Didactic fiction; Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; Married women -- Fiction
Mrs. James received her with a degree of civility that amazed Amelia
no less than her coldness had done before. She resolved to come to an
eclaircissement, and, having sat out some company that came in, when
they were alone together Amelia, after some silence and many offers to
speak, at last said, "My dear Jenny (if you will now suffer me to call
you by so familiar a name), have you entirely forgot a certain young
lady who had the pleasure of being your intimate acquaintance at
Montpelier?" "Whom do you mean, dear madam?" cries Mrs. James with
great concern. "I mean myself," answered Amelia. "You surprize me,
madam," replied Mrs. James: "how can you ask me that question?" "Nay,
my dear, I do not intend to offend you," cries Amelia, "but I am
really desirous to solve to myself the reason of that coldness which
you shewed me when you did me the favour of a visit. Can you think, my
dear, I was not disappointed, when I expected to meet an intimate
friend, to receive a cold formal visitant? I desire you to examine
your own heart and answer me honestly if you do not think I had some
little reason to be dissatisfied with your behaviour?" "Indeed, Mrs.
Booth," answered the other lady, "you surprize me very much; if there
was anything displeasing to you in my behaviour I am extremely
concerned at it. I did not know I had been defective in any of the
rules of civility, but if I was, madam, I ask your pardon." "Is
civility, then, my dear," replied Amelia, "a synonymous term with
friendship? Could I have expected, when I parted the last time with
Miss Jenny Bath, to have met her the next time in the shape of a fine
lady, complaining of the hardship of climbing up two pair of stairs to
visit me, and then approaching me with the distant air of a new or a
slight acquaintance? Do you think, my dear Mrs. James, if the tables
had been turned, if my fortune had been as high in the world as yours,
and you in my distress and abject condition, that I would not have
climbed as high as the monument to visit you?" "Sure, madam," cried
Mrs. James, "I mistake you, or you have greatly mistaken me. Can you
complain of my not visiting you, who have owed me a visit almost these
three weeks? Nay, did I not even then send you a card, which sure was
doing more than all the friendship and good-breeding in the world
required; but, indeed, as I had met you in no public place, I really
thought you was ill."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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