Gastonois with his choice as soon as the slightest opening for her practice arose, and restored him completely in her favor.
All of Lucy's behavior in the affair and the prosperity that crowned her can therefore be seen as an extremely encouraging example of what a serious, incessant attention to self-interest can do, however their progress may seem to be hindered in securing any benefit of happiness, without sacrifices other than that of time and conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance and visited her privately at Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view attributed to him by his brother. He just wanted to persuade her to give up the engagement; and since there was nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected one or two conversations to resolve the matter. On this point, however, and only in this point, he erred; because although Lucy soon gave him hope that his eloquence would convince her in die ZEIT, another visit, another conversation, they always wanted to produce this conviction. When she said goodbye, there were always some doubts in her, which could only be eliminated by another half hour of talking to herself. In this way, his presence was assured, and the rest followed over time. Instead of talking about Edward, they gradually spoke only of Robert, a subject on which he always had more to say than to anyone else, and in which she soon betrayed an interest that was even the same as his own; and in short, it quickly became clear to both of them that he had completely repressed his brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What followed immediately afterwards is well known. They spent a few months in great luck in Dawlish; for she had many relatives and old acquaintances to paint – and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; – and returned to the city from there, she obtained the forgiveness of Mrs. Gastonois by simply asking her what was adopted at Lucy's instigation. At first, of course, forgiveness only reasonably concerned Robert; and Lucy, who had not owed his mother any duty and therefore could not have transgressed one, remained unforgivable for a few more weeks. But persistence in the humility of behavior and messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offenses, and gratitude for the rudeness with which she was treated, over time gave her the haughty news that overwhelmed her with her kindness and soon led to quick steps, to the highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became Mrs. Gastonois as needed, either as Robert or Esther; and while Edward was never warmly forgiven for once intending to marry her, and Eleanore, although superior to her in wealth and birth, was called an intruder, SHE was considered a favorite in every way and always openly acknowledged as a child. They settled in the city, received very generous support from Mrs. Gastonois, and were in the best relationship imaginable with the Hargroves; and aside from the jealousy and malice that constantly existed between Esther and Lucy, in which their husbands were naturally involved, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could beat the harmony in which they all lived together. Although she was superior to her in wealth and birth, she was called an intruder, but she was considered a favorite child in every way and was always openly recognized. They settled in the city, received very generous support from Mrs. Gastonois, and were in the best relationship imaginable with the Hargroves; and aside from the jealousy and malice that constantly existed between Esther and Lucy, in which their husbands were naturally involved, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could beat the harmony in which they all lived together. Although she was superior to her in wealth and birth, she was called an intruder, but she was considered a favorite child in every way and was always openly recognized. They settled in the city, received very generous support from Mrs. Gastonois, and were in the best relationship imaginable with the Hargroves; and aside from the jealousy and malice that constantly existed between Esther and Lucy, in which their husbands were naturally involved, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could beat the harmony in which they all lived together. were on the best possible footing with the Hargroves; and aside from the jealousy and malice that constantly existed between Esther and Lucy, in which their husbands were naturally involved, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could beat the harmony in which they all lived together. were on the best possible footing with the Hargroves; and aside from the jealousy and malice that constantly existed between Esther and Lucy, in which their husbands were naturally involved, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could beat the harmony in which they all lived together.
What Edward had done to forfeit the right to the eldest son might have confused many people to find out; and what Robert had done to follow him might have confused her even more. However, it was an institution that was justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert's style of life or conversation to arouse the suspicion that he regretted the extent of his income, either left his brother too little or contributed too much – and whether Edward could be judged after the willing release of his duties in every detail, of an increasing attachment to his wife and his house, and of the regular cheerfulness of his mood, one might assume, that he is no less satisfied with his lot, no less free of any desire for exchange.
Eleanore's marriage separated her from her family as little as possible without rendering the cottage in Barton completely useless, as her mother and sisters spent much more than half of their time with her. Mrs. Hargrove acted out of both political and pleasure in the frequency of her visits to Delaford; for their desire to bring Marianne and Colonel Bridgerton together was hardly less serious, though more liberal, than what John had expressed. It was now her favorite object. As precious as her daughter's company was to her, she wanted nothing more than to leave her constant joy to her beloved friend; and seeing Marianne settle in the mansion was also the wish of Edward and Eleanore. They each felt their sorrows and their own obligations, and Marianne, with general approval,
With such an alliance against her – with such a familiar knowledge of his goodness – with a conviction of his tender affection for himself, which finally, although visible to everyone else long after it was visible to everyone else, broke over her – what could she do?
Marianne Hargrove was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions and to counteract her favorite maxims through her behavior. She was born to overcome an affection that had only arisen at the age of seventeen, and without feeling superior to a strong appreciation and living friendship, to voluntarily reach out to another! – and THE other, a man who had suffered no less than she herself in the case of a former bond that she had considered too old to marry two years ago - and who was still seeking the constitutional protection of a flannel vest!
But that's how it was. Instead of falling victim to an irresistible passion, as she had once tenderly flattered herself with expectation, instead of even staying with her mother forever and finding her only pleasures in seclusion and study, as later in her calmer and more sober judgment she had firmly committed herself to – she found herself at the age of nineteen, Submitting to new bonds, taking on new duties, transferred to a new home, a woman, the mistress of a family and the patroness of a village.
Colonel Bridgerton was now as happy as all those who loved him most believed he deserved to be; – in Marianne he was comforted for every past suffering; – their respect and their company brought his spirit back to life and his mood to happiness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his was also the conviction and delight of every observing friend. Marianne could never love half; and over time, her whole heart devoted herself to her husband just as Warwick once did.
