CHAPTER XVII
MRS. DASHWOOD was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for
his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her
joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest
welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a
reception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were
quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could
not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the
passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more
like himself. His affections seemed to re-animate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits,
however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive and kind;
but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it; and Mrs.
Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to
table indignant against all selfish parents.
"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said
she, when dinner was over, and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still to
be a great orator in spite of yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents
than inclination for a public life."
"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for
expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may
find it a difficult matter."
"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and
have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced into
genius and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."
"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish,
as well as every body else, to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else, it
must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."
"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or
grandeur to do with happiness?"
"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do
with it."
"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no
real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.
Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them,
as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort
must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your
competence?"
"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than
that."
Elinor laughed. "Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed
how it would end."
"And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income," said
Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage,
perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately
their future expenses at Combe Magna.
"Hunters!" repeated Edward- "but why must you have hunters? Every
body does not hunt."
Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."
"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that
somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!"
"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.
"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in
spite of the insufficiency of wealth."
"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I
should do with it!"
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich my help."
"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor,
"and your difficulties will soon vanish."
"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"
said Edward, "In such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers,
and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every
new print of merit to be sent you- and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of
soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books!-
Thomson, Cowper, Scott- she would buy them all over and over again: she would
buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and
she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree.
Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to
show you that I had not forgot our old disputes."
"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward- whether it be
melancholy or gay, I love to recall it- and you will never offend me by talking
of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent-
some of it, at least- my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my
collection of music and books."
"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."
"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."
"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in
love more than once in their life- your opinion on that point is unchanged, I
presume?"
"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It
is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."
"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is
not at all altered."
"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."
"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You are
not very gay yourself."
"Why should you think so?" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety
never was a part of my character."
"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should
hardly call her a lively girl- she is very earnest, very eager in all she does-
sometimes talks a great deal, and always with animation- but she is not often
really merry."
"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set
her down as a lively girl."
"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other:
fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid, than they
really are, and I can hardly tell why, or in what the deception originated.
Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by
what other people say of them, without giving one's self time to deliberate and
judge."
"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us
merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your
doctrine, I am sure."
"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection
of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to. influence has been the
behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having
often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention;
but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their
judgment in serious matters?"
"You have not been able, then, to bring your sister over to your
plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?"
"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at
Marianne.
"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question;
but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only
kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have
been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease
among strangers of gentility!"
"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.
"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I
could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should
not be shy."
"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is
worse."
Edward started- "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!- how,
in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand
what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk
as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?"
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on
him in their fullest extent- and he sat for some time silent and dull.
CHAPTER XVIII
ELINOR saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.
His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment
in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it
were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which
once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his
preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her
contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding
one.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their
happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was
half way up stairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was
astonished to see Edward himself come out.
"I am going into the village to see my horses," said be, "as you
are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village he had seen many parts of the valley to
advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage,
afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This
was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention; and she was beginning to
describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely
on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by
saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne; remember I have no knowledge in
the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we
come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces
strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects
out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a
hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly
give. I call it a very fine country,- the hills are steep, the woods seem full
of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,- with rich meadows
and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my
idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility- and I dare- say
it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to
be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brushwood, but these are all
lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."
"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should
you boast of it?"
"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affection,
Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more
admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted
with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination
in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious, and will have an
affectation of his own."
"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape
scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque
beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind; and sometimes I have kept my feelings
to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was
worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning."
"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the
delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your
sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but
not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I
admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like
ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath
blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,- and a
troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the
world."
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister. Elinor only laughed.
The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was
sitting by Edward, and, in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so
directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very
conspicuous on one of his fingers.
"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should have
thought her hair had been darker."
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she
saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and, giving a momentary
glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair. The setting always
casts a different shade on it, you know."
Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the
hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne: the
only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a
free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by some
theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however, to
regard it as an affront; and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by
instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to
catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.
Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence
of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had
given her sister.
Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came
to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir
John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. And
this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which
nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented
from being immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very
significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,
extended.
Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them
to dine at the Park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the
present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose
amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.
"You must drink tea with us to-night," said he, "for we shall be
quite alone; and to-morrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party."
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may
raise a dance?" said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne."
"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"
"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.
What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
nameless is gone!"
"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were
among us again."
This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And
who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he was
sitting.
She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more
communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others,
but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their
visitors left them he went immediately round her, and said, in a whisper, "I
have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shall I tell you."
"Certainly."
"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling
at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,-
"Oh, Edward! How can you?- But the time will come, I hope- I am
sure you will like him."
"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her
earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of
her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr.
Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.
CHAPTER XIX
EDWARD remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by
Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification,
he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the
height. His spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very
unequal, were greatly improved- he grew more and more partial to the house and
environs- never spoke of going away without a sigh- declared his time to be
wholly disengaged- even doubted to what place he should go when he left them-
but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly- he could hardly
believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other things he said, too, which
marked the turn of his feelings, and gave the lie to his actions. He had no
pleasure at Norland; lie detested being in town; but either to Norland or London
he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest
happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week,
in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character
was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing
strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and
sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well
disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and
generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her,
for Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and
of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and
his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's dispositions and designs. The shortness
of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the
same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporising with his
mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against
child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,- when Mrs. Ferrars
would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain
wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in
Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word
which fell from him while at Barton, and above all, to that flattering proof of
it which he constantly wore round his finger.
"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast
the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to
engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it- you would not be
able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you would be
materially benefited in one particular at least- you would know where to go when
you left them."
"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this
point as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be, a
heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no
profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like independence. But
unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I
am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree in our choice of a profession.
I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for
my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me.
The law was allowed to be genteel enough: many young men, who had chambers in
the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about
town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this
less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had
fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to
enter it; and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession
at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as
with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and
honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on
being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was
therefore entered at Oxford, and have been properly idle ever since."
"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,
"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be
brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as
Columella's."
"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as
unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in every
thing."
"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself
must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt
by every body at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own
happiness. You want nothing but patience- or give it a more fascinating name,
call it hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are
so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her
happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much
may not a few months do?"
"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce
any good to me."
This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated
to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly
took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's feelings especially,
which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was her determination
to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all
her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so
judiciously employed by Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her
sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude, and idleness. Their means were as
different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.
Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the
house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the
mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the
general concerns of the family; and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her
own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother
and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account.
Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared
no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The
business of self-command she settled very easily:- with strong affections it was
impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister's affections
were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the
strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and
respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.
Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house
in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge
meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of
Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different
state of her spirits at different times could produce,- with tenderness, pity,
approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not
by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least, by the nature of their
employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude
was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be
chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting,
must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her
reflection, and her fancy.
From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she
was roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of
company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at the
entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window,
and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and
Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and
lady, who were quite unknown to her. She was sitting near the window; and as
soon as Sir John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the
casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the
window as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the
other.
"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you
like them?"
"Hush! they will hear you."
"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very
pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."
As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open."
"She is walking, I believe."
They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough
to wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She came hallooing
to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are
your sisters? What! all alone! you will be glad of a little company to sit with
you. I have brought my other son and daughter to see you. Only think of their
coming so suddenly! I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were
drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought
of nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I
said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon
come back again-"
Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
receive the rest of the party: Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers; Mrs.
Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down
to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she walked
through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir John.
Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and
totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty
face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her
manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more
prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit,
except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave
looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and
sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered
the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without
speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up
a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he stayed.
Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature
with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
admiration of the parlour and everything in it burst forth.
"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so
charming! Only think, mamma, how it is improved since I was here last! I always
thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you have
made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful everything is! How I
should like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from
the newspaper.
"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used
to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their
friends, without ceasing till everything was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily
at the recollection of their astonishment, and everybody agreed, two or three
times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.
"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice, as if she
meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of
the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so
fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by London upon
account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to
her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and
rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you
all?"
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.
Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper.
"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.
"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see
a monstrous pretty girl."
He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she
had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question,
as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her entering the room,
stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's
eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to
examine them.
"Oh dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how delightful! Do but
look, mamma, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them
for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any
such things in the room.
When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid
down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.
"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.
He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then
made his bow, and departed with the rest.
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day
at the Park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener than
they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters
might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs.
Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other
way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was
uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied,- the
carriage should be sent for them, and they must come. Lady Middleton, too,
though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.
Palmer joined their entreaties,- all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family
party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms,
if we are to dine at the Park whenever any one is staying either with them or
with us."
"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor,
"by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few
weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and
dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."
CHAPTER XX
AS the Misses Dashwood entered the drawing room of the Park the
next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good
humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand,
and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor
and Marianne; "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which
would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We must go, for the
Westons come to us next week, you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming
at all; and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and
then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He
never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall
meet again in town very soon, I hope."
