บทที่ บทที่ 23 · However small Elinor’s general dependence on Lucy’s veracity might be,

. 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.