VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

owever 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 Miss Steeles 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 blameable, highly blameable, 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

regaintranquillity; 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 every thing 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 entrusted 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 as 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 involuntaryagitation, 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 Miss

Steeles. 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 frightfulsolitude 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 Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it

must hurt your eyes to work fillagree 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 fillagree 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 fillagree basket for

a spoilt child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino 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 pianoforté; 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

pianoforté 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

Annamaria 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 pianoforté at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own

music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any

body 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.
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