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh; "I shall be
quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for you,
next door to ours, in Hanover Square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall
be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood
should not like to go into public."
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then
entered the room, "you must help me to persuade the Misses Dashwood to go to
town this winter."
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,
began complaining of the weather.
"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes everything
and everybody disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without,
by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir
John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what
comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather."
The rest of the company soon dropped in.
"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been
able to take your usual walk to Allenham to-day."
Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.
"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is
extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know.
Not above ten miles, I dare say."
"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.
"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house;
but they say it is a sweet, pretty place."
"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed
her interest in what was said.
"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer;- "then it must be some
other place that is so pretty, I suppose."
When they were seated in the dining-room, Sir John observed with
regret that they were only eight all together.
"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we
should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us to-day?"
"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done? They dined with us last."
"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon
such ceremony."
"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.
"My love you contradict everybody," said his wife with her usual
laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"
"I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-
bred."
"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old
lady; "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So
there I have the whip hand of you."
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get
rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as
they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly
good-natured, or more determined to be happy, than Mrs. Palmer. The studied
indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and
when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.
"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is
always out of humour."
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him
credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like
many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty,
he was the husband of a very silly woman,- but she knew that this kind of
blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was
rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous
treatment of everybody, and his general abuse of everything before him. It was
the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to
be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his
superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his
wife.
"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I
have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend
some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,- and come while the Westons
are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite
delightful!- My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the
Misses Dashwood come to Cleveland?"
"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer; "I came into Devonshire with
no other view."
"There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of
all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You
cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr.
Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so
many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming!
But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him, for he is forced to make every
body like him."
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
hardship of such an obligation.
"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament!- won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all
his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never
frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued; "he says it is
quite shocking."
"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm
all your abuses of languages upon me."
"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with
him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes
out with something so droll- all about any thing in the world."
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-
room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."
"Well, I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters, I can tell you;
and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland.
I can't imagine why you should object to it."
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and, by
changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that
as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more
particular account of Willoughby's general character than could be gathered from
the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from
any one such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of
fear from Marianne. She began by enquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at
Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.
"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;-
"not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.
Some how or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at
Allenham. Mamma saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth.
However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if
it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country
together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much
there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition,
you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you enquire about him,
very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I
shall have her for a neighbour you know."
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter
than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."
"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body
talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."
"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"
"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond
Street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."
"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely
you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be
interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel
Brandon to do."
"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you
how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we
began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to
him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and
mamma sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be
married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you
must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.'"
"And what did the Colonel say?"
"Oh, he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,
so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I
declare. When is it to take place?"
"Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing
but say fine things of you."
"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and
I think him uncommonly pleasing."
"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he
should be so grave and so dull. Mamma says he was in love with your sister too.
I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in
love with any body."
"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.
"Oh, yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him
extremely agreeable, I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby
wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl
to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her,
because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough
for her. However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure
you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too, I am
sure, though we could not get him to own it last night."
Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very
material; but any testimony in his favour, however small was pleasing to her.
"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.
"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I
longed to see you. It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage.
Nothing can be like it, to be sure. And I am so glad your sister is going to be
well married. I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet
place, by all accounts."
"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"
"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a
particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added, in a low voice, "he
would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady
Middleton wished it very much. But mamma did not think the match good enough for
me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should
have been married immediately."
"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"
"Oh, no; but if mamma had not objected to it, I dare say he would
have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was
before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind
of man I like."
CHAPTER XXI
THE Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two
families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not
last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,- had
hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr.
Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife,- before Sir John's
and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society procured her some other
new acquaintance to see and observe.
In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young
ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the Park,
as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at
Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation; and Lady Middleton was
thrown into no little alarm, on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was
very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life,
and of whose elegance whose tolerable gentility even- she could have no proof;
for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at
all. Their being her relation too, made it so much the worse; and Mrs.
Jennings's attempts at consolation were, therefore, unfortunately founded, when
she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because
they were all cousins, and must put up with one another. As it was impossible,
however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the
idea of it with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with
merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times
every day.
The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means
ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil:
they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture; and they
happened to be so doatingly fond of children, that Lady Middleton's good opinion
was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the Park. She
declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which, for her ladyship, was
enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with
this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage, to tell the
Misses Dashwood of the Misses Steele's arrival, and to assure them of their
being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however,
there was not much to be learned: Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in
the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible
variation of form, face, temper, and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole
family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent,
philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
"Do come now," said he- "pray come- you must come- I declare you
shall come. You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty,
and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about her
already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all
things; for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures
in the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more.
You will be delighted with them, I am sure. They have brought the whole coach
full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why
they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they
are my wife's; so you must be related."
But Sir John could not prevail: he could only obtain a promise of
their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement
at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the
Misses Steele, as he had been already boasting of the Misses Steele to them.
When their promised visit to the Park, and consequent introduction
to these young ladies, took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest,
who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to
admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they
acknowledged considerable beauty: her features were pretty, and she had a sharp
quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual elegance
or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil,
and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with
what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to
Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling
their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of
their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness
made on it was spent in admiration of whatever her Ladyship was doing, if she
happened to be doing anything, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress,
in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.
Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother,
though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human
beings, is likewise the most credulous: her demands are exorbitant; but she will
swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Misses
Steele towards her offspring were viewed, therefore, by Lady Middleton without
the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the
impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags
searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its
being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor
and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was
passing.
"John is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss
Steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window- "he is full of
monkey tricks."
And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of
the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"
"And here is my sweet little Anna-Maria," she added, tenderly
caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the
last two minutes; "and she is always so gentle and quiet. Never was there such a
quiet little thing!"
But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her
ladyship's head-dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this
pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any
creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it
could not surpass the alarm of the Misses Steele, and every thing was done by
all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest, as likely
to assauge the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's
lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the
Misses Steele, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with
sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too
wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two
brothers for offering to touch her: and all their united soothings were
ineffectual, till Lady Middleton, luckily remembering that in a scene of similar
distress last week some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a
bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate
scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it,
gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of
the room, therefore, in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine; and as the
two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay
behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not
known for many hours.
"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were
gone; "it might have been a very sad accident."
"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under
totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm,
where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."
"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.
Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did
not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor, therefore, the whole
task of telling lies, when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best
when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she
felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
"And Sir John, too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man
he is!"
Here, too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,
came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good
humoured and friendly.
"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine
children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am
always distractedly fond of children."
"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have
witnessed this morning."
"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons
rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is
so natural in Lady Middleton; and, for my part, I love to see children full of
life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park I
never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said, rather
abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were
very sorry to leave Sussex."
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least
of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss
Steele.
"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who
seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
"I think every one must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw
the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do."
"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not
so many in this part of the world. For my part, I think they are a vast addition
always."
"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her
sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"
"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't protend to say that there ain't.
I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I
tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the
Misses Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they
used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had
as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly
agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see
them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young
man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet
him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a
beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not
perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he
ever was a beau before he married, he is one still, for there is not the
smallest alteration in him."
"Oh, dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux- they have
something else to do."
"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;
you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And then, to
turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Misses Steele was enough. The vulgar freedom
and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation; and as Elinor was not
blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real
elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them
better.
Not so the Misses Steele. They came from Exeter well provided with
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations;
and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they
declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls
they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better
acquainted. And to be better acquainted, therefore, Elinor soon found was their
inevitable lot; for as Sir Jack was entirely on the side of the Misses Steele,
their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must
be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same
room almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any
more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate; and while
his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of
their being established friends.
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Misses Steele acquainted with whatever he knew or
supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars; and Elinor
had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on
her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau
since she came to Barton.
"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young, to be sure,"
said she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I hope
you may have as good luck yourself soon; but, perhaps, you may have a friend in
the corner already."
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in
proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with
respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as
being somewhat newer and more conjectual; and since Edward's visit, they had
never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much
significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The
letter F had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of
such countless jokes, that its character, as the wittiest letter in the alphabet,
had been long established with Elinor.
The Misses Steele, as she expected, had now all the benefit of
these jokes; and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name
of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was
perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their
family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to
raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele
had in hearing it.
"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but
pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret."
"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is
he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable young
man to be sure; I know him very well."
"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an
amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him once or twice
at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was
this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?" She wished very much
to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join in it herself;
but nothing more of it was said, and, for the first time in her life she thought
Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a
disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of
Edward increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured,
and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know,
something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing; for no farther
notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even
openly mentioned by Sir John.
CHAPTER XXII
MARIANNE, who had never much toleration for any thing like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from
herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her
spirits, to be pleased with the Misses Steele, or to encourage their advances;
and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked
every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that
preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but
especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation,
or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication
of her sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;
and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but
her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate;
and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the
most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of
her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for
the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but
she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her
flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in
the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of
instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and
whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards
herself perfectly valueless.
