 Chapter 23 However small Eleanor'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, Eleanor 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 misteels 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 pityable, this 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 tranquility, 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 everything 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 Eleanor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her forever from the object of her love, and that Mary Ann was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, in whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house. The necessity of concealing from her mother and Mary Ann what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Eleanor'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 regret 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 mourning 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 Eleanor 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 Eleanor 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 Eleanor 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 Steals. Eleanor, 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 Mary Ann, 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 Eleanor 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-parlor 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 attempted. They acquitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Eleanor began to wonder at herself for ever having 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 Anna Maria'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 tomorrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it. The 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 to-morrow. 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 alacquity and cheerfulness, which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoiled child. Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of casino to the others. No one made any objection, but Mary Ann, 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 further ceremony, she turned away and walked the instrument. Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude a speech. Mary Ann can never keep long from that instrument, you know, ma'am, said Eleanor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence. 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 Eleanor, if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele enrolling her papers for her. And there is so much stool 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 Anna Maria 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 Eleanor, 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? Eleanor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Mary Ann could never condescend to practice, 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 piano forte at which Mary Ann, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that anybody 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. In a firm though cautious tone Eleanor thus began, I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no further curiosity on its subject. I will not apologise therefore for bringing it forward again. Thank you! cried Lucy warmly for breaking the ice. You have set my heart at ease by it, for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I had told you that Monday. Offended me? How could you suppose so? Believe me! and Eleanor spoke it with the truest sincerity. Nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust that was not honourable and flattering to me? And yet I do assure you, replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me, and have been quarrelling with myself ever since for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs, but I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook everything else, I am sure. Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one. You seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferris, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother. He has only two thousand pounds of his own. It would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have always been used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him. But I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect, but Edward's affection in constancy nothing can deprive me of, I know. That conviction must be everything to you, and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in yours. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four-years engagement, your situation would have been pitiable indeed. Lucy here looked up, but Eleanor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency. Edward's love for me, said Lucy, has been pretty well put to the test by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first. Eleanor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion. Lucy went on, I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at longstable than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived. All this, thought Eleanor, is very pretty, but it can impose upon neither of us. But what, said she after a short silence, are your views, or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrer's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth? If we could be certain that it would be only for a while, but Mrs. Ferrer's is a very headstrong, proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it would very likely secure everything to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures. And for your own sake, too, or are you carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason? Lucy looked at Eleanor again and was silent. Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrer's? asked Eleanor. Not at all. I never saw him, but I fancy he is very unlike his brother—silly, and a great coxcomb. A great coxcomb? repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Mary Ann's music. Oh! they are talking of their favorite bows, I dare say. No, sister, cried Lucy, you are mistaken there. Our favorite bows are not great coxcomes. I can answer for it that Miss Dashwoods is not, said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily, for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behave young men I ever saw. But as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who she likes. Oh! cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them. I dare say Lucy's bow is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwoods. Eleanor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Mary Ann was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto. I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head for bringing matters to bear. Indeed, I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession. Now, my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then, through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living, which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust a time and chance for the rest. I should always be happy, replied Eleanor, to show any mark of esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferris. But do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood—that must be recommendation enough to her husband. But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into orders. Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little. They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh. I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood? No—answered Eleanor with a smile which concealed very agitated feelings. On such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes. Indeed you wrong me! replied Lucy with great solemnity. I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly is I do of yours. And I do really believe that if you was to say to me, I advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferris. It will be more for the happiness of both of you. I should resolve upon doing it immediately. Eleanor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife and replied, This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high. The power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person. "'Tis because you are an indifferent person,' said Lucy with some peak, and laying a particular stress on those words, that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having." Eleanor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve, and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of many minutes duration succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it. "'Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?' said she, with all her accustomary complacency. Certainly not. I am sorry for that,' returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information. It would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there. But I dare say