Bab Bab 35 · Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in

. Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. She had found in

her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between

the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her

meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend

all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and

retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise

free; and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her _own_ sake,

that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other

of Mrs. Ferrars’s creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her

caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she

did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s being fettered to

Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she _ought_ to

have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much elevated by the

civility of Mrs. Ferrars;—that her interest and her vanity should so

very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her

because she was _not Elinor_, appear a compliment to herself—or to

allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her,

because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not

only been declared by Lucy’s eyes at the time, but was declared over

again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady

Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing

Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon

after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

“My dear friend,” cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, “I

come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as

Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as

she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the

very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her

behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to

me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck

with it?”

“She was certainly very civil to you.”

“Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility?—I saw a vast deal more.

Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!—No pride, no

hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweetness and affability!”

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to

own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go

on.

“Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,” said she, “nothing

could be more flattering than their treatment of you;—but as that was

not the case—”

“I guessed you would say so,”—replied Lucy quickly—“but there was no

reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did

not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan’t talk me out of my

satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no

difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a

charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,

indeed!—I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.

Dashwood was!”

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

“Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don’t speak;—sure you

an’t well.”

“I never was in better health.”

“I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I

should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest

comfort to me in the world!—Heaven knows what I should have done

without your friendship.”

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.

But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

“Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to

Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now

there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty

often, for Lady Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall

be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his

time with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will

visit now;—and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say

more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such

charming women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of

her, you cannot speak too high.”

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she

_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.

“I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took

a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for

instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of

me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I

had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it

all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she _does_

dislike, I know it is most violent.”

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by

the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and

Edward’s immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that

it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to

have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to

advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest

form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen

on them.—They were not only all three together, but were together

without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves

first. It was not Lucy’s business to put herself forward, and the

appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only

_look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her

own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment’s

recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost

easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still

improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the

consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from

saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much

regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street.

She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as

a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of

Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough

to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in

a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might

make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor

could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no

contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;

and almost every thing that _was_ said, proceeded from Elinor, who was

obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother’s health,

their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,

but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself

so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching

Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and

_that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes

on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she

went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for

the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne’s joy hurried her into

the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every

other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met

him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the

affection of a sister.

“Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of great happiness!—This

would almost make amends for every thing!”

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such

witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat

down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was

looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and

sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other

should be checked by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to

speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s altered looks, and express his

fear of her not finding London agree with her.

“Oh, don’t think of me!” she replied with spirited earnestness, though

her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, “don’t think of _my_

health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.”

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor

to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no

very benignant expression.

“Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing that might

introduce another subject.

“Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The

sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank

Heaven! you are what you always were!”

She paused—no one spoke.

“I think, Elinor,” she presently added, “we must employ Edward to take

care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we

shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to

accept the charge.”

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even

himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it

to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and

soon talked of something else.

“We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so

wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which

cannot be said now.”

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her

finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her

being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in

private.

“But why were you not there, Edward?—Why did you not come?”

“I was engaged elsewhere.”

“Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?”

“Perhaps, Miss Marianne,” cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on

her, “you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no

mind to keep them, little as well as great.”

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the

sting; for she calmly replied,

“Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that

conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he

_has_ the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in

performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make

against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving

pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish,

of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are

you never to hear yourself praised!—Then you must be no friend of mine;

for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open

commendation.”

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened

to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her

auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon

got up to go away.

“Going so soon!” said Marianne; “my dear Edward, this must not be.”

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy

could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he

would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted

two hours, soon afterwards went away.

“What can bring her here so often?” said Marianne, on her leaving them.

“Could not she see that we wanted her gone!—how teazing to Edward!”

“Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known

to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well

as ourselves.”

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, “You know, Elinor, that this

is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your

assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to

recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot

descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.”

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,

for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give

no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the

consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was

obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would

not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne’s

mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain

that had attended their recent meeting—and this she had every reason to

expect.