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CHAPTER XIII
linor’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 curtsey,
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
shewed 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.
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