“But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair.”
“Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of HIS.”
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“But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne’s. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book.”
For such particulars, stated on such authority,
Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret’s sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor’s particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying,
“I must not tell, may I, Elinor?”
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful.
She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret,
“Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them.”
“I never had any conjectures about it,” replied Margaret;
“it was you who told me of it yourself.”
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.
“Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,”
said Mrs. Jennings. “What is the gentleman’s name?”
“I must not tell, ma’am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too.”
“Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say.”
“No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all.”
“Margaret,” said Marianne with great warmth,
“you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence.”
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“Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F.”
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton
for observing, at this moment, “that it rained very hard,”
though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship’s great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them.
Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.
But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head.
The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning’s amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.