Work Text:
”Oh!”
Mr Elton had been married for scarcely three months. Still, even this short period of wedded bliss had been sufficient to acquaint him intimately with the various cadences of his wife’s voice. He thus knew, even before looking up from his newspaper, that her exclamation had not been one of pleasure. And indeed, when he did raise his eyes to Augusta’s countenance, he found her regarding the letter in her hand with an expression of profound ill-humour.
“It is the most vexatious thing! Selina has put off her visit again. She writes that they cannot possibly stir from Maple Grove until autumn. And such plans that I had made! All my arrangements will come to nothing now. Oh, how dreadfully dull we will be this summer!”
Mr Elton was not quite as distressed by this news as his wife. Privately – very privately indeed – he liked Mr and Mrs Suckling rather better at a distance. While it was a fine thing to have grand relations to give one’s neighbours a proper sense of one’s consequence, he had learned during his engagement period that the company of such relations could at times be somewhat trying.
Mr Elton had enjoyed the distinction of being a guest at as large and impressive a house as Maple Grove, but it had not escaped him that his hosts had been quite fond of reminding him of the difference between their circumstances and his own. Mr Suckling, while showing off his kennels, had remarked that he would gladly gift Mr Elton a puppy if he ever found himself able to maintain a pack of hounds. Mrs Suckling had made a great show of praising Mr Elton’s prudence in having hitherto kept only one manservant. Kind hopes for increases to his glebe land and tithes had been repeatedly expressed. Mr Elton, of course, had smiled and said all that was proper – but he had felt the sting of every word.
Still, whatever Mr Elton’s own sentiments on the matter might be, Augusta was very unhappy indeed. It was therefore incumbent upon him – for the sake of his own comfort as much as hers – to seek to alleviate her displeasure.
“It is certainly a disappointment,” he said, shifting his armchair a little closer to the settee upon which she lounged, “but my dear, do consider the advantages. If the Sucklings delay their coming till September or October, you shall have time to make over the guest bedroom despite the delay at the upholsterer’s.”
Augusta, who had only a week ago been in despair over having to put up her sister and brother in such an outdated chamber, brightened somewhat at this consideration.
“And perhaps,” Mr Elton went on, “you shall also have your musical club established by then, and we may give Selina a taste of what you have done for Highbury society in merely half a year.”
Augusta’s brow cleared yet further. Mrs Suckling, despite her aspirations, had not found herself quite as warmly accepted by the more established families of the gentry in the neighbourhood of Maple Grove as she might have wished. Augusta, who envied her sister as much as she idolized her, would not pass up this rare opportunity to outdo her. To be able to present herself to Mrs Suckling as the leading lady of her local society (modest though it was) would be a sweet triumph.
“Indeed!” she cried, sitting up with new animation. “My dear Mr E., how clever you are! I must speak again to Mrs Cole, and perhaps to Mrs Hughes. Monthly soirées, I think, would suit us very well. It is a shame that poor Jane Fairfax will likely not be with us anymore when Selina comes, but we shall make do. Mrs Weston plays tolerably well, and so does Miss Nash – and I suppose Miss Woodhouse must be asked, so as to make up our numbers. I do wish that we had someone who knew the harp, but that can hardly be helped…”
Augusta went on in this vein for some time, requiring only the slightest of contributions from her husband. Mr Elton was not at all displeased to be relegated to the role of listener. Though he entirely supported her efforts to take her rightful place among their neighbours, the minutiae of such schemes were rather beneath his dignity. Let the ladies fuss about invitation cards and seating arrangements – a gentleman’s place in such endeavours was merely to admire and praise their efforts.
But Augusta had not yet entirely forgotten her vexation.
“I do wish that we did not have to put off our trip to Box Hill! Summer is by far the superior season for exploring. In autumn, one never knows what sort of weather one will have to contend with. And for all we know, some other delay may occur, and Selina and Mr Suckling may not come until winter. There can be no exploring then.” She sighed discontentedly. “Well, we may go on our own, I suppose, but it should be so much more comfortable and refined to travel in the barouche-landau. It really is too bad of Selina to keep delaying everything – and for no good reason, except that Mr Suckling is busy with estate business!”
Mr Elton had a shrewd suspicion that Mr Suckling’s estate business was more an excuse than a pressing necessity. Considering all the balls, dinners and excursions which filled Mrs Suckling’s letters to her sister, he surmised that she might simply not be so very eager to grace quiet, sedate Highbury with her presence. Perhaps some more attractive invitation had come her way; perhaps she had perceived an opportunity for forming a new, valuable acquaintance. Maintaining the connection with her sister, who could do little to help her advance in society, would likely not be Mrs Suckling’s first priority. Even as a correspondent, Mrs Suckling did not match her younger sister’s faithfulness and diligence: Mrs Suckling’s letters to Augusta were invariably answered without delay, but Augusta was frequently heard to bemoan the slowness of her sister’s replies.
Yet pointing this out to Augusta could scarcely have any benefit. Mr Elton was not without pride, and it rankled to be reduced to a mere afterthought – someone scarcely better than a poor relation – but he did not mean to let his pride injure his future prospects. A well-spoken young clergyman with sufficient intelligence and ambition could reasonably hope to advance in his profession, but the support of wealthy relations would do much to smooth his way. He would not encourage strife between his wife and her family by bringing up what Augusta seemed determined not to notice. A little wilful blindness could be very useful at times, and injured pride could be endured where one might stand to gain a second living or an advantageous appointment.
“Now, my dear,” he said instead, “we must be charitable. You know that Mr Suckling has a tendency to biliousness. Perhaps he has had one of his colics, and Selina does not wish to mention it. That may be why she is making such poor excuses.”
For a moment, Augusta seemed to vacillate between the desire to indulge in her feelings of ill-usage and the intriguing new notion suggested by her husband – but the latter won. The reminder of Mr Suckling’s proneness to unromantic stomach ailments, the notion that Selina, instead of amusing herself prodigiously, was sitting at home tending to him – both were too appealing to resist.
“Oh! Poor Mr Suckling!” she cried with ill-concealed glee. “How dreadful it would be if it were so! Mr Suckling’s colics are so very uncomfortable. I have told you, I am sure, of our first exploring party to King’s Weston – the one we had to cut short because Mr Suckling became so ill. Selina was quite beside herself!”
“Indeed,” said Mr Elton, who had understood from his wife’s account that Selina had been rather more upset by not being able to view the loggia than by her husband’s sufferings.
“How glad I am,” continued Augusta, “that you are so hale and hearty. A picture of health, I always tell Selina in my letters.” She shot a sly look at Mr Elton. “Dear Mr Suckling is the best of brothers, of course, but I must say that I could never admire a man of bilious complexion.”
Mr Elton smiled in gracious acknowledgement of the implied compliment. While he did not consider himself a vain man, he was not unaware of being generally thought handsome – certainly more handsome than Mr Suckling.
But looks alone had not won him a wife with a fortune of nearly ten thousand pounds. He caught Augusta’s hand in his.
“Yet I am the one with true reason to be grateful,” he murmured, bringing her fingers to his lips, “for no complexion can surpass yours. Let others rave about Gowland’s Lotion” – a remedy Mrs Suckling swore by – “and Olympian Dew. You have no need of such trickery.”
If he had exaggerated, it had only been a little. In her pleasure at his gallantry, Augusta’s cheeks glowed rosily indeed.
“Shameless man!” she cried – but her coy smile spoke her approval. “Such dreadful flattery! Upon my word, I know not what I am to do with you.” She directed a coquettish look at him through her lashes. “Not that I have ever resorted to Gowland’s, or any other such tonic. Mrs Partridge used to say that I had one of the finest complexions she had seen. Poor Selina was always more troubled in that regard. She does not like to have it spoken of, but she is horribly prone to freckles.”
“Ah! I had wondered why she powders her cheeks so heavily, but of course one cannot ask.” Mr Elton lowered his voice. “I must say, my dear – in strictest confidence, of course – that I had thought it might be because she is losing her bloom. I was rather astonished when you told me that she is only five years older than you. When I first saw you together, I had been certain that the difference must be twice as great!”
Augusta preened, her ill humour by now quite forgotten. Mr Elton, perceiving the invitation in her looks, boldly shifted from his chair to join her on the settee. Three months of marriage had also been exceedingly educational on this score, and Mr Elton meant to make full use of what he had learned.
“But let us speak no more of your sister,” he said softly, slipping his arm about Augusta’s waist and finding her delightfully amenable to being drawn closer to his side. “I have more enjoyable pastimes in mind…”
We shall here draw the curtain of modesty over the remainder of Mr and Mrs Elton’s afternoon. However, readers may rest assured that it continued very pleasantly indeed. From this we may draw the following lessons: that imagining other people’s misfortunes is a great solace in times of disappointment; and that flattery, when shrewdly applied, is an even better consolation. Mr Elton, at least, could attest to the efficacy of these maxims.
(Whether his example is worth emulating shall be left to the reader to determine.)