Hwever small Elinor's general
dependence on Lucy's
veracity might
be, it was impossible for her, on serious reflection, to suspect it in
the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the
folly
of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted
to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not, longer doubt;
supported as it was, too, on every side by such probabilities and
proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their
opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation
for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit
near
Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his
dissatisfaction at
his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the
intimate knowledge of the Misses Steele as to Norland and their family
connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter,
the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence as overcame
every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact,
which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her
resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its
dupe,
for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas,
other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally
deceiving her? Had he
feigned a regard for her which he did not
feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No;
whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at
present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in
that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard
for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He
certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion!
How much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable,
highly
blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her
influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could
not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he
injured himself; if her case were
pitiable, his was hopeless. His
imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have
deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in
time regain tranquillity; but he, what had he to look forward to?
Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele? Could he, were
his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his
delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her-
illiterate,
artful, and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him
to everything but her beauty and good nature; but the four
succeeding years- years which, if rationally spent, give such
improvement to the understanding- must have opened his eyes to her
defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side
in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed
her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting
character to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his
difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were
they now likely to be when the object of his engagement was
undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in
fortune to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so
alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience;
but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation
of family opposition and unkindness could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she
wept for him more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of
having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled
by the belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem,
she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy
blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth
from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her
own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner, only two
hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest
hopes, no one would have supposed, from the appearance of the sisters,
that Elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide
her for ever from the object of her love, and that Marianne was
internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole
heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in
every carriage which drove near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne what
had been intrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her
to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the
contrary, it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of
what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from
hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from
the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was
more than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could
receive no assistance; their tenderness and sorrow must add to her
distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement
from their example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone;
and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was
unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as, with
regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy
on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this
for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of
their engagement repeated again; she wanted more clearly to understand
what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity
in her declaration of tender regard for him; and she particularly
wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter
again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise
interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her
involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at
least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared
very probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in
her praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing
to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance with a secret so
confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking
intelligence must have had some weight. But, indeed, while Elinor
remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by
Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it
natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very
confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the
affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of
Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in
future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her
rival's intentions; and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as
every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own
affection for Edward, and to see him as little as possible, she
could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy
that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more
painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not
mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of
particulars with composure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could
be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take
advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine
enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most
easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at
least every other evening either at the Park or cottage, and chiefly
at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of
conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady
Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for
a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for
the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,
or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without
affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John
called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity,
that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was
obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite
alone, except her mother and the two Misses Steele. Elinor, who
foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a
party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under
the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton, than when
her husband united them together in one noisy purpose immediately
accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was
equally compliant; and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any
of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to
have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved
from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity
of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced
not one novelty of thought or expression; and nothing could be less
interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining
parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied
them; and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the
impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted
it only with the removal of the tea things. The card-table was then
placed; and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever
entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the Park.
They all rose up in preparation for a round game.
"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to
finish poor little Anna-Maria's basket this evening; for I am sure
it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will
make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment
to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it."
This hint was enough; Lucy recollected herself instantly, and
replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only
waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I
should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the
little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table
now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper."
"You are very good,- I hope it won't hurt your eyes:- will you
ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be
sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished
to-morrow; for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she
depends upon having it done."
Lucy directly drew her work-table near her, and reseated herself
with an alacrity and cheerfulness, which seemed to infer, that she
could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for
a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Cassino to the others. No
one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to
the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the
goodness to excuse me- you know I detest cards. I shall go to the
piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And, without
farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven that she had
never made so rude a speech.
"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument, you know,
ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I
do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte
I ever heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may
be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be
impossible, I think, for her labour, singly, to finish it this
evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a
share in it."
"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,"
cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I
thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear
Anna-Maria after all."
"Oh, that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear
little soul, how I do love her!"
"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you
really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut
in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and
thus, by a little of that address which Marianne could never
condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton
at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention; and the
two fair rivals were thus seated, side by side, at the same table,
and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The
piano-forte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own
thoughts, had by this time forgotten that anybody was in the room
besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now
judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the
interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
Sense and Sensibility - Chapter 22 Sense and Sensibility Sense and Sensibility - Chapter 24