"Pray don't make any difference for me. I dare say I can make a dinner of what I see. The mutton, no doubt, as good cold as hot."
("Good enough for you, any way.")
"Pray don't send for the soup again! It is not in the least necessary."
"Well, since you are so kind as to say so," said Elizabeth, simply, "I will let you do as you please—I dare say the soup will not be very good now—and it's not pleasant, I know, to have it back! Simson is handing you a chair—pray sit down;" and as she spoke—the waiter, who was no other than the parish clerk, acting for the night in this capacity, thrust a chair against Mr. Musgrove's legs with such zeal, as very nearly upset him, and quite caused him to jog Mrs. Steady's elbow as she was in the act of lifting a glass to her lips, much to the damage of her respectable grey silk gown. When things come to the worst, they must mend—so says the proverb—and the company found it true on this occasion, so far as the disagreeable noise and bustle of his entrance was concerned. But this was not the case with Tom himself—who, really chilled and hungry, sat down to only half a dinner, more than half cold—and whose vanity compelled him to abstain even from what was yet before him, lest he should be supposed guilty of the vulgarity of having an appetite. Had the struggles of his mind been exposed, perhaps, even Emma might have pitied him—or, at least, have admired the heroic constancy with which he sacrificed himself at the shrine of fashionable indifference. Unknown and unnoticed, however, were the efforts of his self-denial, and like modest worth, or unpatronised genius, they found their only reward in the internal satisfaction of his mind. As, however, he was a talker by profession, and always inclined to lead in conversation, their party gained much in liveliness, by the addition of his society. He flattered Mr. Watson—joked with Elizabeth—quizzed Mrs. Steady—and threw admiring glances at Emma, with laudable mirth and perseverance. Mrs. Robinson was soothed—Robert Watson silenced—and Mr. Martin aroused by his jocularity—whilst poor Mrs. Robinson was actually able to finish her dinner in tolerable comfort, so much was her husband's brow cleared from the threatened storm, which had before alarmed her.
With secret weariness, Emma watched for the signal to withdraw from the dinner-table, but Elizabeth was too much entertained to be at all in a hurry to rise, and it was, at length, to Mrs. Robert Watson that her thanks for a release were due.
Emma almost forgave her assumption on the occasion, in consideration of the beneficial effects arising from it. It was in vain, however, to hope that release from weariness would follow a secession from the dinner-table; everything seemed so intolerably dull, that she was enraged with herself for her own stupidity, feeling convinced that the want of interest in all around her must arise from too much self-engrossment; she tried accordingly to school herself into listening to the platitudes of Mrs. Steady, or the boastings of her sister-in-law with something like attention; but she tried in vain; her mind was continually wandering away to some distant subject, or was only recalled to the objects present, to calculate the number of minutes before the probable time of their departure. She did not doubt their being all amiable and excellent persons; but they certainly were not interesting characters; Mrs. Steady, in particular, next whom she was seated, seemed much fitter to knit stockings or make jam, than to keep up an intellectual conversation.
The weariest evenings, however, have an end: and this, like all others, terminated at last. Whist and loo—even the supper itself—were all finished; and when Mr. Martin had succeeded in putting on Robert's great coat; and secured, instead of his own, the old clerk's hat, which had been carefully hidden behind the door, he, the last of the party, disappeared, and Emma stole away without waiting to hear her brother Robert's animadversions on the dinner.
The succeeding day was much too wet and stormy to allow any of the females the relief of change of air and scene; but Emma, in the stronghold of her father's apartment, felt less disturbed than she could have expected. If there was storm abroad, there was anything but fair weather within the house. Mrs. Watson was affronted with her husband, and revenged herself by praising Tom Musgrove, and indulging in severe strictures on those whose birth and early education incapacitated them from judging of manners and fashion. These refined and elegant inuendos had all the effect she could desire—irritating her husband the more, because he could not treat them as personal and offensive, without at the same time admitting the implied inferiority of his situation in life, and opportunities of information and improvement. Accordingly, he could only testify his extreme displeasure by a general crossness to all around him, never speaking except when an opportunity to say something disagreeable presented itself. The novelty of such a domestic scene, by no means gave it any charms in Emma's eyes, and she could not help considering that if Jane was annoyed by her husband's temper, it would, at least, be wiser to try to soothe and amend it, than, by irritating his infirmity, encrease the source of her own discomfort. The pleasure of fretting and galling any one, was beyond her comprehension, requiring abilities and understanding, similar to those of her sister-in-law, properly to appreciate.
Compared with this scene of strife, her father's company was perfect happiness, and she delighted in burying her own discomforts in a volume of Shakespeare, or Boswell's delightful reminiscences of his idol.
Yet Elizabeth seemed really to regret that the visit was so short, and tried, though vainly, to persuade both her brother and wife to prolong their stay.