"His regard for her, infinitely surpa.s.sing anything that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant- whichever we are to call it-has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! And without selfishness! Without encouraging a hope! The beauty of his heart, I aver, is in inverse proportion to the unbeauty of his face! No one can be deceived in him him."

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established."

"I know it is," replied her mother seriously. "His coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, willing even to wear a little saddle upon his back so I could ride more comfortably as he swam, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."

"What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh! My love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend-not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I did did say, for at first I was quite overcome-that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything. Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it." say, for at first I was quite overcome-that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything. Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it."

"To judge from the colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine."

"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition-and of course, there is the matter of the squishy-well, you know. He certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby-but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if you remember, in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."

Elinor could not not remember it-but her mother, without waiting for her a.s.sent, continued, remember it-but her mother, without waiting for her a.s.sent, continued, "I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with him him, as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby. She smiled a secret smile and ran her finger over the octopus whistle, still in her pocket.

CHAPTER 46

MARIANNE'S ILLNESS, though multifaceted and weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. She was impatient to pour forth her thanks to Colonel Brandon for fetching her mother; and bringing her hence so swiftly with such a strong steady crawl stroke; and for decapitating the fearsome Pirate Dreadbeard; and so he was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing the burst pustules that dotted her face and neck, and in receiving the pale hand-its fingernails yellowed and brittle from illness-which she immediately held out to him, were clear. In Elinor's conjecture, they must arise from something more than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others. She soon discovered in his melancholy eye and the embarra.s.sed little shuffle of his appendages as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the wandering eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, the slow but steady streams of pus from various orifices, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood saw nothing in the colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne, even as her words emerged in a hoa.r.s.e croak, her vocal cords having been ravaged by infection, she persuaded herself to think that something more than grat.i.tude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton Cottage. On her her measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit The Cleveland The Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his fully outfitted and newly refurbished pleasure yacht on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the shanty, in the course of a few weeks. during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his fully outfitted and newly refurbished pleasure yacht on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the shanty, in the course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, took a particular and lengthened leave of Mrs. Jennings, effusively professing her grat.i.tude not only for nursing her back to health, but also for her part in fending off the pirates, whose attack and repulsion Marianne had only been told of after her const.i.tution was more fully restored. She was so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention. Bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, she was carefully a.s.sisted by him onboard the pleasure yacht. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days aboard, and Marianne bore her journey without fatigue. They flew the captured flag of The Jolly Murderess The Jolly Murderess, which, whether either by suggesting that they themselves were onboard that most feared of pirate vessels, or by giving fluttering evidence that they had destroyed it, kept all potential marauders at bay.

As they sailed into Sir John's archipelago and the choppy waters of Pestilent Isle, and entered on scenes of which every piece of sh.o.r.eline brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, Marianne grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. Elinor, for her part, felt as she examined the old mudflats, the twisted trees, the familiar peak of "Mount Margaret" that something was decidedly altered in the landscape of their old home-stead-as if something had somehow shifted shifted-but she had not the luxury to reflect upon her impression. Her only priority was to monitor Marianne for any signs that the familiar sights would discomfit her, or restore her ill health by plunging her into a new depth of melancholy.

But Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as the yacht was moored to their rebuilt wooden dock and she a.s.sisted Marianne down the gangplank, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise anything less tender than pity. Upon entering their common sitting-room, Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, regarding the dripping roof and weather-beaten windows as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never pa.s.sed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her pianoforte. She went to it, but the music on which her eye first rested was a seamen's lament in six verses, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, one rhyming "a la.s.sie so curvy" with "lay dying of scurvy" and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers-and indeed, the minute action of running her hands over the keys had caused a brittle piece of fingernail to slide off and fall to the floor-and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much.

Only when Marianne had retired to her old room for a well-needed rest, did Elinor venture to press again the question that had been on her mind since the yacht brought them within view of Pestilent Isle.

"Mother," she asked haltingly. "Where is Margaret?" is Margaret?"

Mrs. Dashwood dissolved in tears, and at last gave her unhappy response: The girl had not been seen for several weeks; the night after Mrs. Dashwood penned her last missive to Elinor and Marianne, in which she had included the most distressing news of Margaret's depilation and the newly fang-like nature of her teeth, the girl had gone out again on one of her unannounced and unwarranted midnight walks-and, this time, never returned.

