CHAPTER XXXV
ELINOR'S curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars, was satisfied. She had
found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and
her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties
that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage of Edward and
herself, had he been otherwise free; and she had seen almost enough to be
thankful, for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from
suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all
dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her opinion. Or at least, if
she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy,
she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.
She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by
the civility of Mrs. Ferrars; that her interest and her vanity should so very
much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she
was not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself,- or to allow her to derive
encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was
unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the
time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly; for at her
particular desire Lady Middleton set her down in Perkeley Street, on the chance
of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.
The chance proved a lucky one; for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
after she arrived carried Mrs. Jennings away.
"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves,
"I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs.
Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was! You
know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment I was
introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem
to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so?- You saw it all;
and was not you quite struck with it?"
"She was certainly very civil to you."
"Civil!- Did you see nothing but only civility?- I saw a vast deal
more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! No pride, no hauteur,
and your sister just the same- all sweetness and affability!"
Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her
to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on.
"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she,
"nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;- but as that was
not the case-"
"I guessed you would say so," replied Lucy, quickly;- "but there
was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction.
I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to
what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister.
They are both delightful women, indeed!- I wonder I should never hear you say
how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!"
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?- you seem low- you don't speak;- sure
you an't well."
"I never was in better health."
"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it.
I should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to
me in the world!- Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship."
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own
success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,-
"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and, next
to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now there
is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady
Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley
Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister- besides,
Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;- and Mrs. Ferrars and your
sister were both so good to say, more than once, they should always be glad to
see me. They are such charming women!- I am sure if ever you tell your sister
what I think of her, you cannot speak too high."
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she
should tell her sister. Lucy continued,-
"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had
took dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance,
without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never
looked at me in a pleasant way- you know what I mean- if I had been treated in
that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could
not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent."
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph,
by the doors being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward's immediately walking in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed
that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have
as great an inclination to walk out of the room again as to advance farther into
it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have
been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only all three
together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies
recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,
and the appearance of secresy must still be kept up. She could therefore only
look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and
her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection,
to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open;
and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow
the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself,
to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very
much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She
would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and
almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon
perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage
enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a
proportion which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare;
for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have
quite the ease of Elinor's.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost
every thing that was said proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer
all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c., which
Edward ought to have enquired about, but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt
herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in
the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-
place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When
that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures to Edward to cease;
for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure
in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and
strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that
expressed the affection of a sister.
"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!
This would almost make amends for every thing?"
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down,
and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the
most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor,
regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's
unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice
Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree
with her.
"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness,
though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my health.
Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy,
nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very
benignant expression.
"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that
might introduce another subject.
"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.
The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and, thank Heaven!
you are what you always were!"
She paused- no one spoke.
"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to
take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall
be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge."
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not
even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to
whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of
something else.
"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull,
so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be
said now."
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of
her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being
particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
"But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come?"
"I was engaged elsewhere."
"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"
"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to
keep them, little as well as great."
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of
the sting; for she calmly replied,-
"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he has the
most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every
engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or
pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and
the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so,
and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised?- Then you must
be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem must
submit to my open commendation."
The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however,
happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to
go away.
"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be."
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that
Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he
would go; and Lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted two hours,
soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving
them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone?- how teazing to Edward!"
"Why so? We were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest
known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as
ourselves."
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that
this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your
assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect
that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked
out of assurances that are not really wanted."
She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no
information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her
still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that
she could hope was, that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the
distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any
other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting- and this she had
every reason to expect.
CHAPTER XXXVI
WITHIN a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to
the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son
and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those
intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced
a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like
degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as
possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was
dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Misses Dashwood,
at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day, in
every day, in Conduit Street. For their own comfort, they would much rather have
remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a
thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore
made over to Lady Middleton and the two Misses Steele, by whom their company, in
fact, was as little valued as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former;
and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on their
ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolise. Though nothing
could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she
did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her
children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of
reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was
to be satirical; but that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and
easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked
the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed
of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of,
and administer at other times she feared they would despise her for offering.
Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three by their presence; and it was
in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have
given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.
Willoughby she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of
the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But
this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of
pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the
inconstancy of beaux before Marianne; no effect was produced, but a look of
indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet
lighter might have made her their friend;- would they only have laughed at her
about the doctor! But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined to
oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day
without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough
to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the
girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night
on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them
sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she
always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing
Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a
detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One
thing did disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer
maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants
being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most
striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both
sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe
that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even
be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child
in the world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs.
Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance
had dropt in- a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to
her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form
wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's
happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far out-run truth and
probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Misses Dashwood, and
understanding them to be Mrs. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them
to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced, within a day
or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them, as well as for their brother
and sister, to a small musical party at her house; the consequence of which was,
that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit, not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Misses Dashwood, but, what was
still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat
them with attention, and who could tell that they might not expect to go out
with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must
always be hers. But that was not enough: for when people are determined on a
mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the
expectation of anything better from them.
Marianne had now been brought, by degrees, so much into the habit
of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her
whether she went or not; and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every
evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any,
and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent
as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet,
which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being
together when it was finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation and
general curiosity; she saw everything, and asked everything; was never easy till
she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the
number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself; and
was not without hopes of finding out, before they parted, how much her washing
cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with
a compliment, which, though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as
the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the
value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her
hair, she was almost sure of being told, that "upon her word she looked vastly
smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests."
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed, on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes
after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-
in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there
hoping for some delay on their part, that might inconvenience either herself or
her coachman.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party,
like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste
for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the
performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their
immediate friends, the first private performers in England.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand piano-forte whenever it suited her,
and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violincello, would fix them
at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances
she perceived, among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a
lecture on toothpick-cases, at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking
at herself, and speaking familiary to her brother; and had just determined to
find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a
bow, which assured her, as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly
the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her,
if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit
of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the
finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have
begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did
not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one put her out of all charity
with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they were different, Robert
explained to her himself, in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation;
for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really
believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously
attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a
private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any
material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I
often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear madam,' I always
say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it
has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir
Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the
most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well
as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been
prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother
is perfectly convinced of her error."
Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of
Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
"You reside in Devonshire, I think," was his next observation, "in
a cottage near Dawlish?"
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
surprising to him, that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near
Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation, however, on their species of house.
"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage;
there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if
I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself,
within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time,
and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise everybody who is
going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the
other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans
of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland.' said I,
immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but
by all means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space
in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's,
near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But how can it be done?'
said she: 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a
room in this cottage that will hold ten couple; and where can the supper be?' I
immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear
Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining-parlour will admit eighteen couple
with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be
open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-
room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple,- and the affair was
arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but
know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as
in the most spacious dwelling." Elinor agreed to it; she did not think he
deserved the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest
sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on anything else; and a thought
struck him, during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her
approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake,
in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their
being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jenning's engagements kept her
from home. The expense would be nothing; the inconvenience not more; and it was
altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny
was startled at the proposal.
"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting
Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention
in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But they are Lady
Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?"
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection. They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and
Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days
to such near relations.
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,-
"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Misses Steele to spend a few
days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the
attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask
your sisters some other year, you know; but the Misses Steele may not be in town
any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very
much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the
Misses Steele immediately; and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of
inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slily suspecting
that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town
as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as their visitor.
Fanny rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her
sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare
them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood
seemed actually working for herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all
her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above
all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most
gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully
acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton,
which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have
been always meant to end in two days' time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes
after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so
short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose
from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by
time and address, to do everything that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already
subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of
Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.
The Misses Steele removed to Harley Street; and all that reached
Elinor of their influence there strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir
John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the
favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never
been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had
given each of them a needle-book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her
Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with
them.
CHAPTER XXXVII
MRS. PALMER was so well at the end of a fortnight that her mother
felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,
contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that
period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Misses
Dashwood very ready to re-assume their former share.
About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled
in Berkley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs.
Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an
air of such hurrying importance, as prepared her to hear something wonderful;
and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by
saying,-
"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"
"No, ma'am. What is it?"
"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was
very ill- it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it
directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red
gum;' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied,
so Mr. Donovan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley
Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, be
said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world, but the red gum, and then
Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my
head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my
head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered,
and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in
a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under
your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that
I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very
well.'"
"What! is Fanny ill?"
"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.
Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter,
by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I
used to joke with you about (but, however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad
there was never anything in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged
above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! There's for you, my dear! And not a
creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed
such a thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but
that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!
That is strange! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should
have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear
of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of
the matter; till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning
creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they
are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it' and
so away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work,
little suspecting what was to come- for she had just been saying to your brother,
only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and
some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was
to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with
such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own
dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the
country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was
come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity
her. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded
like fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her
knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said
he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute
longer in the house; and your brother was forced to down upon his knees, to
persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. Then she
fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr.
Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at
the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as
he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and
Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister;
and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a
taking poor Edward will be in, when he hears of it! To have his love used so
scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should
not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!- and Mr. Donavan thinks
just the same. He and I, had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all
is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when
Mrs. Ferrars is told of it; for she was sent for, as soon as ever my cousins
left the house, for your sister was sure she would be in hysterics too; and so
she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of
people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on
earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may
afford to do very well by her son; and though Lucy has next to nothing herself,
she knows better than any body how to make the most of everything; I dare say,
if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a year, she would make as good
an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they
might live in such another cottage as yours- or a little bigger- with two maids,
and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a
sister out of place, that would fit them exactly."
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased; and as Elinor had had time enough to
collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such
observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to
find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs.
Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to
imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the
absence of Marianne she felt very well able to speak of the affair without
embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on
the conduct of every one concerned in it.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event
really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What
Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature,
she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct
himself. For him she felt much compassion;- for Lucy very little- and it cost
her some pains to procure that little;- for the rest of the party none at all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw
the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost
in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth and in
endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that
she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.
Elinor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she
really believed to be her sister's chief consolation, to give such particulars
of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion- and to make
Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem
strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task
must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform
it.
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feeling or to
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she
had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagements might suggest a
hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple;
and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by
violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. That belonged rather to the hearer, for
Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the
comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the
comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a
very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was
readily offered.