"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to
her one day, as they were walking together from the Park to the cottage; "but,
pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs.
Ferrars?"
Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must
have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort
of a woman she is?"
"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of
Edward's mother, and not very desirious of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity; "I know nothing of her."
"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in
such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps
there may be reasons- I wish I might venture; but, however, I hope you will do
me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes
in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with
some hesitation,-
"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am
sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not
have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be very glad of your
advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however,
there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs.
Ferrars."
"I am sorry I do not," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it
could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never
understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a
little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."
"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it.
But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is
certainly nothing to me at present; but the time may come- how soon it will come
must depend upon herself- when we may be very intimately connected."
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one
side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with
the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Robert Ferrars- I never saw him in
my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been
as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion
attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the
reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she
stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit or a swoon.
"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you
could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to
be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour.
Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have
mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon
your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions
about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not
think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I
know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon
yourself and the other Misses Dashwood quite as his own sisters." She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what
she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to
speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner which
tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude,- "May I ask if your
engagement is of long standing?"
"We have been engaged these four years."
"Four years!"
"Yes."
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."
"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years' date. He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."
"Your uncle!"
"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"
"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits,
which increased with her increase of emotion.
"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often
staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not
till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us
afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without
the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him
too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him
so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he
is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."
"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but
after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's honour
and love, and her companion's falsehood, "Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars!- I
confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really- I beg your
pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean
the same Mr. Ferrars."
"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-
law, Mrs. John Dashwood is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not
likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on whom all my happiness
depends."
"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity,
"that I should never have heard him even mention your name."
"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care
has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and,
therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and,
as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, that
was reason enough for his not mentioning it."
She was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did
not sink with it.
"Four years you have been engaged," said she, with a firm voice.
"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her
pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look
at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot
be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three
years."
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of
detecting falsehood, might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of
its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the
likeness.
"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture
in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to
get it! But I am determined to sit for it the very first opportunity."
"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor, calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your
faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is
to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I
dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."
"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you
do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret
is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a
communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it
could not add to its safety."
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what
she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with
you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long, to be sure,
personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a
great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old
acquaintance. Besides, in the present case, I really thought some explanation
was due to you, after my making such particular enquiries about Edward's mother;
and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne
is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she
does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her
betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive;
and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world the other day, when
Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You
can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder
that I am alive, after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four
years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom-
we can hardly meet above twice a year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.
"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think
whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then, at other times,
I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so
miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own
account too- so dear as he is to me- I don't think I could be equal to it. What
would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do
yourself?"
"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can
give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you."
"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes' silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him some time or other; but poor Edward is
so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at
Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I
was afraid you would think him quite ill."
"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"
"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he
came directly from town?"
"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had
been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered, too,
her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends,
at his total silence with respect even to their names.
"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.
"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."
"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was
the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a
fortnight with us, but it with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow!
I am afraid it is just the same with him how; for he writes in wretched spirits.
I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket,
and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say,-
a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I
dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."
Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer.
This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally
obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence between
them by letter could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be
authorised by nothing else: for a few moments she was almost overcome- her heart
sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably
necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her
feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one
other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but
my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a
ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said,
but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"
"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She
was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few
minutes, the Misses Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty
to think and be wretched.
CHAPTER XXIII
HOWEVER small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might
be, it was impossible for her, on serious reflection, to suspect it in the
present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing
a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore,
Elinor could not, dared not, longer doubt; supported as it was, too, on every
side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own
wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a
foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit
near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own
prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of
the Misses Steele as to Norland and their family connections, which had often
surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body
of evidence as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established
as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.
Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a
short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,
soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard
for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the
heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at
present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her
mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland;
it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a
softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to
forgive! He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he
first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he
could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured
himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made
her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance
of ever being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but he, what had
he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele? Could
he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his
delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her- illiterate,
artful, and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to
everything but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years- years
which, if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding- must
have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time,
spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps
robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting
character to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his
difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now
likely to be when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in
connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These difficulties,
indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his
patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of
family opposition and unkindness could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she
wept for him more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having done
nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward
had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under
the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every
suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to
answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner, only two hours
after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one
would have supposed, from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was
mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object
of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a
man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected
to see in every carriage which drove near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne what had
been intrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing
exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the contrary, it was a
relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction
to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward,
which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself,
and which was more than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could
receive no assistance; their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example
nor from their praise. She was stronger alone; and her own good sense so well
supported her, that her firmness was unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as
invariable, as, with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them
to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on
the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more
reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement
repeated again; she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for
Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for
him; and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on
the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no
otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her
involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it
was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from
Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal
acquaintance with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir
John's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But, indeed, while Elinor
remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it
required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy
should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What
other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor
might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to
avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her
rival's intentions; and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every
principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward,
and to see him as little as possible, she could not deny herself the comfort of
endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now
have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she
did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars
with composure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any
that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their
joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the
others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the Park or
cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the
sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady
Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general
chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating,
drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other
game that was sufficiently noisy.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the
cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine
with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter,
and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Misses
Steele. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in
such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under
the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton, than when her husband
united them together in one noisy purpose immediately accepted the invitation;
Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant; and Marianne,
though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her
mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of
amusement, to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved
from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the
meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of
thought or expression; and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of
their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the
children accompanied them; and while they remained there, she was too well
convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They
omitted it only with the removal of the tea things. The card-table was then
placed; and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope
of finding time for conversation at the Park. They all rose up in preparation
for a round game.
"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to
finish poor little Anna-Maria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt
your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love
some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much
mind it."
This hint was enough; Lucy recollected herself instantly, and
replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting
to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my
filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and
if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after
supper."
"You are very good,- I hope it won't hurt your eyes:- will you ring
the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly
disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished to-morrow; for though I
told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done."
Lucy directly drew her work-table near her, and reseated herself
with an alacrity and cheerfulness, which seemed to infer, that she could taste
no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Cassino to the others. No one
made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of
general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me-
you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it
since it was tuned." And, without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked
to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven that she had never
made so rude a speech.
"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument, you know,
ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much
wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard."
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may
be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is
so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible, I think, for
her labour, singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work
exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."
"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried
Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and
it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Anna-Maria after all."
"Oh, that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear
little soul, how I do love her!"
"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you
really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till
another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus,
by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise,
gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room
for her with ready attention; and the two fair rivals were thus seated, side by
side, at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the
same work. The piano-forte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and
her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that anybody was in the room
besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she
might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject,
without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began:
"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me
with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its
subject. I will not apologise, therefore, for bringing it forward again."
"Thank you," cried Lucy, warmly, "for breaking the ice: you have
set my heart at ease by it; for I was, somehow or other, afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday."
"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor
spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention
than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust that was
not honourable and flattering to me?"
"And yet, I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes
full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me,
and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty
as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own
fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it
was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of
every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook everything else,
I am sure."
"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to
you to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never
have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to
be surrounded with difficulties; and you will have need of all your mutual
affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely
dependent on his mother."
"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
marry upon that; though, for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more
without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could
struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish
means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him, if he
married to please her. We must wait; it may be for many years. With almost every
other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection
and constancy nothing can deprive me of, I know."
"That conviction must be everything to you; and he is, undoubtedly,
supported by the same trust in yours. If the strength of your reciprocal
attachment had failed, as between many people, and, under many circumstances, it
naturally would, during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been
pitiable, indeed."
Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her
countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious
tendency.
"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the
test, by our long, very long absence, since we were first engaged, and it has
stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can
safely say that he has never given me one moment's alarm on that account from
the first."
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper, too, by nature; and
from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world
than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to
have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest
alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I
could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or
seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean
to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such
a case I am sure I could not be deceived."
"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us."
"But what," said she, after a short silence, "are your views? or
have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and
to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you,
rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?"
"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.
Ferrars is a very headstrong, proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon
hearing it would very likely secure every thing to Robert; and the idea of that,
for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures."
"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your
disinterestedness beyond reason."
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.
"Not at all- I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother- silly, and a great coxcomb."
"A great coxcomb?" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.
"Oh, they are talking of their favorite beaux, I dare say."
"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there- our favorite
beaux are not great coxcombs."
"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs.
Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modest, prettiest behaved
young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there
is no finding out who she likes."
"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I
dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's."
Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked
angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put
an end to it by saying, in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them
the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto.
"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into
my head for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the
secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward
to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan
is, that he should take orders as soon as he can; and then, through your
interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for
him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to
give him Norland living, which I understand is a very good one, and the present
incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry
upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."
"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest
on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John
Dashwood- that must be recommendation enough to her husband."
"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going
into orders."
"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."