Mrs. Dashwood would fear the very worst, except for the strange incident she now relayed to Elinor-an incident which seemed to give a.s.surance that the girl still lived, though it was a most unwelcome a.s.surance, indeed. It seemed that on one rain-soaked recent night, Mrs. Dashwood had been woken, long past the stroke of midnight, by what she was quite certain was the voice of her youngest daughter, coming high and piercing across the rocky hills of Pestilent Isle, several times repeating the same distorted, bizarre phrase: K'yaloh D'argesh F'ah! K'yaloh D'argesh F'ah!

It was agreed that not a word of this would be imparted to Marianne, for fear of unsettling the course of her recovery. Indeed, the next morning produced no abatement in her happy symptoms.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said Marianne, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the dunes at the water's edge; we will travel to Deadwind Island and wander through Sir John's exotic gardens; we will again slog through the marshy fens and climb the lightning-scarred trees. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pa.s.s happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amus.e.m.e.nt. But there are many works well worth reading at Sir John's estate; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. I shall learn engineering; I shall study hydrology and biology and aeronautics; I shall endeavour to understand Mendel's principles and comparative zoology."

"But of what use will be such knowledge?" inquired Elinor with a smile meant to offer encouragement, but from which she could not hide a small measure of teasing.

"Someone," replied Marianne, looking away shyly, "will need to build Sub-Marine Station Gamma."

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so n.o.bly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she felt, still cosseted in her bosom, the octopus whistle, and remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled. Willing to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.

They had been three days at home when the ever-present sea mist lifted enough for an invalid to venture out. Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorized to walk as long as she could without fatigue, down the wandering lane that led inland from the shanty.

The sisters set out at a slow pace, and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill when Marianne calmly said, "There, exactly there, into that rolling brook, where the octopus set upon me-there did I first see Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, "I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! Shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor? Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do."

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as he he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now now. If I could be satisfied on one point-if I could be allowed to think that he was not always always acting a part, not acting a part, not always always deceiving me; but above all, if I could be a.s.sured that he never was so deceiving me; but above all, if I could be a.s.sured that he never was so very very wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl-" wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl-"

She stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered, "If you could be a.s.sured of that, you think you should be easy." They paused in their walk to sit together on a large, jagged rock on the edge of mist-enshrouded little pool. "But how would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him only fickle. Very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health. As they sat, the pool filled to a height of some inches with cloudy water, fed by some underground spring; in the next moment the water receded, revealing the muddy bottom of the basin. They sat for a few minutes in silence, during which time the pool emptied and filled again; the repet.i.tive action of the water in the pond struck a familiar chord with Elinor, but she could not recall why. Perhaps it was nothing; perhaps it was only fancy. She could not forget that Margaret was missing, and wished with a pang of longing that her whole family might be safe and reunited.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been. I compare it with yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think-and weep, and itch terribly, and have these weird feverish visions of parakeets pecking at my eyes-but it also made me think. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fort.i.tude under them had almost led me to the grave. And I saw, as I have mentioned, whole great swooping flocks of multi-coloured parakeets, as vicious as they were colourful, descending on my eyes again and again. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health."

"Your illness was brought on by mosquitoes."

"Yes, brought on by myself and also by the mosquitoes. But had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery-wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my G.o.d, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Everybody seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles- At the mention of the Steeles, Elinor had a fleeting but distinct pain in her forehead-the five pointed symbol shot back into her mind's eye for one painful moment and then disappeared. Why? Why again? Why? Why again?

The mist in the pond breathed out again, and then in. Marianne continued her oration.

"I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. To John, to f.a.n.n.y, yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me? Did I imitate your forbearance? No!"

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied, "If I could but know his his heart, everything would become easy." heart, everything would become easy."

Elinor, with a hand resting lightly on Willoughby's whistle, reflected on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact. She prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. She described that as he spoke, Willoughby's appearance had seemed genuinely penitent, and Monsieur Pierre's as well. Marianne said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.

Elinor led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the shanty, talked of nothing but Willoughby and their conversation together. As soon as they entered and tugged off their mud boots, Marianne with a kiss of grat.i.tude and the words "Tell Mama" withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and so she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction. The conversation felt momentous; it felt like Marianne's very heart had shifted in her chest; indeed, it seemed to Elinor-even as she watched her sister trudge wearily up to her room-that the very island they stood on had moved beneath their feet.