you will go for all that, to be sure your brother and sister will ask you to come with them. It will not be in my power to accept their invitation, if they do. How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the later end of January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years. But I only go for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February. Otherwise London would have no chance for me. I have not spirits for it." Eleanor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before. And Eleanor sat down to the card-table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife, but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on her side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary. From this time the subject was never revived by Eleanor, and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidant of her happiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow. For she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself. The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favor increased, they could not be spared, so John would not hear of their going, and in spite of their numerous and long-arranged engagements and exitor, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival, which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance. CHAPTER XXV Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and did as she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Mrs. Dashwood to accompany her. Eleanor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately. O Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I do beg you will favour me with your company, for I have quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three shall be able to go very well in my shays, and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it, for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you. And if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men you may depend upon it. I have an ocean, said Sir John, that Miss Marianne would not object to such a scheme if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you too to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it. Nay, cried Mrs. Jennings, I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not. Only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together, because if they got tired of me they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me, how do you think I can live poking by myself? I who have always been used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and by, why so much the better. Thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you, said Marianne with warmth. Your invitation has assured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, I feel the justice of what Eleanor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence—oh no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle. Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare them perfectly well, and Eleanor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost everything else she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no further direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however, she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote. She could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust, and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full of the importance of that object to her, as Eleanor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness. On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself how much the heart of Mary Anne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon her account, insisted on their both accepting it directly, and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all from this separation. I am delighted with the plan, she cried, it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music. You will find, Margaret, so improved when you come back again. I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you should go to town. I would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other. Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness, said Eleanor, you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed. Mary Ann's countenance sunk. And what, said Mrs. Dashwood, is my dear prudent Eleanor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear a word about the expense of it. My objection is this. Though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings' heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure or whose protection will give us consequence. That is very true, replied her mother, but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have anything at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton. If Eleanor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings, said Mary Ann, at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort. Eleanor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manner of a person to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Mary Ann to behave with tolerable politeness, and resolved within herself that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that Mary Ann should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Mary Ann for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled by recollecting that Edward Ferris, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February, and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgment, might be previously finished. I will have you both go, said Mrs. Dashwood, these objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together, and if Eleanor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources. She would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family. Eleanor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying as calmly as she could, I like Edward Ferris very much, and she'll always be glad to see him, but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me whether I am ever known to the more not. Mrs. Dashwood smiled and said nothing. Mary Ann lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Eleanor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. After very little further discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care. Nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. So John was delighted, for to a man whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two to the number of inhabitants in London was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of the way, and as for the Miss Steals, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them. Eleanor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. Mary Ann's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness, and at the moment of parting, her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Eleanor was the only one of the three who seemed to consider the separation as anything short of eternal. Their departure took place in the first week of January. The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steals kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family. Chapter 26 Eleanor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest, without wandering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with the lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before. But these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked, and Eleanor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short—a very short time, however—must now decide what Willoughby's intentions were. In all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there, and Eleanor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation, or the intelligence of others, could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention as to ascertain what he was, and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister. Should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature. She must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne. There were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complacence and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapped in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct, therefore, Eleanor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could. And Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Charlottes, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in colored silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town, to some effect. As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Eleanor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Mary Ann did the same. I am writing home, Mary Ann, said Eleanor, had not you better defer your letter for a day or two? I am not going to write to my mother," replied Mary Ann hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any further inquiry. Eleanor said no more. It immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby, and