CHAPTER XXII.
Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from
herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her
spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances;
and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which
checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally
attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the
manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of
engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance
by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and
as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but
her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and
illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of
information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from
Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage.
Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might
have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling,
the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her
attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could
have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined
insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their
meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward
others made every show of attention and deference towards herself
perfectly valueless.
“You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,” said Lucy to her one
day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage—“but pray,
are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law’s mother, Mrs.
Ferrars?”
Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
“Indeed!” replied Lucy; “I wonder at that, for I thought you must have
seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort
of a woman she is?”
“No,” returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward’s
mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity; “I know nothing of her.”
“I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way,” said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; “but perhaps there
may be reasons—I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do
me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent.”
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying,
with some hesitation,
“I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I
would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I
should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be very
glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I
am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not
happen to know Mrs. Ferrars.”
“I am sorry I do not,” said Elinor, in great astonishment, “if it could be of
any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood
that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little
surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character.”
“I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I
dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is
certainly nothing to me at present—but the time may come—how soon it
will come must depend upon herself—when we may be very intimately
connected.”
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side
glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
“Good heavens!” cried Elinor, “what do you mean? Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?” And she did not feel much delighted
with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
“No,” replied Lucy, “not to Mr. Robert Ferrars—I never saw him in my
life; but,” fixing her eyes upon Elinor, “to his eldest brother.”
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion
attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine
the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion
varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical
fit, or a swoon.
“You may well be surprised,” continued Lucy; “for to be sure you could
have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest
hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a
great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour.
Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have
mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world
upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many
questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be
explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows
I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world
of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods
quite as his own sisters.”—She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she
heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak,
and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably
well concealed her surprise and solicitude—“May I ask if your engagement
is of long standing?”
“We have been engaged these four years.”
“Four years!”
“Yes.”
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
“I did not know,” said she, “that you were even acquainted till the other
day.”
“Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my
uncle’s care, you know, a considerable while.”
“Your uncle!”
“Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?”
“I think I have,” replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
increased with her increase of emotion.
“He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was
often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed,
though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost
always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may
imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was
too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been.
Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must
have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a
woman sincerely attached to him.”
“Certainly,” answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a
moment’s reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward’s honour
and love, and her companion’s falsehood—“Engaged to Mr. Edward
Ferrars!—I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that
really—I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person
or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars.”
“We can mean no other,” cried Lucy, smiling. “Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law,
Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not
likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness
depends.”
“It is strange,” replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, “that I should
never have heard him even mention your name.”
“No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been
to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and,
therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you;
and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister’s suspecting any thing,
that was reason enough for his not mentioning it.”
She was silent.—Elinor’s security sunk; but her self-command did not
sink with it.
“Four years you have been engaged,” said she with a firm voice.
“Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
Edward! It puts him quite out of heart.” Then taking a small miniature from
her pocket, she added, “To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as
to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you
cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.—I have had it above
these three years.”
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting,
whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of
detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none
of its being Edward’s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging
the likeness.
“I have never been able,” continued Lucy, “to give him my picture in
return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious
to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity.”
“You are quite in the right,” replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a
few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
“I am sure,” said she, “I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully
keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us,
not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare
say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman.”
“I certainly did not seek your confidence,” said Elinor; “but you do me
no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is
safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a
communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it
could not add to its safety.”
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of
what she had been saying; but Lucy’s countenance suffered no change.
“I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,” said
she, “in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure,
personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description
a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old
acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation
was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward’s
mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I
can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment
at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in
constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her
tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in
the world t’other day, when Edward’s name was mentioned by Sir John, lest
she should out with it all. You can’t think how much I go through in my
mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have
suffered for Edward’s sake these last four years. Every thing in such
suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we can hardly meet
above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke.”
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.
“Sometimes.” continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, “I think whether it
would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.” As she said
this, she looked directly at her companion. “But then at other times I have
not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so
miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my
own account too—so dear as he is to me—I don’t think I could be equal to
it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What
would you do yourself?”
“Pardon me,” replied Elinor, startled by the question; “but I can give you
no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you.”
“To be sure,” continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides,
“his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so
cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was
at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you,
that I was afraid you would think him quite ill.”
“Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited us?”
“Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came
directly from town?”
“No,” replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance
in favour of Lucy’s veracity; “I remember he told us, that he had been
staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.” She remembered too,
her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those
friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
“Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?” repeated Lucy.
“We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.”
“I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a
fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid
it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard
from him just before I left Exeter;” taking a letter from her pocket and
carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. “You know his hand, I dare say,
—a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. He was tired,
I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.”
Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally
obtained; it might not have been Edward’s gift; but a correspondence
between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement,
could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost
overcome—her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but
exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely
against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for
the time complete.
“Writing to each other,” said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, “is
the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other
comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but my
picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring
when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said,
but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw
him?”
“I did,” said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few
minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at
liberty to think and be wretched.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME
