“Why, I don’t know,” replied Frances; “though I certainly love Edmund next to you and grandmamma, yet I have no particular wish to be married to him; for I can love him just as well, you know, when he is married to Lady Susan. But you, Julia, who were always so enthusiastic, would you like now to sacrifice so much for him?”
“I could do any thing for those I love!” said Julia, in a scarcely audible whisper, and blushing, though none could see her.
“Oh, that is, you mean, if it were absolutely necessary to their happiness!” rejoined her sister. “I should not like, either, to make poor Edmund unhappy! But then, you know, it is not necessary to his happiness; for he wishes himself to be married to Lady Susan.”
“But are you sure of that, Frances?” asked Julia, as recollections crowded in upon her mind, “are you sure of that? for I am certain it is impossible for him to love Lady Susan, or any one, as much as—as he loves—that is, seems to love—those he has always loved.”
“I know,” said Frances, “that there cannot be a more amiable or affectionate disposition in the world than Edmund’s; yet, still he never showed me any such excessive sort of love, that he could not love another person as well, or better, I suppose, if he were going to be married to them! But, to be sure, you were always his favourite. I remember when we were children I used to be vexed at it sometimes, but since we have been grown up, I don’t mind people loving you best, because I know you deserve it.”
Julia wept on her sister’s breast, and persuaded herself that her tears were those of gratitude and tenderness, caused by Frances’ kind expressions. In a little time she said, “But how are you sure, Frances, that Edmund wishes to be married to Lady Susan?”
“Because he asked her to marry him, when they were in the cottage this morning! She told me so herself, just before I came up to dress for dinner, you know.” Julia asked no more questions; nor did she utter another word that night. Frances went on explaining about Lord and Lady Arandale knowing nothing of the matter, as yet, and what Lady Susan meant to do to obtain their consent, &c.; but having the conversation all to herself, she soon began to articulate slowly and with frequent unnecessary pauses, and, finally, fell asleep: upon which, Julia began to draw her hitherto suppressed sighs audibly. She wept for a time with bitterness. She thought for hours. When she recollected looks or words of tenderness she wept afresh; but, when she called to mind such circumstances as Edmund’s having, at any time, taken her hand in his, or pressed it to his lips, she blushed till her cheeks seemed to burn, and wondered how she could ever have permitted any thing so very wrong: she had always called him brother Edmund, certainly; but she ought to have remembered that he was not really her brother. She then asked herself the following startling questions:—If her feelings for Edmund and her conduct towards him had hitherto been guided by the friendship of a sister, why should they not be still the same? what change had taken place in their relative situations? This candid mode of treating the subject puzzled her not a little. At length she tried to persuade herself that friendship, or even sisterly regard for one who loved their friend or sister better than any one else in the world, was a very different thing from friendship for one who felt a stronger affection for some other object. “And does Edmund, then, really love Lady Susan better than he loves me?” Her tears now flowed again, and, wearied out, she fell asleep, without having come to any conclusion but that she was wretched, and that all the recollections which, hitherto, had given her pleasure, now gave her pain.
As soon as reason had abdicated her seat, fancy ascended the throne. Confusion succeeded, and the busy turmoil of weary imaginings, and painful contrarieties, robbed sleep of her healing balm. Wanderings alone on starless nights—Dreary wildernesses in the blaze of noon, without one living object to be seen—Crowded ball-rooms—Edmund leading Lady Susan past to join the dance, with a countenance so changed, so cold; and all interspersed with short glimpses of Lodore and happy childhood: till, at length, by the time she ought to have been awaking in the morning, her dream (not from “foregone conclusions,” but from outward causes,) took the following form. She thought she saw Edmund and Lady Susan coming towards her in one of the shrubbery walks at Arandale. She tried to avoid them, but could scarcely move an inch at a time. They overtook her. Edmund, she thought, to her utter astonishment, put one arm round her, and drew her towards him; while the other, she now perceived, was around Lady Susan. Amazed at this audacious freedom, and especially indignant at such partnership in love, she struggled to free herself, and, with almost a bound, awoke. Arms really were around her, laughing eyes were close to her’s, and a soft voice named her. But it was that of Frances, who had, all this time, been trying every means, but hitherto in vain, to awake her sister; so heavy was the late sleep induced by the anxious thoughts of the night, and the busy dreams of the morning. Indeed it was not quite two hours since Julia had first closed her eyes.