Warwick could not hear about their marriage without a sting; and his punishment was soon completed by Mrs. Smith's voluntary forgiveness, which, by citing his marriage to a woman full of character as the source of her grace, gave him reason to believe that he could have behaved honorably toward Marianne immediately happy and rich. That his remorse for his misconduct, which thus resulted in his own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted; – nor that for a long time he thought of Colonel Bridgerton with envy and with regret of Marianne. But that he was forever heartbroken, that he fled from society, or fell ill with habitual disenchantment or died of a broken heart, you can't rely on that – because he didn't either. He lived to make an effort and enjoy himself frequently. His wife was not always upset, his home was not always uncomfortable;
For Marianne, however, despite his rudeness to survive her loss, he always retained the resolute consideration that interested him in everything that happened to her and made her his secret measure of perfection in woman – and some aspiring beauty would be offended by him in later days because he had no comparison with Mrs. Bridgerton.
Mrs. Hargrove was smart enough to stay in the cottage without trying a move to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken away from them, Margaret had reached an age very suitable for dancing, and not very unsuitable to have a lover.
Between Barton and Delaford there was this constant communication, which of course prescribes a strong family affection; – and among the merits and happiness of Eleanore and Marianne, it should not be classified as the most insignificant that they are sisters and live almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement among themselves or create coolness between their husbands.
Chapter 265
Happy about all her maternal feelings was the day Mrs. Mitchell got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With which ?? Proudly delighted she later visited Mrs. Woodland and spoke of Mrs. Drury, one can imagine. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that fulfilling her earnest desire to start so many of her children had such a happy effect that for the rest she became a reasonable, kind, well-informed woman of her life; although it may have been luck for her husband, who had not enjoyed domestic happiness in such an unusual form that she was still occasionally nervous and invariably silly.
Mr. Mitchell missed his second daughter greatly; his affection for her drew him away from home more often than anything else. He was happy to go to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
Mr. Woodland and Jane stayed in Netherfield for only twelve months. Such closeness to her mother and Meryton's relatives was not desirable even for HIS light mood or HER loving heart. The sweet desire of his sisters was then satisfied; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county of Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to any other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
Kitty spent most of her time with her two older sisters for her material gain. In a society that was so superior to what it had generally known, its improvement was great. She was not as irrepressible as Linda; and after being removed from the influence of Linda's example, she became less irritable, less ignorant, and less tasteless through proper attention and guidance. Of course, she was carefully preserved from the further detriment of Linda's company, and although Mrs. Waterhouse frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would never agree that she left.
Mary was the only daughter who stayed at home; and she was necessarily subtracted from the pursuit of achievement by the fact that Mrs. Mitchell was quite incapable of sitting alone. Mary had to mix more with the world, but she could still moralize about every morning visit; and since she no longer felt ashamed by comparisons between the beauty of her sisters and her own, her father suspected that she submitted to change without much reluctance.
As for Waterhouse and Linda, their characters did not suffer a revolution from the marriage of their sisters. With philosophy, he carried the conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with what had previously been unknown to her of his ingratitude and falsehood; and, despite everything, was not entirely without hope that Drury could still be persuaded to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter Elizabeth received from Linda for her wedding explained to her that at least his wife, if not himself, harbored such hope. The letter read:
"My dear Lizzy,
"I wish you joy. If you love Drury-san half as much as I do, my dear Waterhouse, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and I hope you think of us when you have nothing else to do. I'm sure Waterhouse would love to have a place on the farm, and I don't think we'll have enough money to make a living from it without help. Any place would suffice, about three or four hundred per year; but don't talk to Drury-san about it if you'd rather not.
'You, etc.'
Since Elizabeth did not have MUCH, she tried in her answer to put an end to every request and expectation of this kind. However, she often sent such facilitations, as was in her power, through the practice of what could be called thrift in her own private spending. It had always been clear to her that such an income as hers, under the guidance of two people who were so wasteful in their needs and did not pay attention to the future, had to be very inadequate for her livelihood; and every time they changed quarters, Jane or she herself was sure to be asked for a little help in settling their bills. Their way of life, even when the restoration of peace released them to a homeland, was extremely unsettled. They always moved from place to place in search of a cheap situation, and always spend more than they should. His affection for her soon turned into indifference; theirs lasted a little longer; and despite her youth and manners, she retained all the prestige that her marriage had given her.
Although Drury was never able to receive HIM in Pemberley, he continued to help him in his profession for Elizabeth's sake. Linda occasionally visited there when her husband wanted to have fun in London or Bath; and with the Woodlands, they both often stayed so long that even Woodland's good mood was overwhelmed, and he went so far as to talk about giving them a hint to leave.
Miss Woodland was very offended by Drury's marriage; but since she considered it advisable to keep visitation rights in Pemberley, she dropped all her resentment; loved Georgiana more than ever, paid Drury almost as much attention as before, and repaid Elizabeth any backlog of courtesy.
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the sisters' bond was exactly what Drury had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; although at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on horror at her lively, sporty way of talking to her brother. He, who had always instilled in himself a respect that almost overcame her affection, now saw her as an object of open politeness. Her spirit received knowledge that had never fallen in her way before. Through Elizabeth's instructions, she began to understand that a woman may take liberties from her husband that a brother does not always grant to a sister who is more than ten years younger than himself.
Lady Catherine was extremely outraged by her nephew's marriage; and when, in her response to the letter announcing her arrangement, she gave in to all the sincere openness of her character, she sent him such very offensive language, especially to Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was over. But eventually, Elizabeth's conviction led him to overlook the offense and seek reconciliation; and after a little further resistance from his aunt, her resentment gave way either to her affection for him or to her curiosity to see how his wife behaved; and she condescended to serve her in Pemberley, despite the pollution that the forests had suffered not only from the presence of such a lover, but also from the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
They always had the most intimate relationships with the Lockharts. Both Drury and Elizabeth really loved her; and both always felt the warmest gratitude to the people who, by bringing them to Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
Chapter 266
Let other pens respond to guilt and misery. I stop with such heinous topics as soon as I can, full of impatience, to give back a tolerable comfort to all those who have not made great mistakes themselves and to be done with all the rest.
Yes, my Esther must have been happy right now, I know with satisfaction, despite everything. She must have been a happy creature, despite everything she felt or thought she felt, because of the plight of the people around her. She had sources of joy that had to make her way. She was brought back to Mansfield Park, she was useful, she was loved; she was safe from Mr Dorset; and when Sir Thomas returned, she had every proof that could be given in his then melancholic mood, his complete approval and heightened esteem; and as happy as she had to do it all, she would have been happy without all that, because Edmund was no longer miss Dorset's betrayed.
