“Impossible! you must have misunderstood him.”
“Oh no, there was no room for misunderstanding; he was explicit enough, I assure you! Why, he was little short of angry, (as if it was my fault, that Lady Susan chose to prefer the Marquis of H.), that hope had been all, he said, that, in his eyes, gave value to existence; and he would, therefore, leave England for ever!” The firmness our heroine had been affecting, here gave way, and her voice faltered. Frances embraced her.
“Oh, and he talked all sorts of ridiculous nonsense,” continued Julia, as she vainly endeavoured to check her tears, “about dying an honourable death, and said, that my congratulating him, on his late good fortune, was a mockery. I used, I am sure, to pity him, if he only looked melancholy for a moment; but really, this caricature, of sorrow, one cannot sympathise with!” Julia seems to forget a grand distinction: when she used to feel such indulgent pity for the melancholy look, she believed that love, for herself, was its source; it was quite another thing now; she could see the folly of being in despair about any body else.
“And what a time,” said Frances, “to behave ungratefully! It is certainly very unlike Edmund. Indeed Julia, I think you must have mistaken him, some way.” Julia shook her head. “We used, you know, to imagine,” continued Frances, “that it would be such a time of rejoicing, whenever Edmund was discovered to be some great person, (as Mr. Jackson always said would be the case;) and now, the time is come; and we only seem to have lost our own Edmund. How could I have been so mistaken! I was absolutely certain that he was breaking his heart about his love for you: yet, if he was, this would not be the time to be in particular despair about it, just when, it is most probable, that papa would give his consent. So, I suppose, I must have been mistaken.”
Frances had had a thousand things to tell her sister about her new old acquaintance, Beaumont; but the melancholy subject they had been just discussing, and Julia’s tearful countenance, made her think it all such nonsense, that she determined not even to mention the subject.
CHAPTER XVII.
… “Why,
Did I look upon her fatal beauty!”