CHAPTER XXIII.
However 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 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 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 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 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 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 Annamaria’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 tomorrow, 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 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 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 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 pianoforte 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.