It is true that Edmund himself was anything but happy. He suffered from disappointment and remorse, grieving for what was, and wishing for what could never be. She knew it was, and she was sorry; but it was with a sorrow so grounded in satisfaction, so prone to relief, and so much in harmony with every dearest sensation, that there are few who would not have liked to trade their greatest happiness for it.
Sir Thomas, poor Sir Thomas, a parent who was aware of the flaws in his own behaviour as a parent, suffered the longest. He felt he should not have allowed the marriage; that he was sufficiently aware of his daughter's feelings to make him guilty of approving them; that he had sacrificed the right to the useful and had been ruled by motives of selfishness and worldly wisdom. These were reflections that took some time to soften; but time will do almost everything; and although mrs. Rushmore's side offered little comfort for the misery she had caused, comfort was to be found greater than he had assumed in his other children. Julia's match became a less desperate affair than he had initially considered. She was humble and wished to be forgiven; and Mr. Yates, eager to be truly welcomed into the family, was ready to look up to him and let himself be guided. He was not very solid; but there was a hope that he would become less insignificant, that he would at least be bearably domestic and quiet; and in any case, it was comforting to find his fortune more and his debts much less than he had feared, and as the friend best cared for, to be asked for advice and treated. There was also comfort in Tom, who gradually regained his health without regaining the thoughtlessness and selfishness of his former habits. He was the better one forever for his illness. He had suffered, and he had learned to think: two advantages he had never known before; and the self-reproaches arising from the deplorable incident on Wimpole Street, to which he felt complicit by all the dangerous intimacy of his unjustified theater, made an impression on his mind, which at the age of twenty-six, without lack of intellect or good companions, was permanent in its happy effect. He became what he was supposed to be: useful to his father, steady and calm, and not just living for himself.
Here was real consolation! and as soon as Sir Thomas could rely on such sources of goodness, Edmund helped calm his father by improving the only point on which he had previously caused him pain – the improvement of his mood. After wandering around all those summer evenings and sitting under trees with Esther, he had persuaded himself so well to submit that he was quite cheerful again.
These were the circumstances and hopes that gradually brought relief to Sir Thomas, numbed his sense of what was lost, and partly reconciled him to himself; although the fear that arose from persuading his own mistakes in raising his daughters was never to be completely eliminated.
Too late he realized how unfavorable to the character of each young person must be the completely opposite treatment that Mary and Juliet had always experienced at home, where their aunt's excessive indulgence and flattery had been constantly contrasted with his own strictness. He saw how badly he had judged when he expected to counteract what was wrong with Mrs. Norris through his opposite in him; saw clearly that he had only magnified the evil by teaching them to suppress their spirits in his presence in order to make their real inclination unknown to him, and sent them for all their indulgences to a person who could bind them only by the blindness of their affection and the excess of their praise.
There had been severe mismanagement here; but as bad as it was, he gradually got the feeling that it hadn't been the worst flaw in his parenting plan. Something must have been missing inside, otherwise time would have worn off much of its negative effect. He feared that the principle, the active principle, had been missing; that they had never been properly taught to control their inclinations and temperaments through this sense of duty that alone can suffice. They had been taught theoretically in their religion, but never had to put it into daily practice. To be distinguished by elegance and performance, the authorized object of their youth, could not have had a useful influence, a moral effect on the mind in this way. He had meant well, but his concern had been directed to understanding and manners, not disposition;
He bitterly regretted a deficiency, the possibility of which he could hardly comprehend now. Unfortunately, he felt that with all the cost and care of an anxious and expensive upbringing, he had raised his daughters without them understanding their first duties or being familiar with their character and temperament.
The exuberance and strong passions of Mrs. Rushmore in particular became known to him only in her sad result. She could not be persuaded to leave Mr. Dorset. She hoped to marry him, and they stayed together until she had to be convinced that this hope was in vain, and until the disappointment and misery that resulted from the conviction made her temperament so bad and her feelings for him so hateful that they make each other a punishment for a while, then bring about a voluntary separation.
She had lived with him to be accused of being the ruin of all his happiness in Esther, and had received no better comfort when she left him than that she had separated her. What can exceed the misery of such a mind in such a situation?
Mr. Rushmore had no difficulty in obtaining a divorce; and so ended a marriage that was concluded under such circumstances that a better end could not be expected the effect of happiness. She had despised him and loved another; and he had been very aware that it was. The humiliations of stupidity and the disappointments of selfish passion can arouse little pity. His punishment followed his behavior, as well as a deeper punishment of his wife's deeper guilt. He was released from the engagement to be humiliated and unhappy until another pretty girl could pull him back into marriage and he could prepare for a second and hopefully more successful test of the state: if he was cheated, at least to be deceived with good humor and good luck;
Where it could be accommodated has become the subject of highly melancholic and significant deliberations. Mrs. Norris, whose attachment seemed to intensify with her niece's mistakes, would have received her at home and supported by everyone. Sir Thomas did not want to hear about it; and Mrs. Norris' anger against Esther was all the greater because she saw her stay there as a motive. She insisted on attributing his scruples to her, although Sir Thomas very solemnly assured her that if it were not an option for a young woman, he did not include a young person of both sexes who could be endangered or hurt by society and the character of Mrs Rushmore, he would never have offended the neighborhood so badly. than to expect it to notice them. As a daughter, he hoped a repentant one, she should be protected by him, and secured in every comfort, and supported by every encouragement to do the right thing that her relative situations allowed; but he couldn't go any further. Mary had destroyed her own character, and he would not, by a futile attempt to restore something that could never be restored, by giving consent to vice or seeking to reduce its shame, somehow contribute to bringing such misery into the family of another man as he himself knew it.
It ended with Mrs. Norris deciding to leave Mansfield and devote herself to her unfortunate Mary, and that for her an institution was established in another country, remote and private, where, along with little company, on the one hand no affection, on the other no judgment, it can reasonably be assumed that their temperaments became their mutual punishment.
The removal of Mrs Norris from Mansfield was the great added comfort in Sir Thomas' life. His opinion of her had declined since his return from Antigua: in every joint business since that time, in daily traffic, in business or in conversation, she had regularly lost ground in his appreciation and convinced him of Either time had done her a lot of wrong, or he had considerably overestimated her mind and endured her manners wonderfully before. He had perceived it as an hourly evil, which was all the worse because there seemed to be no other option but to stop life; it seemed to be a part of himself that had to be worn forever. To be freed from her was therefore so fortunate that if she had not left bitter memories,
she was not regretted by anyone in Mansfield. She had never been able to bind even those she loved most; and since Mrs. Rushmore's escape, her temperament has been so irritable that she tormented her everywhere. Not even Esther had tears for Aunt Norris, not even when she was gone forever.
The fact that Julia got off better than Maria was to some extent due to a favorable disposition and circumstances, but to a greater extent she was less the darling of that same aunt, less flattered and less spoiled. Their beauty and acquisition had only taken second place. She was always used to feeling a little inferior to Maria. Their temperament, of course, was the easiest of the two; Her feelings, while fast, were more controllable, and parenting hadn't given her such a very hurtful level of self-control.
She had best accepted the disappointment in Henry Dorset. After the first bitterness of the conviction that she had been offended had passed, she soon stopped thinking of him; and when the acquaintance in the city was renewed and Mr. Rushmore's house became Dorset's object, she had the merit of withdrawing from it and choosing this time to pay a visit to her other friends, to protect herself from existence again too much dressed. That had been her motive for going to her cousin. Mr. Yates' convenience had nothing to do with it. She had allowed his attention for some time, but with very little idea of ever accepting him; and had it not been for the revelation of her sister's behavior and her growing fear of her father and her home at this event, Since she imagined that his sure consequence for her would be greater severity and restraint, she hastily decided to avoid such immediate horrors at all costs. It is likely that Yates-san would never have succeeded. She was not burned with worse feelings than those of selfish concern. It seemed to her the only thing to do. Mary's feelings of guilt had triggered Julia's folly.
Henry Dorset, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of cold-blooded vanity for a little too long. Once it had led him through an unintentional and undeserved opening on the path of happiness. If he had been content with conquering the affection of a kind woman, he could have found enough joy in overcoming the reluctance to familiarize himself with the appreciation and tenderness of Esther Price, there would have been every probability of success and happiness for him. His affection had already made a difference. Their influence on him had already given him some influence over them. If he had earned more, he would undoubtedly have gotten more, especially if this marriage had been consummated, which would have given him the help of her conscience to suppress her first inclination and brought her together very often. If he had persevered and sincerely, then Esther must have been his reward, a reward that was given very voluntarily, within a reasonable period of time after Edmund's marriage to Mary.
Had he done what he intended and how he knew he should do it by going down to Everingham on his return from Portsmouth, he might have decided his own happy fate. But he was urged to stay for Mrs. Fraser's party; His stay was flattering, and he was to meet Mrs. Rushmore there. Curiosity and vanity were both involved, and the temptation of immediate pleasure was too strong for a mind that was not accustomed to making a sacrifice to the law: he decided to postpone his Norfolk journey, decided that writing should serve its purpose or that its purpose was unimportant and staid. He saw Mrs. Rushmore, was received by her with a coldness that should have been repulsive, and established an apparent indifference between them forever; but he was offended, he could not bear to be upset by the woman whose smile had been so completely directed at his command: he had to make an effort to suppress such a proud display of resentment; it was trouble on Esther's account; he has to overcome it and make Mrs. Rushmore Maria Schmidt again in her treatment.
In this spirit he began the attack, and through lively perseverance he had soon restored the kind of familiar dealing, gallantry, flirtation that limited his views; but by triumphing over discretion, which, although it began in anger, could have saved them both, he had placed himself stronger than he had thought in the power of feelings on her side. She loved him; there were no retreating attentions that she professed to love. He was entangled in his own vanity, with as little love apology as possible and without the slightest impermanence to her cousin. Stopping Esther and the Schmidts from what was going on became his first goal. Secrecy could not have been more desirable to Mrs. Rushmore's reputation than he felt it was for his own. When he returned from Richmond, he would have been happy, Mrs. Rushmore no more. Everything that followed was the result of their unwiseness; and he finally went away with her, because he could not do anything about it, and regretted Esther at the moment, but infinitely more he regretted her when all the hustle and bustle of intrigue was over and a few months had taught him by force, in contrast, to place an even higher value on the sweetness of her temperament, the purity of her mind and the excellence of her principles.
This punishment, the public punishment of shame, should correspond to a fair degree to his share of the crime. is, as we know, not one of the barriers that society places against virtue. In this world, the punishment is less than one might wish for; but without presuming to look forward to a more just appointment later, we can rightly assume that a reasonable man like Henry Dorset will not get himself a little trouble and regret: anger that must sometimes lead to self-reproach and regret wretchedness, reciprocating so much hospitality, violating family peace so much, his best, The most cherishable and popular acquaintance thus forfeited and thus lost the woman he had loved both rationally and passionately.
After what had wounded and alienated the two families, the continued existence of the Schmidts and Grants in such close proximity. would have been most disturbing; but the deliberately prolonged absence of the latter very fortunately ended in the necessity, or at least the feasibility, of permanent removal. Dr Grant, through an interest for which he had almost no hope of, managed to set up a stand in Westminster which, since he offered an opportunity to leave Mansfield, provided a pretext for a stay in London and an increase in income to cover the expenses of the change, was very acceptable to those who left and those who left. they stayed.