They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed
with a deep sigh,
"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business
at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on
every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be
happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss
Dashwood?"
"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings; "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my
opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your
wishes."
"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know
nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really
believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put an end
to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of
both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately."
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and
replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion
on the subject, had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high: the
power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent
person."
"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might
justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any
respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having."
Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even
partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause, therefore,
of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first
to end it.
"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she, with
all her accustomary complacency.
"Certainly not."
"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes
brightened at the information; "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your brother and
sister will ask you to come to them."
"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."
"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Ann and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been
wanting us to visit them these several years. But I only go for the sake of
seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no
charms for me; I have not spirits for it."
Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the
first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at
an end; to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had
been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done
before; and Elinor sat down to the card-table with the melancholy persuasion
that Edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife,
but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which
sincere affection on her side would have given: for self-interest alone could
induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly
aware that he was weary.
From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor; and when
entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was
particularly careful to inform her confidant of her happiness whenever she
received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and
caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such
conversations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were
dangerous to herself.
The visit of the Misses Steele at Barton Park was lengthened far
beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could not
be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and, in spite of their
numerous and long-arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute
necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at
the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the
Park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a
more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its
importance.
CHAPTER XXV
THOUGH Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion
of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a
settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded
with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in
a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began,
on the approach of January, to turn her thoughts; and thither she one day
abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to
accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister,
and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be
speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined
resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings
received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I do
beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it.
Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at
all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I
hope I can afford that. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and,
when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you
may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to
it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that
she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't
get one of you, at least, well married before I have done with you, it shall not
be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may
depend upon it."
"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not
object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard,
indeed, that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does
not wish it. So I would advise you two to set off for town, when you are tired
of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it."
"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the
merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be
together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and
laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them,
I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself; I who
have been always used, till this winter, to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss
Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change
her mind by-and-by, why so much the better."
"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with
warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude forever; and it would give me
such happiness- yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of- to be able
to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother- I feel the justice of
what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable
by our absence- oh, no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not,
must not be a struggle."
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what
indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be
with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely
referred it to her mother's decision, from whom, however, she scarcely expected
to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which, on her own account, she had particular
reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager
to promote:- she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of
conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her
with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination
for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted
with Mrs. Jennings's manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most
wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a
proof, so strong, so full of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in
spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.
On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that
such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters,
and perceiving, through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the
heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon
her account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to
forsee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue
to them all from this separation.
"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I
could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When
you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together
with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved when you come
back again! I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may
now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you
should go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care
of a motherly, good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt.
And in all probability you will see your brother; and whatever may be his faults,
or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to
have you so wholly estranged from each other."
"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor,
"you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred
to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily
removed."
Marianne's countenance sunk.
"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear, prudent Elinor going
to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear
a word about the expense of it."
"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose
protection will give us consequence."
"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all,
and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton."
"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,"
said Marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I have
no such scruples; and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that
kind with very little effort."
Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference
towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within
herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she
did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her
own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne,
for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the
more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account,
was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
"I will have you both go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections
are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially
in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment,
she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect
some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken
her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock
might be less when the whole truth were revealed; and now, on this attack,
though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design, by
saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall
always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of
perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not."
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes
in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her
tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that
the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information
with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a
matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose
prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the
number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the
trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and
as for the Misses Steele, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their
lives as this intelligence made them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes
with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it
was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not; and when she saw
her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it
in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to
more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and
would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.
Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was
the perturbation of her spirits, and her impatience to be gone. Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at
the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's
affliction was hardly less; and Elinor was the only one of the three who seemed
to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January. The
Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Misses Steele kept their station
at the Park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
CHAPTER XXVI
ELINOR could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings,
and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with
that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many
had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before! But these
objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her
mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of
every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture
of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own
state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the
solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view,
the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time, however, must now
decide what Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in
town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him
there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his
character which her own observation, or the intelligence of others could give
her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous
attention, as to ascertain what he was, and what he meant, before many meetings
had taken place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was
determined, at all events, to open the eyes of her sister; should it be
otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature;- she must then learn to
avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her
satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour, as
they travelled, was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence
almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily
speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew
from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone
for this conduct, therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of
civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to
Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever
she could; and Mrs. Jennings, on her side, treated them both with all possible
kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and
only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn,
nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to
veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be
released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to
enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up; and the young
ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It
had formerly been Charlotte's; and over the mantel piece still hung a landscape
in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years
at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and
sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same. "I am writing
home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or
two?"
"I am not going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily,
and as if wishing to avoid any farther enquiry. Elinor said no more; it
immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and the
conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they
might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though
not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with
greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it
could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the direction;
and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the
footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny
post. This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in
them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner;
and when they afterwards returned to the drawing-room, seemed anxiously
listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being
much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea-
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more than
once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which
could not be mistaken for one at any other house. Elinor felt secure of its
announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the
door. Every thing was silent: this could not be borne many seconds; she opened
the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a
minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having
heard him would naturally produce: in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it
is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel
Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness; and she
immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she
experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly
saw that it was not unnoticed by him; that he even observed Marianne, as she
quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the
recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.
"Is your sister ill?" said he.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was; and then talked of
headaches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of everything to which she could
decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention; but seeming to
recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual enquiries about their
journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk; both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both
engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then
in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival;
and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London
ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment,
"almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it
has never been in my power to return to Barton."
This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back
to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the
uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings; and she was fearful
that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had
ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh, Colonel," said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you- sorry I could not come
before- beg your pardon- but I have been forced to look about me a little, and
settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you
know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away
for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with. Lord! I have been
as busy as a bee ever since dinner. But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure
out that I should be in town to-day?"
"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have
been dining."
"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does
Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."
"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well; and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."
"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought
two young ladies with me, you see- that is, you see but one of them now, but
there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too- which you will not
be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you
about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well, I was young
once, but I never was very handsome- worse luck for me. However, I got a very
good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah, poor
man! he has been dead these eight years and better. But, Colonel, where have you
been to since we parted. And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's
have no secrets among friends."
He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her enquiries, but
without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne
was obliged to appear again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and
silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous
in agreeing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy
looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished their
breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few
minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it
was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or
the Misses Dashwood again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was
what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's
invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would
never have forgiven them if they had not come!
"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she:- "What do you
think he said when he heard of your coming with mamma? I forget what it was now,
but it was something so droll!"
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable
chat, or in other words, in every variety of enquiry concerning all their
acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs.
Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to
some shops where she had business that morning, to which Mrs. Jennings and
Elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves;
and Marianne, though declining it at first, was induced to go likewise.
Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant
enquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally
abstracted from everything actually before them, from all that interested and
occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could
never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally
concern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to
be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the
tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by everything pretty, expensive,
or new; who was wild to buy all, could determined on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.
It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner
had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs; and when Elinor
followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance,
which declared that no Willoughby had been there.
"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she
to the footman, who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the
negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain that no
servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"
The man replied that none had.
"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.
"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her
sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town, she would not
have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and, if
he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh, my dear mother,
you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man
so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long
to enquire; and how will my interference be borne."
She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances
continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent
in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into
the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The
former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinor
was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. Marianne was of no
use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time
was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive
of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few
minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside; and she returned to the
more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room,
pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing
the long expected rap.
CHAPTER XXVII
"IF this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when
they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like leaving
Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor
souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart."
"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to
the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of that. This
weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."
It was a lucky recollection; all her good spirits were restored by
it. "It is charming weather for them indeed," she continued, as she sat down to
the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they must enjoy it! But"
(with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. At this
time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very
little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity.
In another day or two, perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer-
nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night!"
"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from
seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we shall have
Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week."
"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way."
"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by
this day's post."
But if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy
which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of
it might be, and far as Elinor was for feeling thorough contentment about it,
yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable
herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy ill the mildness of the weather, and
still happier in her expectation of a frost.
The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
Jennings's acquaintance, to inform them of her being in town; and Marianne was
all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the
variations of the sky, and imagining an alteration in the air.
"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There
seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in
my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too; the sun
will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon."
Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne perserved,
and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the
appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
The Misses Dashwood had no greater reason to be disatisfied with
Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her
behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household
arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old
city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she
visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of
her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that
particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the
want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at
home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.
Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was
with them almost every day: he came to look at Marianne, and talk to Elinor, who
often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other
daily occurrence, but who saw, at the same time, with much concern, his
continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It
grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne; and his
spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton.
About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby
was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the morning's
drive.
"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out."
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say,
"Depend upon it, he will call again to-morrow." But Marianne seemed hardly to
hear her, and, on Mrs. Jenning's entrance, escaped with the precious card.
This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to
those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this
moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the
day made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind, the next
morning, when the others went out.
Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley
Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister, when they
returned, was enough to inform her that Willoughby had paid no second visit
there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table,
"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
"No, ma'am, for my mistress."
But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
"It is, indeed, for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!"
"You are expecting for letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be
longer silent.
"Yes, a little- not much."
After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."
"Nay, Elinor this reproach from you- you who have confidence in no
one!"
"Me!" returned Elinor, in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell."
"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy; "our situations then are
alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you communicate,
and I, because I conceal nothing."
Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she
was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press
for greater openness in Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read
it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit Street
the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the
following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold on her own,
prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted; but
when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was, in common civility
to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had
some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing
of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad than
unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.
Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
materially altered by a change of abode; for, although scarcely settled in town,
Sir John had contrived to collect around him nearly twenty young people, and to
amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did
not approve. In the country, an unpremediated dance was very allowable; but in
London, where the reputation of elegance was more important, and less easily
obtained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have
it know that Lady Middleton had given a small dance, of eight or nine couple,
with two violins, and a mere sideboard collation.
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they
had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the
appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near
her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked at them
slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs.
Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the
apartment, as she entered: it was enough- he was not there; and she sat down,
equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been
assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Misses Dashwood, to
express his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been
first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something
very droll on hearing that they were to come.
"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.
"Did you?" replied Elinor.
"When do you go back again?"
"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse.
Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life as she
was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of
it, as they returned to Berkeley street.
"Ay, ay," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very
well: if a certain person, who shall be nameless had been there, you would not
have been a bit tired; and, to say the truth, it was not very pretty of him not
to give you the meeting when he was invited."
"Invited!" cried Marianne.
"So my daughter Middleton told me; for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning."
Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient, in
this situation, to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief,
Elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped, by awakening
her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure those enquiries which had been
so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by
perceiving, after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to
Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person.
About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on
business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless for
employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other,
or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in her
application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of
Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her, by every plea of duty and affection, to
demand from Marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him.
Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor,
and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window,
and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked
more than usually grave; and, though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss
Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some
time without saying a word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to
make, in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It
was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more
than once before, beginning with the observation of, "Your sister looks unwell
to-day," or, "Your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point,
either of disclosing, or of enquiring, something particular about her. After a
pause of several minutes, their silence was broken by his asking her, in a voice
of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a
brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question; and, having no answer
ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient of asking what he
meant? He tried to smile, as he replied: "Your sister's engagement to Mr.
Willoughby is very generally known."
"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own
family do not know it."
He looked surprised, and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my
enquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secresy intended, as
they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of."
"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"
"By many- by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you
are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I
might not have believed it, for where the mind is, perhaps, rather unwilling to
be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not,
when the servant let me in to-day, accidentally seen a letter in his hand,
directed to Mr. Willoughby, in your sister's writing. I came to enquire, but I
was convinced before I could ask the question. Is everything finally settled? Is
it impossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding.
Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I
hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence.
Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short
concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains."
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love
for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say
anything; and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time
on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things between
Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that, in endeavouring
to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet, as she
was convinced that Marianne's affection for Willoughby could leave no hope of
Colonel Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at
the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most
prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or
believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed
by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual
affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished
to hear.
He listened to her with silent attention; and on her ceasing to
speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying, in a voice of emotion, "To
your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour
to deserve her,"- took leave, and went away.
Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation to
lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary,
with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented
even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must
confirm it.
CHAPTER XXVIII
NOTHING occurred during the next three or four days to make Elinor
regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came
nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton
to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her
youngest daughter; and for this party Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of
her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or stayed,
prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the
drawing-room fire after tea till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without
once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts,
and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at last they were told that
Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten
that any one was expected.
They arrived in due time at the place of destination; and as soon
as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an
audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and
insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by courtesying
to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take
their share of the heat and inconvenience to which their arrival must
necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady
Middleton sat down to cassino; and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving
about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no
great distance from the table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a
very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he
immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach
Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with
the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could
be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him; and her whole
countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him
instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there- he is there! Oh, why
does he not look at me? Why cannot I speak to him?"
"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you
feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."
This, however, was more than she could believe herself; and to be
composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was
beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature.
At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started
up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him.
He approached; and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if
wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, enquired,
in a hurried manner, after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in
town. Elinor was robbed of all persence of mind by such an address, and was
unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.
Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest
emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not
received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"
He could not then avoid it; but her touch seemed painful to him,
and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently
struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression
becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.
"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and
Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope."
"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety. "Here is some mistake, I am sure- some dreadful mistake. What can be
the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for Heaven's sake tell me; what is the
matter?"
He made no reply: his complexion changed, and all his embarrassment
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been
previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered
himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the
information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me,"
turned hastily away with a slight bow, and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk
into her chair; and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to
screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender
water.
"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and
force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again must speak to him
instantly. I cannot rest- I shall not have a moment's peace till this is
explained- some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment."
"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This
is not the place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow."
With difficulty, however, could she prevent her from following him
herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the
appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more
effect, was impossible, for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low
voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short
time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase; and
telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him
again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged
her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too
miserable to stay a minute longer.
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of
going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the
carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to
Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for
tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to
their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon
undressed and in bed; and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then
left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough
for thinking over the past.
That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and
Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed
equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could
not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing
but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would
have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment
which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her
from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections
of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation.
Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined
him to overcome it; but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not
bring herself to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must
already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in
its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her
own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could esteem Edward as
much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always
supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed
uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from
Willoughby- in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him.
CHAPTER XXIX
BEFORE the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun
gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half
dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the
little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow
of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her
agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few
moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate
gentleness,-
"Marianne, may I ask-?"
"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."
The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no
longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the
same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her
letter; and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals,
to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it
was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby.
Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power;
and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not
Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability,
not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances it was better for both
that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind
not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed,
but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander
about the house till breakfast-time, avoiding the sight of everybody. At
breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention
was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing
to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning's notice entirely to
herself.
As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings it lasted a
considerable time; and they were just setting themselves after it round the
common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly
caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran
out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this as if she had seen the
direction that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at
heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general
tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jenning's notice. That
good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby,
which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by
hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress
she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug to see
any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk as soon as Marianne disappeared,
she said,-
"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in
my life! My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough;
but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the
bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite
grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?"
Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to
smile, replied, "And have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion
of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a
joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore,
that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing
would surprise me more than to hear of their going to be married."
"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we
all know that it must be a match,- that they were over head and ears in love
with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in
Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came
to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do.
Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses;
but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town
this ever so long. I tell every body of it, and so does Charlotte."
"Indeed, ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report; and you will
find that you have, though you will not believe me now."
Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more;
and eager at all events, to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to
their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed,
almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying
by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the
bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way
to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's.
The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this
behaviour; and, after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the
letters into Elinor's hands, and then covering her face with her handkerchief,
almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was
to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of
suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's
letter, read as follows:-
"BOND STREET, January.
"MY DEAR MADAM,
"I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I
beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was
anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and
though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate
as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have
been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance
with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter
myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My
esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate
as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall
reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that
esteem. That I should ever have meant more, you will allow to be impossible,
when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it
will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is
with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which
I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair which you so obligingly
bestowed on me.
"I am, dear Madam,
"Your most obedient
"humble servant,
"JOHN WILLOUGHBY."
With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss
Dashwood may be imagined. Though aware before she began it, that it must bring a
confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was
not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she
have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of
every honourable and delicate feeling- so far from the common decorum of a
gentleman- as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of
bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no
breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever;- a letter of which
every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened
villany.
She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then
read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her
abhorrence of the man; and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she
dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper, by
treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good, but as
an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils- a connection for
life with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the
most important.
In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the
depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and, probably, on the very
different mind of a very different person who had no other connection whatever
with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed,
Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three
letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in
the room, that when, on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the
window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all
astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been
ordered till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of
contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from
attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs.
Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the
excuse most readily; and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne,
whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in
time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want
of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and
many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer
supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an
aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. A glass of
wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she
was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor!
how unhappy I make you!"
"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were anything I could do,
which might be of comfort to you."
This, as everything else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh, Elinor, I am miserable,
indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
silence.
"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery while
you suffer: for her sake, you must exert yourself."
"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I
distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. Oh, how
easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own, to talk of exertion! Happy,
happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer."
"Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah, if you knew! And can you
believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched?"
"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck;
"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are- you must
be happy; Edward loves you- what, of what, can do away such happiness as that?"
"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.
"No, no, no," cried Marianne, wildly: "he loves you, and only you.
You can have no grief."
"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."
"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which
nothing can do away."
"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends?
Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now,
think of what you would have suffered, if the discovery of his character had
been delayed to a later period:- if your engagement had been carried on for
months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it.
Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the
blow more dreadful."
"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."
"No engagement!"
"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no
faith with me."
"But he told you that he loved you."
"Yes- no- never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never
professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never was."
"Yet you wrote to him?"
"Yes; could that be wrong, after all that had passed? But I cannot
talk."
Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which
now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents
of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in
town, was to this effect:-
BERKELEY STREET, January.
"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I
think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in
town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a
temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here
to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow.
For the present, adieu.
"M.D."
Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the
dance at the Middletons', was in these words:-
"I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day
before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a
note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you,
and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as
possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had
better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were
last night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that
you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much
altered, indeed, since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there.
But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your
personal assurance of its being otherwise.
"M.D."
The contents of her last note to him were these:-
"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night?
Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the
pleasure which our separation naturally produced,- with the familiarity which
our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have
passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely
be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any
reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your
justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived,
in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me
what it is; explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in
being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me, indeed, to be obliged to think
ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have
hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your
behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible.
My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit
you, but certainty on either side will be case to what I now suffer. If your
sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock
of my hair which is in your possession.
"M.D."
That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have
been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to
believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of
their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the
imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not
warranted by anything preceding, and most severly condemned by the event, when
Marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that
they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.
"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as
if the strictest legal convenant had bound us to each other."
"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel
the same."
"He did feel the same, Elinor- for weeks and weeks he felt it. I
know he did. Whatever may have changed him now (and nothing but the blackest art
employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul
could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged
of me with the most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had
you heard his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our
being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me that
it might be many weeks before we met again- his distress- can I ever forget his
distress?"
For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion
had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone, "Elinor, I have been cruelly used;
but not by Willoughby."
"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been
instigated?"
"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather
believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his
opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he
writes- whoever she be- or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mamma, and
Edward, may have been so barbarous to believe me. Beyond you three, is there a
creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby,
whose heart I know so well?"
Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been
so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my
dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and
good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride
which resists such malevolence."
"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care
not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all
the world. Elinor, who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like-
may resist insult, or return mortification- but I cannot. I must feel- I must be
wretched- and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."
"But for my mother's sake and mine-"
"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so
miserable- oh, who can require it?"
Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking
thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without
knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the
other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning
against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter, and, after
shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed-
"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours?
Cruel, cruel- nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might
have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not
to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 'The lock
of hair (repeating it from the letter) which you so obligingly bestowed on me'-
that is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those
words? Oh, barbarously insolent!- Elinor, can he be justified?"
"No, Marianne, in no possible way."
"And yet this woman- who knows what her art may have been?- how
long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!- Who is
she?- Who can she be?- Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive
among his female acquaintance- Oh, no one, no one:- he talked to me only of
myself."
Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended
thus:-
"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mamma. Can not we be
gone to-morrow?"
"To-morrow, Marianne!"
"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake-
and now who cares for me? Who regards me?"
"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much
more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty
removal as that."
"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here
long; I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The
Middletons and Palmers- how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as
Lady Middleton! Oh, what would he say to that?"
Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so;
but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she
moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her
sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was
fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops,
however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that
time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quite and motionless.
CHAPTER XXX
MRS. JENNINGS came immediately to their room on her return, and
without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and
walked in with a look of real concern.
"How do you do, my dear?" said she, in a voice of great compassion,
to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.
"How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No
wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon- a good-for-
nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an
hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else
I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it
was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young
lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may
plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it.
I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I
will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is
one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne- he is not the only young man in the world
worth having; and with your pretty face, you will never want admirers. Well,
poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out
at once, and have done with. The Parry and Sandersons luckily are coming to-
night, you know, and that will amuse her."
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she
supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could
bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to
have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly
possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her
dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed,
was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.
When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more, and was
calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been
conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well meant but ill-judged attentions to her,
this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her
lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every
thing that was passing before her.
Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its
effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her
those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could
not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy,
and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so.
She treated her, therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards
a favorite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best
place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and
to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the
sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been
entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a
variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the
consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she
could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of misery, and a sign to her
sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it
grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing
her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I
am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town
for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty
girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on
the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!"
"The lady, then,- Miss Grey, I think you called her,- is very
rich?"
"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,
stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy
Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together.
Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted;
for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and
hunters! Well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will,
comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business
to fly off from his word, only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready
to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn
off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss
Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't
do now a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young
men of this age."
"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be
amiable?"
"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss
Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry
to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree."
"And who are the Ellisons?"
"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age, and may choose for
herself; and a pretty choice she has made!- What now," after pausing a moment,
"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is
there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let
her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse
her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist, I know; but is there no
round game she cares for?"
"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare
say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her, if I can,
to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."
"Ay, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own
supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast
down this last week or two, for this matter, I suppose, has been hanging over
her head as long as that. And so the letter that came to-day finished it! Poor
soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it
for all my money. But then, you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made
sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people
like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters
will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in
Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them to-
morrow."
"It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer
and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest
allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point
out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is
present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more
my feelings will be spared, as you, my dear madam, will easily believe."
"Oh, Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to
hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word
about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would
Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate,
especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the
less that is said about such things the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and
forgot. And what does talking ever do, you know?"
"In this affair it can only do harm; more so, perhaps, than in many
cases of a similar kind; for it has been attended by circumstances, which, for
the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public
conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby- he has broken no
positive engagement with my sister."
"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement
indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms
they were to live in hereafter!"
Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther,
and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though
Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the
real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her
natural hilarity, burst forth again.
"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will
be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; ay, that he
will. Mind me, now, if they ain't married by Midsummer. Lord! how he'll chuckle
over this news! I hope he will come to-night. It will be all to one a better
match for your sister. Two thousand a year, without debt or drawback- except the
little love-child, indeed; ay, I had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out
at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can
tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the
best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord!
how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a
dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and everything,
in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and
only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you
only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the
carriages that pass along. Oh, 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the
village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand
times prettier than Parton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for
their meat, and have not a neighbor nearer than your mother. Well, I shall
spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives
another down. If we can but put Willoughby out of her head!"
"Ay, if we can do that, ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well
with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join
Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent
misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance, had
been her only light.
"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister
received from her.
"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this,
from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to
do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her
to compliance; and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she
hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.
In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined
by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.
"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have
some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I
have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of
it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky out, he said it did him more good
than any thing else in the world. Do take it to your sister."
"Dear ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have just left
Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of
so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine
myself."
Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the
chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at
present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed
heart, might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister.
Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea; and by his
manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that
he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was
already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by
the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the
tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered, "The Colonel looks as grave as
ever, you see; he knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look
which perfectly assured her of his good information, enquired after her sister.
"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been indisposed all day,
and we have persuaded her to go to bed."
"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this
morning may be- there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
first."
"What did you hear?"
"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think- in short, that a man,
whom I knew to be engaged- but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as
surely you must, I may be spared."
"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr.
Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we do know it all. This seems to have
been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us.
Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?"
"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two
ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an
account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that
it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John
Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed
was a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his
marriage with Miss Grey- it was no longer to be a secret- it would take place
even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters.
One thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
more:- as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his
seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment! but it would be impossible to describe
what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on enquiry,- for I stayed in the
shop till they were gone,- was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since
informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian."
"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty
thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."
"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable- at least I think-" He
stopped a moment; then added, in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And
your sister, how did she-"
"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that
they may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction.
Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps-
but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been
very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."
"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But your sister does
not- I think you said so- she does not consider quite as you do?"
"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would
still justify him if she could."
He made no answer; and soon afterwards by the removal of the tea-
things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily
dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were
talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication, in
such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a
man in the bloom of youth, of hope, and happiness, saw him, with amazement,
remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.
CHAPTER XXXI
FROM a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke
the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her
eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;
and before breakfast was ready they had gone through the subject again and again;
and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side,
the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's, as before.
Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as
herself, and at others lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting
him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the
world at another, she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third,
could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it
came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs.
Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was
hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with
any compassion.
"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her
kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip; and she only likes me now because I supply it."
Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which
her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement
of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of
a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of
the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with
excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor
candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,
and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on
herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their
own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in
her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source
of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse
of the utmost good-will.
With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countence gaily
smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
saying,-
"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you
good."
Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before
her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of
all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by
Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce, at her feet, by
the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment
was destroyed by the next. The hand-writing of her mother, never till then
unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which
followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant,
she had never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings, no language within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach
her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence;- a
reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that, after many expressions
of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. But the
letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby
filled every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying
as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application,
to entreat from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such
tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of
their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole
of it.
All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was
dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken
confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable
herself, to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in London or at
Barton, offered no counsel of her own, except of patience till their mother's
wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait
for that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be
easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and
positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of
the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to
communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in
laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of
what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who
came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the
table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her
for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect
on her mother.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when
Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a
rap at the door.
