CHAPTER 23

     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.