The Annotated Sense and Sensibility

by Jane Austen

  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.22 She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

  Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him,23 and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful.24 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.25 And even Sir John’s joking intelligence26 must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence27 was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy’s superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival’s intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.

  But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation.28 Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton’s head, and therefore very little leisure was ever given for general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.29 They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences,30 or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

  One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter,31 and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer32 opening for the point she had in view, in such a party33 as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother’s permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

  The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression,34 and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy’s attention to attempt it.35 They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things.36 The card-table was then placed,37 and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game.38

  A teapot.

  [From MacIver Percival, Old English Furniture and Its Surroundings (New York, 1920), p. 177]

  [List of Illustrations]

  “I am glad,” said Lady Middleton to Lucy, “you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria’s basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work fillagree39 by candlelight.40 And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it.”41

  This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, “Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me,42 or I should have been at my fillagree 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.”43

  “You are very good, I hope it won’t hurt your eyes—will you ring the bell44 for some working candles?45 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 alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer46 that she could taste no greater delight than in making a fillagree basket for a spoilt child.47

  A cup and saucer.

  [From MacIver Percival, Old English Furniture and Its Surroundings (New York, 1920), Plate XIV, no. 4]

  [List of Illustrations]

  Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino48 to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who, with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, “Your ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me—you know I detest cards.49 I shall go to the piano-forté; I have not touched it since it was tuned.50 And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

  Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude a speech.

  “Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma’am,” said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; “and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forté I ever heard.”51

  The remaining five were now to draw their cards.52

  “Perhaps,” continued Elinor, “if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her;53 and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it.”

  “Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help,” cried Lucy, “for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all.”

  “Oh! that would be terrible indeed,” said Miss Steele—“Dear little soul, how I do love her!”

  “You are very kind,” said Lady Middleton to Elinor: “and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in54 till another rubber,55 or will you take your chance56 now?”

  Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address,57 which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and
the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and with the utmost harmony engaged in forwarding the same work.58 The piano-forté, at which Marianne, wrapt up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged, she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.

  A contemporary card table.

  [From K. Warren Clouston, The Chippendale Period in English Furniture (New York, 1897), p. 152]

  [List of Illustrations]

  Chapter Two

  In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

  “I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.”1

  “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 told you that Monday.”

  “Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,” and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, “nothing could be farther from my intention, than to give you such an idea.2 Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?”3

  “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 do not really blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart by speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing 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. Ferrars,4 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.5 I have been always 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.6 We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect;7 but Edward’s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know.”

  “That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your’s. 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.”8

  Lucy here looked up; but Elinor 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.”9

  Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.10

  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 world11 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 Longstaple than he used to be.12 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 Elinor, “is very pretty; but it can impose upon13 neither of us.”

  “But what,” said she after a short silence,14 “are your views?15 or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars’ 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 suspense16 in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning17 the truth?”

  “If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert,18 and the idea of that, for Edward’s sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures.”

  “And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason.”

  Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.19

  “Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?” asked Elinor.

  “Not at all—I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother—silly and a great coxcomb.”20

  “A great coxcomb!” repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne’s music.—“Oh! they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say.”

  “No, sister,” cried Lucy, “you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are not great coxcombs.”

  “I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood’s is not,” said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; “for he is one of the modestest, prettiest21 behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly22 little creature, there is no finding out who she likes.”

  “Oh!” cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, “I dare say Lucy’s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood’s.”

  Elinor 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 Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto23—

  “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.24 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 orders25 as soon as he can, and then through your interest,26 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;27 which I understand is a very good one,28 and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while.29 That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest.”

  “I should be always happy,” replied Elinor, “to shew any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars;30 but do not you 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.31 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 Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings,32 �
��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 as 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 Ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,’ I should resolve upon doing it immediately.”

  Elinor 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.”33

  “ ’Tis because you are an indifferent person,” said Lucy, with some pique, 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 biassed in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having.”34

  Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease35 and unreserve;36 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 accustomary37 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 to 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 latter 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.38 He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it.”