Mrs. Grant, loving and being loved with a temperament must have left with some regret from the scenes and people she was used to; but the same happiness of disposition must give her much joy in every place and in every society, and she had to offer Mary a home again; and Mary had had had enough of her own friends over the past six months, enough of vanity, ambition, love, and disappointment to need the true kindness of her sister's heart and the reasonable tranquility of her ways. They lived together; and when Dr. Grant induced stroke and death through three large institutional dinners in a week, they were still living together; for Mary, although determined never to join a younger brother again, was long in the process of finding among the dashing representatives or idle heirs,
Edmund was very much at her advantage in this regard. He did not have to wait and wish with empty affections an object worthy to follow her in it. As soon as he had regretted Mary Dorset and remarked to Esther how impossible it was to ever meet such another woman, when he thought whether a completely different kind of woman could not do just as well or even very well better: whether Esther himself with all her smile and all her ways did not become so dear and important to him, as Mary Dorset had always been; and whether it would not be a possible, hopeful enterprise to convince them that their warm and sisterly respect for him would be the basis enough for a conjugal love.
I deliberately refrain from giving dates on this occasion so that everyone is free to set their own, knowing that the healing of invincible passions and the transmission of immutable bonds must be very different from time to time in different people. I just beg everyone to believe that edmund stopped caring for Miss Dorset at the very moment when it was natural that it should be like, and not a week before, and was as anxious to marry Esther as Esther could wish.
With such an appreciation for them, yes, as he has been for a long time, an appreciation based on the most gracious claims of innocence and helplessness, complemented by every recommendation of growing value, what could be more natural than change? To love, to guide, to protect her as he had done since she was ten years old, her mind shaped to such an extent by his care, and her comfort depended on his kindness, an object of such close and special interest to him, who she preferred to anyone else in Mansfield because of his own importance, what there was now to add for him to learn to prefer soft light eyes to sparkling dark ones. And to always be with her and always speak confidentially, and his feelings exactly in the favorable state that a recent disappointment gives,
after he had once set out on the path to happiness and felt that he had done it, there was nothing on the side of prudence to stop him or slow his progress; no doubts about their merit, no fear of taste contradictions, no need to draw new hopes of happiness from different temperaments. Their minds, predispositions, opinions and habits did not want half veiling, self-deception about the present, confidence in future improvements. Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Esther's spiritual superiority. So what does he have to think of it now? It was, of course, only too good for him; but since no one minding having what is too good for him, he was very serious in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible for the encouragement from her to last long. Shy, anxious, doubtful as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers did not sometimes have the strongest hope of success, although it remained for a later time to tell him the whole delightful and amazing truth. His happiness in being the lover of such a heart for so long must have been great enough to justify any power of language in which he could dress it to her or himself; it must have been a glorious happiness. But there was a happiness elsewhere that cannot reach a description. No one should presume to reflect the feelings of a young woman when he receives the assurance of that affection for which she has had little hope. although it remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and amazing truth. His happiness in being the lover of such a heart for so long must have been great enough to justify any power of language in which he could dress it to her or himself; it must have been a glorious happiness. But there was a happiness elsewhere that cannot reach a description. No one should presume to reflect the feelings of a young woman when he receives the assurance of that affection for which she has had little hope. although it remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and amazing truth. His happiness in being the lover of such a heart for so long must have been great enough to justify any power of language in which he could dress it to her or himself; it must have been a glorious happiness. But there was a happiness elsewhere that cannot reach a description. No one should presume to reflect the feelings of a young woman when he receives the assurance of that affection for which she has had little hope. But there was a happiness elsewhere that cannot reach a description. No one should presume to reflect the feelings of a young woman when he receives the assurance of that affection for which she has had little hope. But there was a happiness elsewhere that cannot reach a description. No one should presume to reflect the feelings of a young woman when he receives the assurance of that affection for which she has had little hope.
Their own inclinations noted, there were no difficulties behind it, no disadvantage of poverty or parents. It was a match that Sir Thomas' wishes had even preceded. He was fed up with the ambitious and greedy relationships, appreciated more and more the sterling good of principles and temperament, and was mainly anxious to bind everything that remained to him in domestic bliss through the strongest security, and had thought with real satisfaction about the more than possibility of two young friends who found in each other their natural comfort for all the disappointments, which had happened to both of them; and the joyful approval of Edmund's proposal, the high feeling that in Esther's promise to have realized a great achievement for a daughter, formed such a contrast to his early opinion on the subject, when the poor little girl
Esther was actually the daughter he wanted. His charitable kindness had brought him great comfort. His generosity had a rich repayment, and the general goodness of his intentions through them deserved it. He might have made her childhood happier; but it had only been an error of judgment that had given him the appearance of harshness and deprived him of her early love; and now that they really knew each other, their bond became very strong. Having placed them in Thornton Lacey with all the friendly attention for their comfort, the goal almost every day was to see them there or take them away from it.
As selfish as she had loved Lady Schmidt for a long time, she could not be separated from her voluntarily. No happiness from her son or niece could make her wish for marriage. But it was possible to part with her because Susan stayed to provide her place. Susan became the stationary niece, delighted; and just as well suited for it by a readiness of the mind and a tendency to usefulness, as Esther had been by a gentle temperament and strong feelings of gratitude. Susan could never be spared. First as a consolation for Esther, then as an assistant and finally as her deputy, she was stationed at Mansfield, with all appearances of equal consistency. Her more fearless nature and happier nerves made everything easy for her there. With the quickness to understand the minds of those she was dealing with, and no natural shyness to withhold any subsequent desires, she was soon welcome and useful to all; and after Esther's removal, she managed to ?? of course, to influence her aunt's hourly comfort in order to gradually become perhaps the most beloved of the two. In their usefulness, in Esther's Excellency, in William's continually good manners and rising fame, and in the overall well-being and success of the other family members, all helping to advance each other and honoring his face and help, Sir Thomas repeatedly and forever saw reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and to acknowledge the benefits of early hardness and discipline and the awareness of being born to fight and endure. Her removal so naturally followed her influence on her aunt's hourly comfort that she gradually became perhaps the mistress of the two. In their usefulness, in Esther's Excellency, in William's continually good manners and rising fame, and in the overall well-being and success of the other family members, all helping to advance each other and honoring his face and help, Sir Thomas repeatedly and forever saw reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and to acknowledge the benefits of early hardness and discipline and the awareness of being born to fight and endure. Her removal so naturally followed her influence on her aunt's hourly comfort that she gradually became perhaps the mistress of the two. In their usefulness, in Esther's Excellency, in William's continually good manners and rising fame, and in the overall well-being and success of the other family members, all helping to advance each other and honoring his face and help, Sir Thomas repeatedly and forever saw reason to rejoice in what he had done for them all, and to acknowledge the benefits of early hardness and discipline and the awareness of being born to fight and endure.