the conclusion which has instantly followed, was that however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. Mary Ann's was finished in a very few minutes. In length it could be no more than a note. It was then folded up, sealed, and directed with greater rapidity. Eleanor thought she could distinguish a large W in the direction, and no sooner was it complete, then Mary Ann, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once. Her spirits still continued very high, but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing-room seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage. It was a great satisfaction to Eleanor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea-things were brought in, and already had Mary Ann been disappointed more than once by a wrap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house. Eleanor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Mary Ann, starting up, moved towards the door. Everything was silent. This could not be borne many seconds. She opened the door, advanced a few steps toward the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation such a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce. In the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, oh Eleanor, it is Willoughby indeed it is, and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms when Colonel Brandon appeared. It was too great a shock to be born with calmness, and she immediately left the room. Eleanor was disappointed, too, but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her, and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Mary Ann as she quitted the room with such astonishment and concern as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself. Is your sister ill? said he. Eleanor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of headaches, low spirits, and over fatigues, and of everything to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour. He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their journey and the friends they had left behind. In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. Eleanor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any inquiry after his arrival. And at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last. Yes, he replied with some embarrassment, almost ever since. I have been once or twice at Delofford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to Barton. This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt. Mrs. Jennings soon came in. Oh, Colonel! said she with her usual noisy cheerfulness. I am monstrous glad to see you. Sorry I could not come before. Beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a little and settle my matters, for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for a time, and then I have had Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner. But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today? I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mrs. Palmer's, where I have been dining. Oh, you did? Well, and how do they all at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time. Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you that you will certainly see her to-morrow. I, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see—that is, you see but one of them now—but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Mary Ann, too, which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her. It is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well, I was young once, but I never was very handsome, worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah, poor man, he has been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends." He replied with his customary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. Eleanor now began to make the tea, and Mary Ann was obliged to appear again. After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed. Mary Ann rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room, so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along, so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come. Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you, said she. What do you think he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was now, but it was something so droll! After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings' side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which Mrs. Jennings and Eleanor readily consented as having likewise some purchases to make themselves, and Mary Ann, though declining it at first, was induced to go likewise. Wherever they went she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry, and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from everything actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied everywhere, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both. She received no pleasure from anything, was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by everything pretty, expensive, or new, who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision. It was late in the morning before they returned home, and no sooner had they entered the house, then Mary Ann flew eagerly upstairs, and when Eleanor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there. Has no letter been left here for me since we went out? She said to the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the negative. Are you quite sure of it? she replied. Are you certain that no servant, no porter, has left any letter or note? The man replied that none had. How very odd! said she in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window. How odd indeed! repeated Eleanor within herself regarding her sister with uneasiness. If she had not known him to be in town, she would not have written to him as she did. She would have written to Coom Magna. And if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write. Oh, my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner. I long to inquire, and how will my interference be borne? She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious inquiry into the affair. Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings' intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements, and Eleanor was obliged to assist in making a whist-table for the others. Maryam was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game, but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to Eleanor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavored for a few minutes to read, but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. If this open weather holds much longer, said Mrs. Jennings when they met at breakfast the following morning, Sir John will not like leaving Barton next week. It is a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure, poor souls. I always pity them when they do. They seem to take it so much to heart. That is true! cried Maryam in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke to examine the day. I had not thought of that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country. It was a lucky recollection. All her good spirits were restored by it. It is charming weather for them, indeed, she continued as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. How much they must enjoy it! But, with a little return of anxiety, it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. Another day or two, perhaps. This extreme mildness can hardly last longer. Nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night. At any rate, said Eleanor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week. I, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way. And now, silently conjected Eleanor, she will write to Coon by this day's post. But if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and as far as Eleanor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits, happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost. The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs. Jennings' acquaintance to inform them of her being in town, and Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky, and imagining an alteration in the air. Don't you find it cooler than it was in the morning, Eleanor? There seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm, even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting, too. The sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon. Eleanor was alternately diverted and pained, but Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire and every morning, in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost. The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings' style of living and set of acquaintance than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Everything in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and accepting a few old