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After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just
so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was
admitted to her presence. She sat in state, ensconced in her grandest, highest-backed armchair, the
closest approximation to a throne the house contained. The effect was magnified
by the elaborate urns flanking her position, filled with lavish bouquets that
scented the air with a heady perfume. It was not her custom to be
accommodating, but the scowl with which she greeted her eldest son betokened
nothing so much as ill will. A man unfamiliar with this formidable lady's
behavior might falter under the scrutiny of such a daunting countenance, but
Edward, gifted with the familiarity of kinship, knew that his very admission
was already something of a victory. Certainly his mother would demand of him a
display of humility, but the end result was preordained: he was
again her acknowledged son.
"Hello Mother. How do you do?"
"I am in excellent health,
though my children seem bent on destroying it."
"I am pleased to know you are
well," he replied, ignoring her jab.
"You heard of your brother's
abominable behavior, I dare say. Is this what brings you here?"
"As his action had rather a
profound effect on myself, I could not long remain in ignorance."
"He has preserved you from a
most disastrous union. So much can be said for him."
"Yes. I believe we can agree
on that point. Robert might indeed be called my savior ..."
It is, sadly, not always
the fate of two lovers to hasten together towards perfect felicity. Some
unfortunates must instead endure the torment and heartache of doubt and
separation. Such sad circumstances are all the more to be bemoaned when brought
upon a couple by the capriciousness of a misguided parent, but a blissful
Catherine Morland and Henry Tilney had no notion that they were soon to be so
imposed upon. As they entered the parsonage at Fullerton, intent on requesting
of Mr. and Mrs. Morland their permission to marry, neither had any notion how
near disappointment loomed. Do not suppose that it was this eminently kind and
practical couple that was so ill-natured as to needlessly barricade their daughter's
path to happiness, but it was their very abundance of said qualities that dictated
General Tilney’s interests, no matter how perverse, must be considered.
Yet before such objections
could be taken into account, the Morlands had first to overcome the shock of
Mr. Tilney's most unexpected proposal. One might think that Mrs. Allen would
have been so good as to mention Catherine’s forming of a very decided
attachment to this young man, but that lady not being the most perceptive, and
the Morlands themselves not being ones to indulge in speculation, they were
taken entirely by surprise. Indeed, when Mr. Tilney first requested a private
conference with Mr. Morland, only recently returned to the house, it seemed his
purpose must undoubtedly be to provide the sort of explanation for Catherine's
ejection from Northanger Abbey that had best be spoken in private, and the
rector braced himself to hear a very disagreeable account. Imagine his surprise
when presented with a most wonderful request for his daughter’s hand! After
taking the few needed moments to compose his thoughts, he responded thusly:
“Forgive me, Mr. Tilney, for my prolonged silence, but I am afraid I had no
notion that you and Catherine had such a decided partiality for one another.
Has my daughter accepted your proposal?”
“Yes, sir. I have been so fortunate as to win her affections.”
“Following her abrupt removal from your ancestral home, I was rather of the belief that we would not be hearing from any member of your family again. This request, under the circumstances, is most unexpected ..."
“Yes, sir. I have been so fortunate as to win her affections.”
“Following her abrupt removal from your ancestral home, I was rather of the belief that we would not be hearing from any member of your family again. This request, under the circumstances, is most unexpected ..."
“Come
along, Maria. It's rather brisk out here, you know, and I should not wish to
catch cold.”
Maria
Rushworth barely heard her husband, lost in contemplation of the townhouse
before which her luxurious carriage stood. She had never been one to swoon,
having always enjoyed excellent health, but the prospect of entering the
edifice made her knees weaken and quake. Tonight she would see him, the man she
had loved, for the first time since her unfortunate marriage to the oafish
fellow waiting to hand her down, tottering from one foot to another in an
attempt to emphasize his need for warmth – an action, like all of his, which
filled her dejected heart with the utmost disdain. Chiding herself for lack of
courage, she reluctantly grasped the plump hand extended to her and set forth
to confront her fate ...
The wedding was over, the new Mrs. Martin safely
placed in the midst of those who loved her, ensconced in her home at Abbey-Mill
Farm, but unlike a previous occasion, when Emma lost her dear Miss Taylor, this
event was not tinged by attendant sorrow. Mr. Woodhouse could deplore a
marriage of any sort, but only a person of his great delicacy could find
hardship in such an unexceptional marriage as Harriet Smith’s to Robert Martin.
Fortunately, all the Knghtley’s were at Hartfield to help alleviate his
melancholy.
“Poor Miss Smith! How I wish she were here to
enjoy this repast. Mrs. Martin cannot understand the boiling of an egg as well
as Serle — nobody does! What a
pity Mr. Martin ever thought of our dear Miss Smith!”
“I would say that the pity lies in the abundance
of poultry at Abbey-Mill. All those eggs, and the new mistress too spoiled by
Serle to eat them!” retorted Mr. John Knightley, not without good humor ...
"You wished to
speak with me, Captain Wentworth?"
It took all of the
ingrained inscrutability of nine years in command to maintain his composure. “Indeed I do, Sir Walter. I have something of great
importance to lay before you.”
“Yes. Anne suggested
you might call today. You do understand that I am escorting my cousin, Lady
Dalrymple, and Miss Elliot to a card party this evening and have only limited
time to spare before I must attend to my preparations. However, as Anne was
insistent, I made sure to lay aside a quarter of an hour for you.” The
impecunious baronet's smile was intended to convey the full honor of such condescension,
but Frederick only perceived its absurdity.
“Then you know my
reasons for requesting an audience?”
“I do, and let me
assure you that I feel quite confident bestowing my youngest daughter's hand on
you. When we last discussed such an arrangement, it was, of course, out of the
question, but I am not blind to how you have distinguished yourself. Why, Lady
Dalrymple herself commented on your fine appearance.” It was of some chagrin to
Sir Walter that the younger man seemed totally insensible to the magnitude of
such a compliment, but as he supposed him already overwhelmed by the honor of
marrying an Elliot of Somersetshire, he overlooked the offense ...
"Ma’am, I have
something truly wonderful to tell you. Mr. Darcy has been so kind as to request
my hand in marriage, and I have accepted."
Mrs. Bennet heard her
daughter speak, but the words did not make sense. What could Lizzy be saying
about Mr. Darcy?
Elizabeth watched her
mother closely. She had prepared for an epic outburst to follow her
declaration, even asking her mother to sit down in case of swooning, and to instead
encounter calm collection was rather unnerving. "Mama, do you
attend?"
"Yes, Lizzy dear."
"Mr. Darcy has proposed."
"Yes, Lizzy dear."
"Mr. Darcy has proposed."
The voice seemed to Mrs.
Bennet’s ears as if it came through a dense fog and great distance. She could
not possibly have heard correctly. Mr. Darcy, that odious man! He would never
ask for her daughter‘s hand, so proud and superior. There must be some mistake.
Mr. Darcy of Pemberley? Mr. Darcy with ten thousand pounds … “Oh my! Excuse me,
child, but what did you say ...”
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