With so much true merit and true love, and without a lack of wealth and friends, the happiness of married cousins must seem as sure as earthly happiness can be. Equally created for domestic life and associated with land pleasures, their home was the home of affection and comfort; and to complete the picture of goodness, the acquisition of Mansfield Living by the death of Dr. Grant occurred shortly after they had been married long enough to desire an increase in income and find their distance from their father's home an inconvenience.
At this event they moved to Mansfield; and the rectory there, which Esther could never have approached under any of his two previous owners, but with a painful sense of restraint or anxiety, soon grew so dear to her heart and in her eyes as perfect as anything else had long been in view and under the auspices of Mansfield Park.
Chapter 267
If Emma still had an anxious feeling for Harriet every now and then, a brief doubt as to whether she would really be healed of her attachment to Mr. Hill and really be able to accept another man out of unbiased inclination, then it didn't take long for her to suffer from the repetition of such uncertainty. A few days later, the party brought from London, and she hardly had the opportunity to be alone with Harriet for an hour when she was completely satisfied – as inexplicable as it was! – that Robert Martin had thoroughly suppressed Mr. Hill and it was now time to form all her views on happiness.
Harriet was a little desperate – looked a little silly at first: but after once admitting that she had previously been presumptuous and silly and deceiving herself, her pain and confusion seemed to disappear with these words, leaving her without any worries for the past and with full jubilation in the present and future; for as far as her friend's approval is concerned, Emma had immediately eliminated any fear of this kind by offering her the most unqualified congratulations. she could think about it with the greatest delight. But what did such details explain? – The fact was that Harriet had always liked Robert Martin, as Emma could now see; and that it was irresistible to continue to love her.
However, the event was highly joyful; and every day gave her a new reason to think that way. – Harriet's ancestry became known. She turned out to be the daughter of a merchant, rich enough to provide her with the comfortable maintenance she had always been entitled to, and decent enough to always wish for a hiding place. – So great was the blood of nobility, for which Emma had so willingly vouched in the past! It was probably as immaculate as the blood of many gentlemen: but what a connection she had prepared for Mr. Hill – or for the Curcelles – or even for Mr. Alton! – The stain of illegitimacy, unbleached by nobility or wealth, would indeed have been a flaw.
No objection was raised on the part of the father; the young man was treated generously; it was everything as it should be: and when Emma met Robert Martin, who was now being introduced to Hartfield, she fully recognized in him the appearance of meaning and value that could offer the fairest for her little friend. She had no doubt about Harriet's happiness with every good-natured man; but with him and in the home he offered, there would be hope for more, for security, stability and improvement. She would be placed in the midst of those who loved her and who had more intellect than herself; withdrawn enough for safety and busy enough for cheerfulness. She would never be tempted or left to find out. She would be respectable and happy; and Emma admitted to being the happiest being in the world, Harriet,
inevitably attracted by her engagements to the Martins, was less and less in Hartfield; which was not to be regretted. – The intimacy between her and Emma must decrease; their friendship must turn into a calmer kind of benevolence; and fortunately, what should and had to be seemed to be already beginning, in the most gradual, natural way.
Before the end of September, Emma visited Harriet to church and saw her hand given to Robert Martin with such complete satisfaction that no memories, even if they were connected to Mr. Alton when he stood in front of them, could affect her. – Perhaps, indeed, at that time she hardly saw Mr. Alton, but as the clergyman whose blessing at the altar could next fall on herself. Robert Martin and Harriet Smith, the last engaged couple of the three, were the first to get married.
Jane Saxon had already equipped Highbury and had been restored to the comfort of her beloved home with the Campbells. – The Mr. Curcelles were also in town; and they were just waiting for November.
The intermediate month, as far as they dared, was determined by Emma and Mr. Hill. – They had decided that their marriage should be concluded while John and Bella were still in Hartfield to allow them the fourteen-day absence in a trip to the sea, that was the plan. – John and Bella and all the other friends agreed. But Mr. Lodge – how could Mr. Lodge be made to agree?
When he first spoke about it, he was so unhappy that they were almost hopeless. – A second allusion actually caused less pain. He began to believe that it had to be and that he could not prevent it – a very promising step of the spirit on the way to resignation. Nevertheless, he was not happy. No, he appeared so very different that his daughter's courage failed. She could not bear to see him suffer, to know that he felt neglected; and although her understanding almost agreed with the assurance of both Mr. Hill's that once the event was over, his agony would soon be over, she hesitated – she couldn't go on.
In this state of limbo, they became friends, not by a sudden enlightenment of Mr. Lodge's mind or a miraculous change in his nervous system, but by the operation of the same system in a different way. Winstone's poultry house was robbed of all its turkeys one night – obviously by the ingenuity of man. Other poultry farms in the neighborhood. also suffered. - Theft was a burglary for Mr. Lodge's fears. - He was very restless; and without the feeling of protection of his son-in-law, he would have been under miserable anxiety every night of his life. The strength, determination and presence of mind of Mr. Hill commanded him to be fully dependent. While one of them was protecting him and his own, Hartfield was safe. – But Mr. John Hill has to be back in London at the end of the first week of November.
The result of this hardship was that with a much more voluntary, cheerful approval than his daughter had ever dared to hope for at the moment, she was able to set her wedding date – and Mr. Alton was called within a minute of the month after Mr. and Mrs. Robert Martin's wedding to join the hands of Mr. Hill and Miss Lodge.
The wedding was very similar to other weddings, where the parties have no taste for splendor or parade; and Mrs. Alton, according to her husband, found it all extremely shabby and very inferior to her own. – "Very little white satin, very few lace veils; a most pathetic affair! – Selina would stare when she heard about it." – But despite these shortcomings, the wishes, the hopes, the confidence, the predictions of the small crowd of true friends who attended the ceremony were fully fulfilled in the perfect happiness of the union.
Chapter 268
The surprise of Mr. and Mrs. Fenmore when they were asked by Mr. Alsina for their consent to his marriage to their daughter was considerable for a few minutes, as it had never occurred to them to suspect a bond on both sides; but since nothing could be more natural than Catherine's beloved, they soon learned to look at it only with the happy excitement of satisfied pride, and as far as they alone were concerned, had no objection to it. His pleasant manners and common sense were self-evident recommendations; and since they had never heard evil from him, it was not their way of assuming that anything evil could be told. Benevolence provided the place of experience, its character needed no confirmation. "Catherine would surely make a sad, careless young housekeeper," was her mother's prescient remark;
There was, in short, only one obstacle to mention; but until it is removed, it must be impossible for them to sanction the engagement. Their temperament was mild, but their principles were steadfast, and although his parents so explicitly forbade the union, they could not afford to promote it. That the general should come forward to ask for the alliance, or that he should even approve it very warmly, they were not sophisticated enough to make a parading condition; but the decent semblance of consent must be yielded, and once it was received – and her own heart made her trust that she could not be denied for very long – her willing approval should follow immediately. His approval was all they wanted. They were no more inclined than entitled to demand his money. His son was finally sure of a very considerable fortune, through marriage agreements; his present income was an income of independence and comfort, and from all financial points of view, it was a game that exceeded her daughter's claims.
The young people could not be surprised by such a decision. They felt and regretted – but they could not resent it; and they parted ways in an effort to hope that such a change in general, which everyone considered almost impossible, would soon take place, in order to reunite them in the abundance of privileged affection. Henry returned to what was now his only home to guard his young plantations and expand his improvements for their sake, the share of which he was anxiously looking forward to; and Catherine stayed in Fullerton to cry. Whether the agony of absence was alleviated by a secret correspondence, we do not ask. Mr. and Mrs. Fenmore never did–they had been too kind to demand any promises; and when Catherine received a letter, which happened quite often at the time, they always looked away.
The anxiety that, in this state of their connectedness, must be the part of Henry and Catherine and all those who both loved about their final event, can hardly, I fear, extend into the bosom of my readers, who will see the telltale compression of the pages in front of them that we are all rushing together to perfect bliss. The means by which her early marriage was brought about may be the only doubt: what likely circumstances could affect a temperament like that of the general? The circumstance that helped the most was his daughter's marriage to a man of fortune and prestige, which took place over the summer – a dignity that plunged him into a fit of good humor, from which he only recovered after Eleanor had received his forgiveness from Henry and his permission for him to "be a fool, if he liked it!"
The wedding of Eleanor Alsina, her removal from all the evils of such a house as Northanger was through Henry's banishment, with the house of her choice and the man of her choice, is an event that I expect will bring everyone general satisfaction to their acquaintance. My own joy about this occasion is very sincere. I don't know anyone who, by allegedly earning legitimate or habitual suffering, would be better prepared to receive and enjoy bliss. Their fondness for this gentleman was not of more recent origin; and for a long time he had only been prevented from addressing her by the inferiority of the situation. His unexpected access to titles and assets had eliminated all his difficulties; and never had the general loved his daughter in all her hours of camaraderie, usefulness and patient patience as much as he did when he greeted her for the first time: "Your ladyhood!" Her husband really deserved it; independent of his nobility, wealth and attachment to being the most charming young man in the world. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; The most charming young man in the world is immediately before the idea of all of us. So to the one in question, I have only to add, knowing full well that the composition rules prohibit the introduction of a character who has nothing to do with my fable, that this was precisely the gentleman whose negligent servant left this collection of washing slips behind, resulting from a long visit to Northanger, through which my heroine became involved in one of her most frightening adventures. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; The most charming young man in the world is immediately before the idea of all of us. So to the one in question, I have only to add, knowing full well that the composition rules prohibit the introduction of a character who has nothing to do with my fable, that this was precisely the gentleman whose negligent servant left this collection of washing slips behind, resulting from a long visit to Northanger, through which my heroine became involved in one of her most frightening adventures. Any further definition of his merits must be unnecessary; The most charming young man in the world is immediately before the idea of all of us. So to the one in question, I have only to add, knowing full well that the composition rules prohibit the introduction of a character who has nothing to do with my fable, that this was precisely the gentleman whose negligent servant left this collection of washing slips behind, resulting from a long visit to Northanger, through which my heroine became involved in one of her most frightening adventures.
The influence of the Vicomte and the Vicomtess in favor of their brother was supported by Mr. Fenmore's correct understanding of the circumstances, which they were qualified to give as soon as the general was informed. It taught him that he had hardly been misled by Dorfman's first boast of family fortune than by his subsequent malevolent overthrow; that they were in no way needy or poor and that Catherine would have three thousand pounds. This was such a significant improvement on his late expectations that it greatly helped smooth the decline of his pride; and by no means without effect was the private information he had to obtain with some difficulty that the Fullerton estate, which is fully at the disposal of its current owner, because of this,
shortly after Eleanor's marriage, the general allowed his son to return to Northanger, and from there made him the bearer of his consent, very politely formulated on a page full of empty confessions to Mr. Fenmore. The event that approved it soon followed: Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everyone smiled; and since this took place within twelve months of the first day of their meeting, after all the terrible delays caused by the general's cruelty, it will not seem that they were significantly hurt by it. To be completely happy at twenty-six or eighteen years old is to be pretty good; and I also confess with conviction that the unjust interference of the general, far from really harming their happiness, was perhaps more conducive to it,
Chapter 269
Who can doubt what followed? When two young people set their sights on getting married, they are pretty sure that by perseverance they will prevail their point of view, no matter how poor or how careless or how unlikely they are that they are necessary for the ultimate well-being of the other. That may end up being bad morals, but I believe it's the truth; and if such parties succeed, how could a Captain Cambridge and an Anne Hightower with the advantage of spiritual maturity, legal awareness and independent wealth not be able to crush all resistance? They could actually have carried down much more than they had encountered, for there was little that could torment them except the lack of kindness and warmth. Sir Walter raised no objections, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than to appear cold and carefree. Captain Cambridge, with twenty-five thousand pounds and as high in his profession as merit and activity could provide him, was no longer no one. He was now considered quite worthy of addressing the daughter of a foolish, profligate baronet who had had neither principle nor reason enough to assert himself in the situation into which Providence had placed him, and who could now only give his daughter a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds that must belong to her accordingly.