CHAPTER 47

MRS. DASHWOOD DID NOT HEAR unmoved the vindication of the self-satisfied treasure hunter who had been her favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt. She was sorry for him; she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what Marianne had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon. unmoved the vindication of the self-satisfied treasure hunter who had been her favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt. She was sorry for him; she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what Marianne had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself-had she witnessed his distress, and seen the pitiable, semi-human expression upon the face of his orangutan, now sadly slain, it is probable that her compa.s.sion would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's deserts. She wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began to speak of him again-but it was not without an effort. Her unsteady voice plainly showed. "I wish to a.s.sure you both," said she, "that I see everything as you can desire me to do."

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued, "It is a great relief to me-what Elinor told me this morning-I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear." For some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before, "I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. Do you-do you hear that?"

Elinor could not deny that she did did hear it, and could see by her mother's troubled expression that she heard it as well: the distinct sound of voices chanting together, but very lightly as though far off in the distance. She c.o.c.ked her head for a moment, but the sound died away; Mrs. Dashwood wrung her hands and looked desperately to Elinor-Margaret was out there, somewhere on the island, they knew-and whatever the source of that chanting, it also held the key to her whereabouts. hear it, and could see by her mother's troubled expression that she heard it as well: the distinct sound of voices chanting together, but very lightly as though far off in the distance. She c.o.c.ked her head for a moment, but the sound died away; Mrs. Dashwood wrung her hands and looked desperately to Elinor-Margaret was out there, somewhere on the island, they knew-and whatever the source of that chanting, it also held the key to her whereabouts.

The sound faded; Marianne, too caught up in her unburdening to linger on its mystery, continued. "In short, I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings."

"I know it-I know it," cried her mother, whose natural pa.s.sion on the subject of her child's welfare was further riled by uncertainty of her youngest daughter's situation. "Happy with a man of libertine practices! With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men! No, my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man! Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it. I dare say you perceive reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the less less grievous to you-" grievous to you-"

Elinor was interrupted by the noise, the same noise they had heard before, only louder this time, rolling across the hillside; and now the syllables were distinct enough to be heard: K'yaloh D'argesh F'ah! K'yaloh D'argesh F'ah!

"My G.o.d!" said Marianne now, her attention drawn for the moment from Willoughby. "That is the ghastly refrain that so agitated our dear Margaret-and indeed, where is is Margaret? Margaret?

Elinor, with a cautioning look to her mother, returned the conversation to its course.

"To abridge Willoughby's enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?"

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a tone that implied-"do you really think him selfish?" Mrs. Dashwood, meanwhile, stared worriedly out the window, hoping or fearing to see what she knew not.

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton Cottage. His own enjoyment was his ruling principle."

"It is very true. My My happiness never was his object." happiness never was his object."

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it? Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circ.u.mstances are now unembarra.s.sed. He suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy? He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He always would have been poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance than the mere temper of a wife."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne, "and I have nothing to regret-nothing but my own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood, turning at last away from the window, for the chanting had again abated. "She must be answerable." must be answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed; and Elinor, satisfied that each felt her own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued: "One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story-that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents."

Marianne a.s.sented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health. Every day the pustules that marked her skin were healing, and the cool (though malodorous) sea winds that swept through the windows of Barton Cottage seemed to do her spirits well.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since the destruction of the Sub-Marine Station, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had pa.s.sed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, which otherwise related the lingering after effects of his experiments in Station, including an insatiable appet.i.te for grub worms, there had been this sentence: "We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject," which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant, Thomas, had been ordered one morning to row to Exeter on business. Later that afternoon, while serving a bowl of Mrs. Dashwood's latest culinary specialty-a lobster bisque served in the hollowed-out skull of a porpoise-Thomas offered the following voluntary communication: "I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered.

Elinor's mind was aflame; her entire spirit throbbed with distress. The five-pointed symbol, that totem of agony, returned at the servant's news in its most intense incarnation yet, twirling and throbbing in her mind's eye.

"Ah," she cried out, clutching with two hands at her skull. "The pain-"

Though desperate for further information, Elinor was unable in such a condition to ask Thomas for the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"

"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was."

With every repeat of the name-Miss Steele-the pain recurred, amplified it seemed by its repet.i.tion.

"They was stopping at the door of the New London Inn. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele."

Pain-the pain grew nearly unbearable. Elinor endeavored with all her ability to keep her attention upon the servant's story, so she could know of the fate of Edward.

"So I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's."

"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady."

"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up-he never was a gentleman much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"Do you know where they came from?"

"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy-Mrs. Ferrars told me."

"And are they going farther westward?"