Bab Bab 32 · When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss

. 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.