city friends, whom to Lady Middleton's regret she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, Eleanor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment for many of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day. He came to look at Marianne and talk to Eleanor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton. About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive. Good God! cried Marianne, he has been here while we were out. Eleanor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow. But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings' entrance escaped with the precious card. This event, while it raised the spirits of Eleanor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet. The expectation of seeing him every hour of the day made her unfit for anything. She insisted on being left behind the next morning when the others went out. Eleanor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Barclay Street during their absence. But a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just them brought in and laid on the table. For me! cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward. No marme for my mistress. But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up. It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings how provoking. You are expecting a letter, then, said Eleanor, unable to be longer silent. Yes, a little, not much. After a short pause, you have no confidence in me, Marianne. Nay, Eleanor, this reproach from you—you who have confidence in no one. Me! returned Eleanor in some confusion. Indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell. Nor I, answered Marianne with energy, our situations, then, are alike. We have neither of us anything to tell—you because you do not communicate, and I because I conceal nothing. Eleanor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in Marianne. Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Barkley Street. The invitation was accepted, but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings that they should both attend her on such a visit, Eleanor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby, and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence. Eleanor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode. For although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable. But in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple with two via lins and a mere sideboard collation. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party, from the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Mary Ann gave one glance round the apartment as she entered. It was enough. He was not there, and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of the arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come. I thought you were both in Devonshire, said he. Did you? replied Eleanor. When do you go back again? I do not know. And thus ended their discourse. Never had Mary Ann been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of it as they returned to Barkley Street. I, I, said Mrs. Jennings, we know the reason of all that very well. If a certain person who shall be nameless had been there, you would not have been a bit tired, and to say the truth, it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited. Invited? cried Mary Ann. So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street this morning. Mary Ann said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, Eleanor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of Mary Ann to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed, and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow that Mary Ann was again writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person. About the middle of the day Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on business, and Eleanor began her letter directly, while Mary Ann, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Eleanor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconsistency, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Mary Ann an account of her real situation with respect to him. Her letter was scarcely finished when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Mary Ann, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Eleanor persuaded that he had some communication to make, in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction, for more than once before, beginning with the observation of your sister looks unwell to-day, or your sister seems out of spirits, he had appeared on the point either of disclosing or of inquiring something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother. Eleanor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient of asking what he meant. He tried to smile as he replied, your sister's engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known. It cannot be generally known, returned Eleanor, for her own family do not know it. He looked surprised and said, I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent, but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of. How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned? By many, by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts. If I had not, when the servant let me in to-day, accidentally seen a letter in his hand directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister's writing, I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is everything finally settled? Is it impossible to— But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood, I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment of concealment be possible, is all that remains. These words, which conveyed to Eleanor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne's affection for Willoughby could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear. He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness, to Willoughby, that he may endeavour to deserve her, took leave, and went away. Eleanor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points. She was left on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it. CHAPTER XXVIII Nothing occurred during the next three or four days to make Eleanor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother. For Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time, to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter. And for this party, Mary Ann wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or stayed, prepared, without one look of hope, or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without one stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence. And when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started, as if she had forgotten that any one was expected. They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the Lady of the House, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spending in saying little, or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to casino, and as Mary Ann was not in spirits for moving about, she and Eleanor, luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long, before Eleanor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable-looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Mary Ann, though he could not but see her, and then continued his discourse with the same Lady. Eleanor turned involuntarily to Mary Ann to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her. Good heavens! she exclaimed. He is here, he is here! Oh, why does he not look at me? Why cannot I speak to him? Pray, pray be composed! cried Eleanor, and do not betray what you feel to everybody present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet. This, however, was more than she could believe herself, and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Mary Ann, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature. At last he turned round again and regarded them both. She started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Eleanor than Mary Ann, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Eleanor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed in a voice of the greatest emotion. God! God! Willoughby! What is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?" He could not then avoid it. But her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Eleanor watched his countenance, and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause he spoke with calmness. I did myself the honour of calling in Barkley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope. But have you not received my notes? cried Mary Ann in the wildest anxiety. Here is some mistake, I am sure, some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby, for heaven's sake tell me what is the matter?" He made no reply. His complexion changed, and all his embarrassment returned. But as if on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me. Turned hastily away with a slight bow, and joined his friend. Mary Ann, now looking dreadfully white and unable to stand, sunk into her chair. And Eleanor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water. Go to him, Eleanor. She cried as soon as she could speak, and forced him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again, must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest. I shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained. Some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment. How can that be done? Know, my dearest Mary Ann, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow. With difficulty, however, could she prevent her from following him herself, and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible. For Mary Ann continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Eleanor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Mary Ann that he was gone urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Mary Ann was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Barkley Street. Mary Ann was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears. But as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where Heartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Mary Ann, she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear. For however Mary Ann might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behavior to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak of consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formally existed she could not bring herself to doubt. As for Mary Ann, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its possible consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison. For while she could esteem Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might always be supportive. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Mary Ann in a final separation from Willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. CHAPTER XXIX Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Mary Ann, only half-dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seeds for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Eleanor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her, and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said in a tone of the most considerate gentlemaness, Mary Ann, may I ask? No, Eleanor, she replied, ask nothing, you will soon know all. The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her at intervals to withhold her pen were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Eleanor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power, and she would have tried to soothe and tranquilize her still more had not Mary Ann entreated her with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances it was better for both that they should not be long together, and the restless state of Mary Ann's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place made her wonder about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of everybody. At breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat anything, and Eleanor's attention was then all employed not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings' notice entirely to herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves after it round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Mary Ann, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Eleanor, who saw as plainly by this as if she had seen the direction that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jennings' notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Mary Ann had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Eleanor's distress she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see anything at all. And calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Mary Ann disappeared, she said, Upon my word I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life. My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough. But as for Miss Mary Ann, she is quite an altered creature. I hope from the bottom of my heart he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married? Eleanor, though nevertheless disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and therefore trying to smile replied, And have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more, and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married. For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood, how can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were overhead and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Deventure every day, and all day long? And did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do, because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses, but it is no such thing I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell everybody of it, and so do Charlotte. Indeed, ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have, though you will not believe me now. Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, whereon opening the door, she saw Mary Ann stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word, and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Mary Ann's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behavior, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands, and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its cause, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows. Bond Street, January. My dear madam, I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behavior last night that did not meet your approbation, and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire, without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere, but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair which you so obligingly bestowed on me. I am, dear madam, your most obedient, humble servant, John Willoughby. With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood may be imagined. Though aware before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconsistency, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it. Nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling, so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel—a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever—a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy. She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment, then read it again and again, but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Mary Ann still deeper by treating their disengagement not as a loss to her of any possible good, but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection for life with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important. In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably on the very different mind of a very different person who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with everything that passed, Eleanor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings' chariot which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined not to quit Mary Ann, though hopeless of contributing at present to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good humid concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Eleanor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Mary Ann, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food, for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept. And now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. A glass of wine, which Eleanor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness by saying, Poor Eleanor, how unhappy I make you. I only wish, replied her sister, there were anything I could do which might be of comfort to you. This, as everything else would have been, was too much for Mary Ann, who could only exclaim in the anguish of her heart, Oh Eleanor, I am miserable indeed, before her voice was entirely lost in sobs. Eleanor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence. Exert yourself, dear Mary Ann, she cried, if you would not kill yourself and all who love you, think of your mother, think of her misery while you suffer. For her sake you must exert yourself. I cannot, I cannot, cried Mary Ann, leave me, leave me if I distress you, leave me, hate me, forget me, but do not torture me so. Oh, how easy for those who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion. Happy, happy Eleanor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer. Do you call me happy, Mary Ann? Oh, if you knew, and can you believe me to be so while I see you so wretched? Forgive me, forgive me, throwing her arms around her sister's neck. I know you feel for me, I know what a heart you have, but yet you are—you must be happy. Edward loves you. What—oh, what can do away with such happiness as that? Many, many circumstances, said Eleanor solemnly. No, no, no, cried Mary Ann wildly. He loves you, and only you. You can have no grief. I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state. And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can do away. You must not talk so, Mary Ann. Have you no comforts, no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period, if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence on your side would have made the blow more dreadful. Engagement! cried Mary Ann. There has been no engagement. No engagement? No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith with me. But he told you that he loved you. Yes. No. Never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never was. Yet you wrote to him. Yes. Could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot talk. Eleanor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect. Barkley Street, January. How surprised you will be Willoughby on receiving this, and I think you will feel something more than surprise when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate, I shall expect you to-morrow, for the present, adieu. M.D. Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons, was in these words. I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middletons, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be one of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise. M.D. The contents of her last note to him were these. What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again, I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed. I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting. But though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed or purposely deceived in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is. Explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you. But if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision. I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be eased to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes and the lock of my hair which is in your possession. M.D. That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Eleanor for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having been written at all. And she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Mary Ann, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation. I felt myself, she added, to be as solemnly engaged to him as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us each together. I can believe it, said Eleanor, but unfortunately he did not feel the same. He did feel the same, Eleanor, for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it, I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment? Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted, too, when he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again, his distress, can I ever forget his distress? For a moment or two she could say no more. But when this emotion had passed away she added, in a firmer tone, Eleanor, I have been cruelly used, but not by Willoughby. Dearest Marianne, who but himself, by whom can he have been instigated? By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leaked together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes, whoever she be, or any one in short, but your own dear self, Mamar and Edward, may have been so barbarous to belie me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect if evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well? Eleanor would not contend, and only replied, whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence. No, no, cried Marianne, misery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Eleanor, Eleanor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like, may resist insult or return mortification, but I cannot. I must feel, I must be wretched, and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can. But for my mother's sake and mine, I would do more than for my own, but to appear happy when I am miserable, oh, who can require it? Again they were both silent. Eleanor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one or discerning objects through the other, and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter, and after shuddering over every sentence exclaimed, It is too much. Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours? Cruel, cruel, nothing can acquit you. Eleanor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his belief? Or ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? The lock of hair, repeating it from the letter, which you so obligingly bestowed on me. That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent! Eleanor, can he be justified? No, Marianne, in no possible way. And yet this woman, who knows what her art may have been? How long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her? Who is she? Who can she be? Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance? Oh, no one, no one! He talked to me only of myself. Another pause ensued. Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus. Eleanor, I must go home. I must go home and comfort Mama. Can we not be gone to-morrow? To-morrow, Marianne? Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake. And now who cares for me? Who regards me? It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility, and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that. Well, then another day or two perhaps, but I cannot stay here long. I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Parmas, how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman is Lady Middleton. Oh, what would he say to that? Eleanor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so, but no attitude could give her ease, and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use, and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless. CHAPTER XXIX Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in, with a look of real concern. How do you do, my dear? said she in a voice of great compassion to Mary Ann, who turned away her face without attempting to answer. How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing, she looks very bad. No wonder. Ah, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon. A good-for-nothing fellow. I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Gray herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it, and I was almost ready to sing as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way, and if I ever meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear, Miss Mary Ann. He is not the only young man in the world worth having, and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing, I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The parries and sandisons luckily are coming to-night, you know, and that will amuse her. She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise. Mary Ann, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Eleanor even advised her against it, but no, she would go down, she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less. Eleanor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more, and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Mary Ann still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining-room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings well meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained. But not a syllable escaped her lips, and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of everything that was passing before her. Eleanor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings' kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Mary Ann was unhappy, and felt that everything was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favorite child on the last day of its holidays. Mary Ann was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Eleanor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings' endeavors to cure a disappointment in love by a variety of sweetmeats and olives and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Mary Ann, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room. "'Poor soul,' cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, how it grieves me to see her. And I declare, if she is not gone away without finishing her wine—and the dried cherries too—Lord, nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of anything she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill. But when there is plenty of money on one side and next to none on the other, Lord bless you, they care no more about such things.' "'The lady, then—Miss Gray,' I think you called her—'Is very rich?' "'Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? A smart, stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well—Biddy Henshaw. She married a very wealthy man, but the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds, and by all accounts it won't come before it's wanted, for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder dashing about with his curicle and hunters. Well, it don't signify talking, but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Maryam would have been ready to wait till matters came round, but that won't do nowadays. Nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age." "'Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Gray is? Is she said to be amiable?' "'I never heard any harm of her. Indeed, I hardly ever heard her mentioned, except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning that one day Miss Walker hinted to her that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Gray married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." "'And who are the Ellisons? Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself, and a pretty choice she has made. What now, after pausing a moment, your poor sister has gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by and by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates wist, I know, but is there no round game she cares for?' "'Dear Mum, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Maryam I dare say will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her, if I can, to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest. I, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper and go to bed. Lord, no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter, I suppose, has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came to day finished it. Poor soul, I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then, you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and, you know, young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord, how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it. If I had my senses about me, I might have called in Conduit Street and my way home and told them of it. But I shall see them to-morrow. It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby or making the slightest allusion to what has passed before my sister. Their own want of good nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know anything about it when she is present. And the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you, my dear madam, will easily believe. Oh, Lord, yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of, and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate, especially if I give them a hint as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things the better, the sooner it is blown over and forgot. And what does talking ever do, you know? In this affair it can only do harm, more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby. He has broken no positive engagement with my sister. Lord, my dear, don't pretend to defend him—no positive engagement, indeed, after taking her all over Allanham House and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter. Eleanor for her sister's sake could not press the subject further, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's, since though Mary Ann might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again. Well, my dear, it is a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last. Aye, he will. Mind me now, if they aren't married by mid-summer. Lord, how he'll chuckle over this news. I hope he will come to-night. It will be all to one a better mat for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback, except the little love-child, indeed. Aye, I had forgot her, but she may be prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delofford is a nice place, I can tell you, exactly what I call a nice old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences, quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit trees in the country, and such a mulberry tree in one corner. Lord, how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there. Then there is a dove-cot, some delightful stupons, and a very pretty canal, and everything in short that one could wish for. And, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so it is never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old U-arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh, it is a nice place. A butcher hard-buy in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my fancy a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down, if we can, but put Willoughby out of her head. Aye, if we can do that, ma'am, said Eleanor, we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon. And then, rising, she went away to join Mary Ann, whom she found as she expected, in her own room, leaning in silent misery over the small remains of a fire, which, till Eleanor's entrance, had been her only light. You had better leave me, was all the notice that her sister received from her. I will leave you, said Eleanor, if you will go to bed. But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering she had first refused to do. Her sisters earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Eleanor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her. In the drawing-room, with her she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass full of something in her hand. My dear, said she entering, I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old constancy of wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband, how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than anything else in the world. Do take it to your sister. Dear mom, replied Eleanor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended. How good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and I hope almost asleep. And as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself. Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise, and Eleanor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected that though its effects on a colicky gout were at present of little importance to her, its healing powers on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Eleanor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought, for soon after his entrance she walked across the room to the tea-table where Eleanor presided and whispered, The Colonel looks as grave as ever, you see. He knows nothing of it. Do tell him, my dear. He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information inquired after his sister. Marianne is not well, said she. She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed. Perhaps, then, he hesitatingly replied, what I heard this morning may be—there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first. What did you hear? That a gentleman whom I had reason to think—in short, that a man whom I knew to be engaged—but how shall I tell you? If you know it already assuredly you must, I may be spared. You mean—answered Eleanor, with forced calmness—Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Gray. Yes, we do know it all. This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable. Where did you hear it? In a stationer's shop in Palmao, where I had business, two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match. In a voice so little attempting concealment that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention, and what followed was a positive assertion that everything was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Gray. It was no longer to be a secret. It would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing especially I remember, because it served to identify the man still more. As soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Coombe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment! But it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learned on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Gray's guardian. It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Gray has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in anything, we may find an explanation. It may be so, but Willoughby is capable. At least, I think— He stopped for a moment, then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself. And your sister, how did she—her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. It has been—it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard, and even now, perhaps. But I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very deceitful, and in some points there seems a hardness of heart about him. Ah! said Colonel Brandon, there is indeed. But your sister does not—I think you said so—she does not consider quite as you do. You know her disposition, and you may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could. He made no answer, and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things and the arrangement of the card-parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.