The evening of this day was very long, and melancholy, at Hartfield.
The weather added what it could of gloom. A cold stormy rain set in,
and nothing of July appeared but in the trees and shrubs, which the
wind was despoiling, and the length of the day, which only made
such cruel sights the longer visible.
The weather affected Mr. Woodhouse, and he could only be kept tolerably
comfortable by almost ceaseless attention on his daughter's side,
and by exertions which had never cost her half so much before.
It reminded her of their first forlorn tete-a-tete, on the evening
of Mrs. Weston's wedding-day; but Mr. Knightley had walked
in then, soon after tea, and dissipated every melancholy fancy.
Alas! such delightful proofs of Hartfield's attraction, as those
sort of visits conveyed, might shortly be over. The picture which
she had then drawn of the privations of the approaching winter,
had proved erroneous; no friends had deserted them, no pleasures
had been lost.--But her present forebodings she feared would
experience no similar contradiction. The prospect before her now,
was threatening to a degree that could not be entirely dispelled--
that might not be even partially brightened. If all took place
that might take place among the circle of her friends, Hartfield must
be comparatively deserted; and she left to cheer her father with the
spirits only of ruined happiness.
|