CHAPTER XXXII.
When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not
entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to
distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most
steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark,
attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears
that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor
that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she
saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel
Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking,
with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less
violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind
did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the
loss of Willoughby’s character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of
his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that
poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on
herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring
herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her
sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been
communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor’s letter would be only to give a repetition of what her
daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful
than Marianne’s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor’s. Long letters
from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered
and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she
would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the
nature of Marianne’s affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she
could wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that
time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing
back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly
placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She
recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten
their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed,
had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of
occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at
Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat
Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some
amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.
From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance
must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design
could never bring them in each other’s way: negligence could never leave
them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of
London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him
before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs.
Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself
to expect as a certain one.
She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they
were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to
be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they
should sometimes see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother’s opinion, and she
submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly
different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be
entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her
longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible
alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and
doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever
knowing a moment’s rest.
But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to
herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand,
suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely,
comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore
militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an
immediate return into Devonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby’s
name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing
it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John,
nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished
that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was
impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of
them all.
Sir John, could not have thought it possible. “A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did
not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable
business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak
another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if
it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for
two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It
was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly’s
puppies! and this was the end of it!”
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. “She was determined to drop
his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never
been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe
Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great
deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never
to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how
good-for-nothing he was.”
The rest of Mrs. Palmer’s sympathy was shown in procuring all the
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating
them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new carriage
was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was drawn, and at
what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
happy relief to Elinor’s spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of
exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends: a
great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without
feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister’s health.
Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down
by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to
comfort than good-nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, “It is very shocking,
indeed!” and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able
not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest
emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the
matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken
her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at
liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore
determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs.
Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her
card with her as soon as she married.
Colonel Brandon’s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never
unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of
intimate discussion of her sister’s disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past
sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which
Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice
whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige
herself to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion had produced
an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave Elinor hopes of its
being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of
all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that
she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission
her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead
of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end
of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the
honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be
made over to her; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at
all of Mrs. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby’s
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was
married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as
soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that
Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers,
which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and
for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she
first learnt to expect the event.
The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail
on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go
out again by degrees as she had done before.
About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin’s
house in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before
their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were
welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain,
and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her still in town.
“I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here still,”
said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. “But I always
thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile;
though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a
month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your
mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to
have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure
you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to
your word.”
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-
command to make it appear that she did not.
“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Jennings, “and how did you travel?”
“Not in the stage, I assure you,” replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; “we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend
us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we’d join him in a
post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings
more than we did.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a
single man, I warrant you.”
“There now,” said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, “everybody laughs
at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are
sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about
him from one hour’s end to another. ‘Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,’
my cousin said t’other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the
house. My beau, indeed! said I—I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor
is no beau of mine.”
“Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking—but it won’t do—the Doctor is the
man, I see.”
“No, indeed!” replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, “and I beg
you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.”
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly
would not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
“I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town,” said Lucy, returning, after a cessation
of hostile hints, to the charge.
“No, I do not think we shall.”
“Oh, yes, I dare say you will.”
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
“What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
so long a time together!”
“Long a time, indeed!” interposed Mrs. Jennings. “Why, their visit is but
just begun!”
Lucy was silenced.
“I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,” said Miss Steele.
“I am sorry she is not well—” for Marianne had left the room on their
arrival.
“You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure
of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous
head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.”
“Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me!—I
think she might see us; and I am sure we would not speak a word.”
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps
laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to
come to them.
“Oh, if that’s all,” cried Miss Steele, “we can just as well go and see her.”
Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she
was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy’s sharp reprimand, which
now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the
manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.
