But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she,
for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she
forced herself, after a moment's recollection,
to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy,
and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still
improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy,
nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself,
to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him,
and that she had very much regretted being from home,
when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would
not be frightened from paying him those attentions which,
as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the
observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them
to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he
had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still
exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case
rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare;
for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor
could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined
to make no contribution to the comfort of the others,
and would not say a word; and almost every thing that WAS
said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer
all the information about her mother's health, their coming
to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon
afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as
to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne,
to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it,
and THAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away
several minutes on the landing-place, with the most
high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister.
When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures
of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into
the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him
was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself,
and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would
be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.
"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great
happiness!--This would almost make amends for every thing?"
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved,
but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he
really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment
or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the
most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes
at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each
other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence.
Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice
Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her
not finding London agree with her.
"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited
earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears
as she spoke, "don't think of MY health. Elinor is well,
you see. That must be enough for us both."
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or
Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy,
who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.
"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say
any thing that might introduce another subject.
"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it,
but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the
only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you
are what you always were!"
She paused--no one spoke.
"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must
employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton.
In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust,
Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge."
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was,
nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw
his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever
cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,
and soon talked of something else.
"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street
yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull!--But I have much
to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now."
And with this admirable discretion did she defer
the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more
disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly
disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you
"I was engaged elsewhere."
"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends
were to be met?"
"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take
some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand
upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them,
little as well as great."
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely
insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,
"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very
sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street.
And I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience
in the world; the most scrupulous in performing
every engagement, however minute, and however it
may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the
most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation,
and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body
I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it.
What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you
must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept
of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation."
The nature of her commendation, in the present case,
however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the
feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very
unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward,
this must not be."
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered
her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer.
But even this encouragement failed, for he would go;
and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne,
on her leaving them. "Could not she see that we wanted
her gone!--how teazing to Edward!"
"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been
the longest known to him of any. It is but natural
that he should like to see her as well as ourselves."
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know,
Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear.
If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted,
as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect
that I am the last person in the world to do it.
I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are
not really wanted."
She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow
her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise
of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that
would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences
of her still continuing in an error might be, she was
obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was
that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the
distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the
repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended
their recent meeting--and this she had every reason to expect.
Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers
announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer,
Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very
interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all
those intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness,
produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time,
and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements
of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much
as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning
as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late
in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular
request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day,
in every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort
they would much rather have remained, at least all
the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not
a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody.
Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton
and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact
was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions
to the former; and by the latter they were considered with
a jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing
the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing
could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to
Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.
Because they neither flattered herself nor her children,
she could not believe them good-natured; and because they
were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps
without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical;
but THAT did not signify. It was censure in common use,
and easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy.
It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other.
Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them,
and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of
and administer at other times, she feared they would despise
her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed
of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power
to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them
only have given her a full and minute account of the whole
affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would
have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice
of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their
arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted;
for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her
sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection
on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect
was produced, but a look of indifference from the former,
or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter
might have made her their friend. Would they only have
laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were they,
anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her,
that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole
day without hearing any other raillery on the subject,
than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.