ossibility of rest. The evening passed without a pause of misery, the
night was totally sleepless. She passed only from feelings of sickness
to shudderings of horror; and from hot fits of fever to cold. The event
was so shocking, that there were moments even when her heart revolted
from it as impossible: when she thought it could not be. A woman married
only six months ago; a man professing himself devoted, even _engaged_ to
another; that other her near relation; the whole family, both families
connected as they were by tie upon tie; all friends, all intimate
together! It was too horrible a confusion of guilt, too gross a
complication of evil, for human nature, not in a state of utter
barbarism, to be capable of! yet her judgment told her it was so.
_His_ unsettled affections, wavering with his vanity, _Maria's_
decided attachment, and no sufficient principle on either side, gave it
possibility: Miss Crawford's letter stampt it a fact.

What would be the consequence? Whom would it not injure? Whose views
might it not affect? Whose peace would it not cut up for ever? Miss
Crawford, herself, Edmund; but it was dangerous, perhaps, to tread
such ground. She confined herself, or tried to confine herself, to the
simple, indubitable family misery which must envelop all, if it were
indeed a matter of certified guilt and public exposure. The mother's
sufferings, the father's; there she paused. Julia's, Tom's, Edmund's;
there a yet longer pause. They were the two on whom it would fall most
horribly. Sir Thomas's parental solicitude and high sense of honour and
decorum, Edmund's upright principles, unsuspicious temper, and genuine
strength of feeling, made her think it scarcely possible for them to
support life and reason under such disgrace; and it appeared to her
that, as far as this world alone was concerned, the greatest blessing to
every one of kindred with Mrs. Rushworth would be instant annihilation.

Nothing happened the next day, or the next, to weaken her terrors. Two
posts came in, and brought no refutation, public or private. There was
no second letter to explain away the first from Miss Crawford; there was
no intelligence from Mansfield, though it was now full time for her
to hear again from her aunt. This was an evil omen. She had, indeed,
scarcely the shadow of a hope to soothe her mind, and was reduced to so
low and wan and trembling a condition, as no mother, not unkind, except
Mrs. Price could have overlooked, wh