“Speak on, Comala trembles, but she hears.”
The scene of gaiety and flattery had closed for the night. The sisters
had retired to rest. Alice and light were dismissed; and Julia commenced
her intended enquiries. But Frances had now little information to bestow.
Lady Susan’s first confused and unconnected confidence had been made
immediately on their return from the cottage the day before. After they
had all dressed for dinner Frances had observed Edmund and Lady Susan
conversing for a considerable time apart. Julia also had observed them.
From that time Lady Susan had been an altered creature; she had not once
smiled at dinner. Julia had noticed this also. After dinner Lady Susan
had gone alone to her cottage, where she had remained for near an hour.
On her return the traces of tears had been visible on her countenance.
She had declined entering on the subject, and even requested Frances,
who had attempted to introduce it, never again to mention it; and to
bury what she had already told her for ever in her own bosom! This would
certainly look as if she either had, on reflection, thought it prudent
to retract her consent to marry Edmund, or been required to do so by her
parents.
How many anxious moments had Julia been spared, could Lady Susan have
brought herself to confess that her first confidence had been founded
on error; that Edmund had never meant to declare love for her; that she
had misunderstood him in the interview at the cottage; and that he had
sought a subsequent one to explain, in as delicate terms as he could
devise, that his heart was devoted to another. But no such explanation
having been made to Frances, it was not in her power to remove her
sister’s uncomfortable reflections on this point; while, in addition,
Julia had now a new source of uneasiness: Henry’s horrid threats having
filled her mind with images of terror, which she had neither courage nor
knowledge of the world sufficient to brave. She must never again, she
feared, venture to reject his conspicuous, and now more than ever hateful
attentions with the spirit and decision which her own feelings dictated.
She should be compelled henceforth to admit them with passiveness at
least; or, might he not require of her to receive them with seeming
pleasure. Had she not that very evening been obliged to submit to his
taking her hand from Edmund’s arm, and leading her, with a triumphant
smile, to the dance; after she had told Lord K., in Edmund’s hearing,
that she was too much fatigued to dance again? What must Edmund think
of this? And Henry, she saw, had no delicacy; for he had always taken
pains to make his attentions most remarkable when Edmund was present.
Should she complain of his conduct to her grandmamma—but if she did, her
grandmamma could not keep him from quarrelling with Edmund—and, besides,
the subject was one upon which, for many reasons, (unless, indeed, there
were no other means of preventing danger to Edmund,) she should rather be
silent. She must just only therefore endeavour not to provoke Henry’s
horrid vindictive temper: though it was so disagreeable to have him
always near her, and to have others—that is—other people think, perhaps,
that she wished it.