Sense and Sensibility
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.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
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 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, any more 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.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John’s, sometimes at
her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte’s well
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex,
of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at
different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and
every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his
father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like
every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to
acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the
world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in—a circumstance in itself not
apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of
other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one’s happiness
must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood’s sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small
musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs.
John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what
was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing
to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not
expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing
them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for
when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be
wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from
them.
Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically
for every evening’s engagement, though without expecting the smallest
amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last
moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of
their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_
minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and
asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part
of Marianne’s dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns
altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing
cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.
The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
sure of being told that upon “her word she looked vastly smart, and she
dared to say she would make a great many conquests.”
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother’s carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of
her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
England.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases
at Gray’s. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and
speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out
his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his
brother’s bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she
wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
the emptiness and conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
the modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert
explained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour’s
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.