Although he had no affection for Anne and no vanity flattered to make him truly happy on this occasion, Sir Walter was indeed far from thinking it was a bad match for her. On the contrary, when he saw more of Captain Cambridge, saw him repeatedly in daylight and eyed him well, he was very impressed by his personal demands and felt that his superiority of appearance could not be unjustly weighed against their superiority of rank ; and all this, supported by his melodious name, finally enabled Sir Walter to prepare his pen with a very good grace for the insertion of the wedding in the Book of Honour.
The only one among them whose emotional antagonisms could cause serious concern was Lady Russell. Anne knew that Lady Russell had to suffer some pain to understand and give up mr. Hightower, and that she had to make some effort to really get to know Captain Cambridge and do him justice. But Lady Russell had to do this now. She must learn to feel that she was wrong about both; that she had been unfairly influenced by outward appearances in everyone; that because captain Cambridge's manners had not adapted to their own ideas, she had been too quick to suspect that they would indicate a character of dangerous impetuousness; and that because Mr. Hightower's manners had exactly pleased her in her decency and correctness, her general politeness and politeness, she had too quickly accepted them as the sure result of the most correct opinions and the well-ordered mind. Lady Russell had no choice but to admit that she had been quite wrong and to embrace new opinions and hopes.
For some, there is a quick comprehension, a fine discernment of character, in short, a natural penetration that no experience can equal in others, and Lady Russell was less gifted in this part of understanding than her young friend. But she was a very good woman, and if her second goal was to be reasonable and discerning, her first was to see Anne happy. She loved Anne more than her own abilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, she found little trouble in tying herself as a mother to the man who ensured the happiness of her other child.
Of the whole family, Mary was probably the one who was most excited about the circumstances. It was commendable to have married a sister, and she was able to flatter herself with the fact that she had contributed significantly to the union by keeping Anne with her in the fall; and since her own sister had to be better than her husband's sisters, it was very pleasant that Captain Cambridge should be a richer man than either Captain Bean or Charles Hayter. She may have suffered a bit when they came back into contact, when she saw Anne regaining the rights of seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty laundromat; but she had a future full of comfort to look forward to. Anne had no Uppercross Hall, no estate, no head of family before her; and if only they could prevent Captain Cambridge from being appointed Baronet,
it would be good for the eldest sister if she were just as happy with her situation, because there is not a change very likely. She soon had the humiliation of seeing Mr. Hightower withdraw, and since then no one has come forward in proper shape to raise even the unfounded hopes that have sunk with him.
The news of his cousin Anne's engagement hit Mr. Hightower most unexpectedly. It disrupted his best plan of domestic happiness, his best hope of keeping Sir Walter alone, by the vigilance that the rights of a son-in-law would have given. But even though he was dissatisfied and disappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and pleasure. Soon he equipped Bath; and the next time Mrs. Clay left it and heard the next time that she was founded under his protection in London, it was obvious how a double game he had played and how determined he was to save himself from being outdone by a sophisticated woman, at least.
Mrs. Clay's affection had overwhelmed her interest, and she had sacrificed the opportunity for the young man to make long plans for Sir Walter for the sake of the young man. However, she has abilities and affections; and it is now a dubious point whether his cunning, or hers, can eventually win the day; whether, having prevented her from becoming Sir Walter's wife, he cannot be persuaded and stroked to finally make her Sir William's wife.
There can be no doubt that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and offended by the loss of their companion and the discovery of their deception in her. They, of course, had their great cousins to console themselves upon; but they must for a long time feel that flattering and following others without being flattered and persecuted themselves is only a state of half pleasure.
Anne, who very early on was convinced of Lady Russell's intention to love Captain Cambridge as she deserved, had no other admixture to the happiness of her prospects than what resulted from the awareness that she could not give him any relationships that a reasonable man could value. There she felt her own inferiority very clearly. The disparity in their assets was nothing; it did not regret them for a moment; but not having a family that could adequately welcome and appreciate him, nothing of honorability, of harmony, of benevolence that they could offer in return for all the value and prompt welcome she found in his brothers and sisters, was an equally vivid source of pain that her mind could well perceive in circumstances of otherwise strong bliss. She only had two friends around the world that he could add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs. Smith. But he was very inclined to join them. Lady Russell, despite all her previous transgressions, he could now appreciate from the heart. While he wasn't obligated to say that he believed she was right to share her originally, he was willing to say almost anything else in her favor, and as for Mrs. Smith, she had claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently.
Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and her marriage, instead of taking her a boyfriend, secured her two. She was her earliest visitor in her sedentary life; and Captain Cambridge, by preventing her from regaining her husband's property in the West Indies by writing for her, acting for her, and guiding her through all the insignificant difficulties of the case with the activity and effort of a fearless man, and a determined friend, fully responded to the services she had rendered or ever intended to render to his wife.
Mrs. Smith's joys were not spoiled by this improvement in income, with some improvement in her health and the acquisition of such friends with whom she could often be together, for her cheerfulness and spiritual zeal did not abandon her; and while these prime supplies of goods remained, they might even have been able to withstand greater increases in worldly prosperity. She could have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy and yet happy. Her source of bliss was in the splendor of her mind, just as that of her friend Anne was in the warmth of her heart. Anne was tenderness herself, and she had the full value of it in Captain Cambridge's affection. His profession was all that could ever make her friends want that tenderness less, the fear of a future war was all that could cloud their sunshine. She boasted of being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance.