You can’t think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward’s sake these last four years.
Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom–we can hardly meet above twice a-year.
I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke.”
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.
“Sometimes.” continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes,
“I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely.” As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. “But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.–
I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do.
And on my own account too–so dear as he is to me–I don’t think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?”
“Pardon me,” replied Elinor, startled by the question;
“but I can give you no advice under such circumstances.
Your own judgment must direct you.”
“To be sure,” continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, “his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it!
Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill.”
“Did he come from your uncle’s, then, when he visited us?”
SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
93
“Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us.
Did you think he came directly from town?”
“No,” replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy’s veracity;
“I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.”
She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
“Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?”
repeated Lucy.
“We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.”
“I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.–
Poor fellow!–I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;” taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor.
“You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual.–He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible.”
Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward’s gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome–her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
“Writing to each other,” said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, “is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even THAT.
If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy.
I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?”
“I did,” said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.