"Who can this be?" cried Elinor. "So early too! I thought we had
been safe."
Marianne moved to the window.
"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation. "We are never
safe from him."
"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."
"I will not trust to that," retreating to her own room. "A man who
has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that
of others."
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon did come in; and Elinor, who was
convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw that
solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief
enquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.
"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first
salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily
encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, which I
was very desirous of doing. My object- my wish- my sole wish in desiring it- I
hope, I believe it is- is to be a means of giving comfort:- no, I must not say
comfort- not present comfort- but conviction, lasting conviction to your
sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your mother- will you allow
me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a very sincere
regard- nothing but an earnest desire of being useful- I think I am justified-
though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right,
is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?" He stopped.
"I understand you," said Elinor. "You have something to tell me of
Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will be
the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. My gratitude will be
ensured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be
gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it."
"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,-
but this will give you no idea- I must go farther back. You will find me a very
awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account
of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short one. On such a
subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little temptation to be diffuse."
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh,
went on.
"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation- (it is not to
be supposed that it could make any impression on you)- a conversation between us
one evening at Barton Park- it was the evening of a dance in which I alluded to
a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister Marianne."
"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have not forgotten it." He looked
pleased by this remembrance, and added,-
"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind
as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits.
This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under
the guardianship of my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and from our
earliest years we were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when
I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as,
perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think
me incapable of having ever felt. Hers, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the
attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby, and it was, though from a different
cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was
married- married against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large,
and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said
for the conduct of one, who was once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not
deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would
support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the
misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her
resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing- but how blindly I
relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few
hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my
cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation far distant,
and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point
was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe
one;- but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must
have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This,
however, was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were
not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as
Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all the
misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome
those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that,
with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and I
was with my regiment in the East Indies), she should fall? Had I remained in
England, perhaps,- but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from
her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which
her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of
trifling weight was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
afterwards, of her divorce. It was that which threw this gloom,- even now the
recollection of what I suffered-"
He could say no more, and, rising hastily, walked for a few minutes
about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress,
could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed
it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion
enabled him to proceed with composure.
"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I
returned to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for
her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her
beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had
removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was
not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance; and
I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some
months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it
for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in
England, I did find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since
fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he
was confined for debt; and there, the same house, under a similar confinement,
was my unfortunate sister. So altered- so faded- worn down by acute suffering of
every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me,
to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once
doted. What I endured in so beholding her- but I have no right to wound your
feelings by attempting to describe it- I have pained you too much already. That
she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was- yes, in
such a situation, it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her,
beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw
her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her
every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last
moments."
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings
in an exclamation of tended concern at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the
resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their
fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition
of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have
been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what does all this lead?
I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood- a subject
such as this- untouched for fourteen years- it is dangerous to handle it at all!
I will be more collected- more concise. She left to my care her only child, a
little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about
three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a
valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the
strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our
situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was,
therefore, placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could; and after the
death of my brother (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me
the possession of the family property), she visited me at Delaford. I called her
a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general been suspected of
a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just
reached her fourteenth year) that I removed her from school, to place her under
the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the
charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two
years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February,
almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her
(imprudently, as it has since turned out), at her earnest desire, to go to Bath
with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there, for his
health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his
daughter better than she deserved; for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged
secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew
all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a man, could really, I believe,
give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the
girls were ranging over the town, and making what acquaintance they chose; and
he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his
daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn
nothing but that she was gone, all the rest, for eight long months, was left to
conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered
too."
"Good Heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be- could Willoughby!"-
"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a
letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I
received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was
the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time
have appeared strange to everybody, and which I believe gave offence to some.
Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for
incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one
whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have
availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister?
No, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would do. He
had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced in a situation of the
utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his
address! He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote,
nor relieved her."
"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.
"His character is now before you,- expensive, dissipated, and worse
than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I
must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being
assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your
sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to
know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it was known. My behaviour
must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer
you all to be so deceived; to see your sister- but what could I do? I had no
hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's
influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can
tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may
now, and hereafter doubtless will, turn with gratitude towards her own condition,
when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza; when she considers the wretched
and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an
affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind
tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this
comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be
nothing: they proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the
contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for
her unhappiness, and respect for or her fortitude under it, must strengthen
every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what
I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not
seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her
regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my
family afflictions,- with a recital which may seem to have been intended to
raise myself at the expense of others."
Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
attended, too, with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to
Marianne from the communication of what had passed.
"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit
him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect
conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much,
I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short
silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?"
"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was
unavoidable."
Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,-
"What! have you met him to-"
"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though
most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was
within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment; he to defend, I to
punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got
abroad."
Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and
a soldier she presumed not to censure it.
"Such," said Colonel Prandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter; and so imperfectly have I
discharged my trust."
"Is she still in town?"
"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her
near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she
remains."
Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same
grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.
CHAPTER XXXII
WHEN the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss
Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not
entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to
distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most
steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no
vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to show by her tears that she felt it to
be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of
this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her
speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect,
and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not
see her less wretched. Her mind did not become settled, but it was settled in a
gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily
than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss
Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might
once have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she
could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding
over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been
communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving
and answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her
daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful
than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters
from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered
and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she
would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad, indeed, must the nature
of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying
and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her
not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood
had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that
time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back
the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing
Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it
to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs.
Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by
all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects,
and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there,
and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond
herself, and even into some amusement. much as the ideas of both might now be
spurned by her.
From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered
her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends.
Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave
them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favor in the crowd of
London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before
her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood,
from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a
certain one.
She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were
to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they
should sometimes see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she
submitted to it, therefore, without opposition, though it proved perfectly
different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely
wrong, formed on mistaken grounds; and that, by requiring her longer continuance
in London, it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness,
the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such
scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest.
But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought
evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand,
suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted
herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate
against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an immediate
return into Devonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing
Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without
knowing it herself, reaped all its advantages; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor,
wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that
was impossible, and she was obliged to listen, day after day, to the indignation
of them all.
Sir John, could not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not
believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable business.
He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak another word
to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be by
the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together.
Such a scoundrel of a fellow! Such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time
they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of
it."
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to
drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never
been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was
not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far
off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his
name again, and she should tell every body she saw, how good-for-nothing he
was."
The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all the
particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to
Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building,
by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss
Grey's clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was
a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the
clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of
exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends: a
great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without feeling any
curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.
Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by
officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than
good-nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every
day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very
shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual, though gentle, vent, was
able not only to see the Misses Dashwood, from the first, without the smallest
emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter;
and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided
censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend
to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather
against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a
woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.
Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never
unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he
had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His
chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present
humiliations was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed
him, and the gentleness of her voice, whenever (though it did not often happen)
she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that
his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these
gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings,
who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave
as ever, and that she could never prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor
commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that,
instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end
of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding between
the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the
mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and
Mrs. Jennings had, for some time, ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of
Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that
he was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself,
as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that
Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which
she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation
on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out,
and for the rest of the day she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when
she first learnt to expect the event.
The Willoughby's left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor
now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail
on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go
out again, by degrees, as she had done before.
About this time the two Misses Steele, lately arrived at their
cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again
before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were
welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her
pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering
delight of Lucy in finding her still in town.
"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
still," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always
thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet a while;
though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a month.
But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it
came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have went away before
your brother and sister came. And now, to be sure, you will be in no hurry to be
gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to your word."
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
self-command to make it appear that she did not.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"
"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us.
Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise;
and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we
did."
"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor
is a single man, I warrant you."
"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "every body
laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they
are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about
him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,' my
cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. By
beau, indeed! said I- I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of
mine."
"Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking- but it won't do- the Doctor
is the man, I see."
"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I
beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
certainly would not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of
hostile hints, to the charge.
"No, I do not think we shall."
"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both
for so long a time together!"
"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit
is but just begun!"
Lucy was silenced.
"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss
Steele. "I am sorry she is not well;" for Marianne had left the room on their
arrival.
"You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the
pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous
headaches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."
"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and
me!- I think she might see us; and I am sure we would not speak a word."
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was,
perhaps, laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able
to come to them.
"Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and
see her."
Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but
she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which now,
as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of
one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.
CHAPTER XXXIII
AFTER some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,
and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an-hour.
She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more
than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on
a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there
was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she
had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends
transacted theirs, she should pay her visit, and return for them.
On ascending the stairs, the Misses Dashwood found so many people
before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their
orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done, was, to sit down
at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one
gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not
without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the
correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his
politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself; and till its
size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and
debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were
finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any
other attention on the two ladies than what was comprised in three or four very
broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance
of a person and face of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned
in the first style of fashion.
Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the
puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different
toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all;
for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as
ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own
bedroom.
At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment; and the gentleman having named the last day on
which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-
case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on
the Misses Dashwood, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express
admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected
indifference.
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the
point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him, with some surprise, to be
her brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a
very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far from
being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his
enquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive.
Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.
"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it
was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at
Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was
vastly pleased. This morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could
possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first
coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But to-morrow I think I
shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your
friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the
Middletons, too, you must introduce me to them. As my mother-in-law's relations,
I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to
you in the country, I understand."
"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their
friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express."
"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad,
indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune; they are
related to you; and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your
situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably
settled in your little cottage, and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most
charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said,
that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great
satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you."
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry
to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's
servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.
Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave.
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her
mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where." Mrs. Jennings,
however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they
were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs.
John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to them,
though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and
on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity
which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally
civil to him.
After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with
him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The
weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out
of the house, his enquiries began.
"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?"
"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."
"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life."
"Me, brother! What do you mean?"
"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.
What is the amount of his fortune?"
"I believe about two thousand a year."
"Two thousand a year!" and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were
twice as much for your sake."
"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me."
"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very
little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may
all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and
encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself.
And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be
supposed that any prior attachment on your side;- in short, you know, as to an
attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are
insurmountable- you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon
must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased
with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction.
In short, it is a kind of thing that," lowering his voice to an important
whisper, "will be exceedingly welcome to all parties." Recollecting himself,
however, he added, "That is, I mean to say- your friends are all truly anxious
to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much
at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured
woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other
day."
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time.
And yet it is not very unlikely."
"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be
married?"
"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will
come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The
lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty
thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a
doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a year is a great deal for a
mother to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit.
To give you another instance of her liberality:- The other day, as soon as we
came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she
put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And
extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are
here."
He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to
say,-
"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be
considerable; but your income is a large one."
"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to
complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time
be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious
drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East
Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. The
land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my
own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to
my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his
convenience; and it has cost me a vast deal of money."
"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth?"
"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day,
for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase money, I might have been
very fortunate indeed; for the stocks were, at that time, so low, that if I had
not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold
out to very great loss."
Elinor could only smile.
"Other great and inevitable expenses, too, we have had on first
coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were) to your
mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right
to dispose of his own property as he chose. But, in consequence of it, we have
been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of
what was taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we
must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."
"Certainly," said Elinor; "and, assisted by her liberality, I hope
you may yet live to be in easy circumstances."
"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied;
"but, however, there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid
of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked
out."
"Where is the green-house to be?"
"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come
down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts of the
park; and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly
pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the
brow."
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
thankful that Marianne was not present to share the provocation.
Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away
the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next
visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to
congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
"She seems a most valuable woman indeed. Her house, her style of
living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has
not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially
advantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour;
and indeed it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all
probability when she dies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal
to leave."
"Nothing at all I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children."
"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few
people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves she will be able
to dispose of."
"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to
her daughters, than to us?"
"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my
opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of
way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a
conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her
behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the
expectation it raises."
"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity, carries you too far."
"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people
have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the
matter with Marianne?- She looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown
quite thin. Is she ill?"
"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her, for
several weeks."
"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, anything of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one! She was as handsome
a girl last September, as I ever saw,- and as likely to attract the men. There
was something in her style of beauty to please them particularly. I remember
Fanny used to say, that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but
what she is exceedingly fond of you, but so it happened to strike her. She will
be mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne, will marry a man worth more
than five or six hundred a year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if
you do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my
dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can
answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of
your visitors."
Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too
much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on
seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every
possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for
his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that every body else should do a
great deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings,
was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.
They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides.
Sir John was ready to like anybody; and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know
much about horses, he soon sat him down as a very good-natured fellow: while
Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance
worth having; and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both.
"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he
walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant woman!
Such a woman as, I am sure, Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings, too,
an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. Your
sister need not have any scruple, even of visiting her, which, to say the truth,
has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs.
Jennings was the widow of a man, who had got all his money in a low way; and
Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her
daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now
I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."
CHAPTER XXXIV
MRS. JOHN DASHWOOD had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and
her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom
her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy of notice; and as for Lady
Middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world.
Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a
kind of cold-hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them;
and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a
general want of understanding.
The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to
the good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and
to her she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman, of uncordial
address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without
having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on
Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.
Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not choose to ask,
whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny
voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her, that his
marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on
Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much
attached to each other, that they could not be too seduously divided in word and
deed on every occasion. The intelligence, however, which she would not give,
soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's
compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr.
and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of
detection; and though their mutual impatience to meet was not to be told, they
could do nothing at present but write.
Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very
short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on the
table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor was pleased
that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.
The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons,
that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give
them a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in
Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their
sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise; and John Dashwood was careful
to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Misses Dashwood were,
received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They
were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
be of the party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make her
interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Edward's mother
without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an
introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her
opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her
curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.
The interest with which she thus anticipated the party was soon
afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the
Misses Steele were also to be at it.
So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so
agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly
not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to
ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to be
particularly convenient to the Misses Steele, as soon as the Dashwoods'
invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party
took place.
Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of
the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have
done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady
Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be
personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and
her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them,
had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John
Dashwood's card.
On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to
determine, that Edward, who lived with his mother, must be asked, as his mother
was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him, for the first time, after
all that passed, in the company of Lucy!- she hardly knew how she could bear it!
These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason,
and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved, however, not by her own
recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be
inflicting a severe disappointment, when she told her, that Edward certainly
would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain
still farther, by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection
for herself, which she could not conceal when they were together.
The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young
ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.
"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the
stairs together- for the Middletons arrived so directly after Miss Jennings,
that they all followed the servant at the same time:- "there is nobody here but
you that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious! In a
moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on- that is to be my
mother!"
Elinor could have given her immediate relief, by suggesting the
possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they
were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great
sincerity, that she did pity her- to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, though
really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible
envy to Elinor.
Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality,
in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was
sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression;
but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the
disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill-
nature. She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she
proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did
escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the
spirited determination of disliking her at all events.
Elinor could not now be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few
months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars'
power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to the Misses
Steele, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused
her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter
towards the very person- for Lucy was particularly distinguished- whom of all
others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to
mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat
pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied,
she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor
observe the studied attentions with which the Misses Steele courted its
continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four.
Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and
Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davis to be perfectly happy.
The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and
everything bespoke the mistress's inclination for show, and the master's ability
to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were making to
the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some
thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom
of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind,
except of conversation, appeared; but there the deficiency was considerable.
John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his
wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very
much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under
one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable- want of sense,
either natural or improved- want of elegance- want of spirits- or want of temper.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this
poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse
with some variety- the variety of politics, enclosing land, and breaking horses-
but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee
came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady
Middleton's second son William, who were nearly of the same age.
Had both the children been there, the affair might have been
determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present,
it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and everybody had a right to be
equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often
as they liked.
The parties stood thus-
The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was
the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,
were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the
other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not
conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them;
and Miss Steele, with yet greater address, gave it, as fast as she could, in
favour of each.
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by
which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity
of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on for hers,
offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had
never thought about it.
Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty
pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought
home, ornamented her present drawing-room; and these screens catching the eye of
John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were
officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration.
"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man
of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you have
ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general
reckoned to draw extremely well."
The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done anything painted by Miss
Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were
handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being
Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had
received gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented
them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they
were done by Miss Dashwood.
"Hum"- said Mrs. Ferrars- "very pretty,"- and without regarding
them at all, returned them to her daughter.
Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite
rude enough; for, colouring a little, she immediately said,-
"They are very pretty, ma'am- an't they?" But then again the dread
of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for
she presently added,-
"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of
painting, ma'am?- She does paint most delightfully!- How beautifully her last
landscape is done!"
"Beautifully indeed! But she does everything well."
Marianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased
with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense,
though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her
immediately to say, with warmth,-
"This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton
to us? who knows, or who cares, for her?- it is Elinor of whom we think and
speak."
And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's
hands to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced, in retort, this bitter philippic, "Miss Morton is
Lord Morton's daughter."
Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at
his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than she
had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on
Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate
heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.
Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed to her to foretell such
difficulties and distresses to Elinor as her own wounded heart taught her to
think of with horror; and, urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility,
she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her
neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice,-
"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you
unhappy."
She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome; and hiding
her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Everybody's attention was
called, and almost everybody was concerned. Colonel Brandon rose up and went to
them without knowing what he did. Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah!
poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately
enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed
his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief
account of the whole shocking affair.
In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an
end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the
impression of what had passed the whole evening.
"Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice, as soon as
he could secure his attention; "she has not such good health as her sister,- she is very nervous,- she
has not Elinor's constitution;- and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young
woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it,
perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.
Now you see it is all gone."
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