I stopped, for I could not say more without telling her the whole, and indeed, I had already said too much, for I saw from her expression of sympathy that she had guessed something of my past.
Not wanting to betray myself any further, I asked her if she was ready to dance again, and learning that she was, I led her out on to the floor, where I was silent and grave, lost in my thoughts, only rousing myself when the dance was over, and even then, only so far as necessary in order to retire to the card room.
Saturday 22 October
I now know why Miss Dashwood offered me such ready sympathy yesterday, for it seems that she has troubles of her own. As we sat talking this evening, it appeared that she had left someone behind at Norland. It came out when Mrs Jennings, teasing Margaret, said, ‘You must tell us the name of the young man who was Elinor’s particular favourite at home.’
Margaret, too young to dissemble, turned to her sister and said, ‘I must not tell, may I, Elinor? ’
This of course made everybody laugh, and Miss Dashwood tried to laugh, too, but I could tell it cost her an effort. I was about to distract Mrs Jennings when Marianne turned red and, in an effort to defend her sister, turned to Margaret and said, ‘Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them.’
‘I never had any conjectures about it,’ replied Miss Margaret; ‘it was you who told me of it yourself.’
Sir John and Mrs Jennings laughed heartily, 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 Miss Marianne, with great warmth, ‘you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence.’
‘Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F,’ said Margaret tartly.
I was about to speak when Mary, who disliked the vulgarity of such raillery, said that it rained very hard. I immediately joined in with a comment on the weather, so that the conversation could not return to its painful subject; painful for Miss Dashwood if no one else. I wondered about her young man, and I hoped her love would prosper. And then I thought how beautiful Miss Marianne had looked when she had sprung to her sister’s defence.
Miss Marianne subsided, going over to the card-table, where she made a four with Willoughby, Sir John and Mrs Jennings. Willoughby cheated himself to help her, and I found myself thinking that, although for the time being she found such chivalry charming, there would come a time when it would not be enough to hold her attention.
Monday 24 October
Sir John, always in need of diversion, asked me today if we could get up a party to go and see my brother-in-law’s place at Whitwell.
‘If you wish it, yes,’ I said.
‘Capital! This is a treat,’ he said to Mrs Dashwood. ‘Bran don’s brother-in-law is abroad and allows no one to see the house when he is out of the country as a general rule, but he allows Brandon to take friends there.’
‘The grounds are very beautiful,’ said Mary.
‘Indeed they are, and I am a good judge, ma’am, for I have taken parties there twice every summer these past ten years. There’s a lake for sailing — you will enjoy that, eh, Miss Marianne? ’ he asked, turning towards her, and I saw her smile. ‘We will take some cold provisions and ride in open carriages so you ladies can enjoy the view, as long as the weather is fine.’
‘I am doubtful of that,’ said Mrs Dashwood, ‘since it has rained every day for the last fortnight.’
‘All the more reason for it to stop tomorrow,’ said Sir John. ‘There cannot be any more rain up there!’
Mrs Jennings laughed heartily.
‘I am sure it will be fine,’ said Miss Marianne, much taken with the idea. ‘An outing to a great house is, above all things, the one I would enjoy the most.’
‘And I,’ said Willoughby.
‘How good are the roads?’ asked Mrs Dashwood.
‘Very good indeed. It will not take us above an hour and a half to get there, or two, if we admire the views along the way.’
‘I will bring my curricle,’ said Willoughby. He turned to Miss Marianne. ‘I hope you will do me the honour of travelling with me? ’
‘Oh, yes!’ she said.
‘You will come in my carriage, I hope,’ said Sir John to Mrs Dashwood.
‘I am not sure I will be able to join you, for I fear I have a cold coming on,’ she said.
I noticed that she looked pale, and that she held her shawl closely about herself.
Miss Marianne looked dismayed and Miss Dashwood looked concerned.
‘You should stay at home, Mama,’ she said. ‘An outing in this cold weather will do you no good.’
‘I am probably making a fuss about nothing,’ she said. ‘I am sure I will be better by morning.’
‘You must take care of yourself. No need to fear for the young ladies, they will be safe with us,’ said Sir John.
‘Indeed, I think you had better not go, Mama,’ said Miss Dashwood.
‘I will see how I feel tomorrow. But I would not spoil your pleasure, my dears. You will like to see the house, and then you will be able to tell me all about it when you return. Sir John will see that you come to no harm.’
‘No, indeed, ma’am.’
It was settled, then, that we should all assemble at the Park at ten o’clock, where we would have breakfast together before setting out.
Tuesday 25 October
The night was wild, with heavy rain, but it stopped by eight o’clock, and by ten o’clock, when we were all gathered together, the morning was favourable. The clouds were dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared.
‘You see, I told you it would be fine,’ said Miss Marianne, as we sat down to breakfast.
We were just about to eat when the letters were brought in. I took mine without any real interest, for I was looking forward to the outing, but as soon as I saw the handwriting on the second letter, all thoughts of the outing were driven from my mind, for it was from Eliza! I stood up and immediately left the room, for I knew that I would be unable to disguise my feelings when I read it.
I retired to my chamber where I opened it and scanned it quickly, seeing that it had been written in great agitation.
I have no right to appeal to you, I thought it would be settled by now, I thought we would be married, he said we had only to wait until she died, it could not be more than a few weeks, and then we would be happy. He said she had had a turn for the worse, he said he had to leave but that he would come back for me. He left no address, I asked for none, thinking he would only be gone a short while, but it is months — months! — and my time is near. Help me, please! Oh! I do not deserve it, but I don’t know what to do.
I felt a rush of relief as I read it, for she was alive! But it was mingled with anger at her seducer — for I could no longer doubt what had happened — and sorrow that she had been used so ill, and compassion for her distress. And over it all I felt guilt that I had not looked after her better.
I made my plans quickly. Her address was on the letter. I packed and returned to the dining room.
‘No bad news, Colonel, I hope,’ said Mrs Jennings, as soon as I entered the room.