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward
seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she had loved
him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she
considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a
sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and
afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even
admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was
so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the
fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for
some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms,
and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther
particulars, was-
"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to
you?"
"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton
Park, last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."
At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which
her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-
"Four months! Have you known of this four months?"
Elinor confirmed it.
"What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
heart? And I have reproached you for being happy!"
"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the
reverse."
"Four months!" cried Marianne again. "So calm! so cheerful! How
have you been supported?"
"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy obliged me
to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth;
and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about
me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy."
Marianne seemed much struck.
"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,"
added Elinor, "and once or twice I have attempted it; but without betraying my
trust, I never could have convinced you."
"Four months! and yet you loved him!"
"Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others
was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I
can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my
account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many
things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment
by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without
spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very
happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though he may harbour
some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense; and that is
the foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all, Marianne,
after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment,
and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular
person, it is not meant- it is not fit- it is not possible that it should be so.
Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and
understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that
he ever thought another superior to her."
"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of
what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.
They are brought more within my comprehension."
"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.
For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being
at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you
and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you yet unable to
prepare you for it in the least. It was told me- it was in a manner forced on me
by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and
told me, as I thought, with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have
had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most
deeply interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and
exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be divided from
Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire
the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him
indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister,
and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an
attachment, without enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a
time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you
can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have
suffered now. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present,
to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have
been the effect of constant and painful exertion; they did not spring up of
themselves; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne.
Then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me
entirely not even what I owed to my dearest friends- from openly showing that I
was very unhappy."
Marianne was quite subdued.
"Oh, Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.
How barbarous have I been to you!- you, who have been my only comfort, who have
borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me! Is
this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you? Because your merit
cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away."
The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of
mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever
promise she required; and, at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of
the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness; to meet Lucy
without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; and even to see
Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of
her usual cordiality. These were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that
she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. She
attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an
unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times
to say, "Yes, ma'am." She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from
one chair to another; and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it
cost her only a spasm in her throat. Such advances towards heroism in her sister,
made Elinor feel equal to anything herself.
The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from
their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
affair, and bring them news of his wife.
"You have heard, I suppose," said he, with great solemnity, as soon
as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof
yesterday."
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for
speech.
"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars
too- in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress- but I will hope
that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor
Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much.
Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is
a good one, and her resolution equal to anything. She has borne it all with the
fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of any body again;
and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!- meeting with such
ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been
placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked
these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some
attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions;
for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be
with us, while your kind friend there was attending her daughter. And now to be
so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny, in her affectionate
way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'"
Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her,
is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a
most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the
time secretly engaged to another person!- such a suspicion could never have
entered her head! If she suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be
in that quarter. 'There, to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself
safe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what
should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am
sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an
end to the engagement, assisted too, as you may well suppose, by my arguments,
and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, everything was
disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother
explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told
him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings
in a good thousand a year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it
twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low
connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match.
His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see
him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance,
that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she
would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands
together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible?"
"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the
obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very
natural."
Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
forbore.
"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said
very little; but what he did say was in the most determined manner. Nothing
should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him
what it might."
"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to
be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood,
but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some
little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my
cousin; and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one
who more deserves a good husband."
John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not
open to provocation; and he never wished to offend any body, especially any body
of good fortune. He therefore replied without any resentment:
"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,
madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman; but in the
present case, you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered
into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a
woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is, perhaps,
altogether a little extraordinary. In short I do not mean to reflect upon the
behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish
her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole has been
such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It
has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will
be a bad one."
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart
wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a
woman who could not reward him.
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?"
"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture. Edward is
dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but
where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for we of
course can make no enquiry."
"Poor young man! and what is to become of him?"
"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the
prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The
interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on it? And when to that is
added the recollection that he might, but for his own folly, within three months,
have been in the receipt of two thousand five hundred a year (for Miss Morton
has thirty thousand pounds), I cannot picture to myself a more wretched
condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out
of our power to assist him."
"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very
welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him.
It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings
and taverns."
Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though
she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood,
"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his
proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing; but as it is, it must be
out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing
against him, which must be worse than all,- his mother has determined, with a
very natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon Robert immediately,
which might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning
with her lawyer, talking over the business."
"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is her revenge. Every body has a
way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son independent
because another had plagued me."
Marianne got up and walked about the room.
"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued
John, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might
have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely."
A few minutes more, spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded
his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed
there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need not
therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away, leaving the three ladies
unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it
regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and Edward's.
Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room;
and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs.
Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
MRS. JENNINGS was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but
only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. They only knew how little he
had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation,
beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of
friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all
his offences in compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between
them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a
subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided
it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too
warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued
affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's courage
soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more
dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced
between Elinor's conduct and her own.
She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister
had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of
continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted
herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope
of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened, that she still fancied present
exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of
affairs in Harley Street or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the
matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do
in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had
resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and enquiry to her cousins as
soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual had
prevented her going to them within that time.
The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars was so
fine, so beautiful a Sunday, as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it
was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number;
but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a
constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into
so public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after
they entered the Gardens; and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with
them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to
quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for
some time nothing of any body who could by any chance, whether grave or gay, be
interesting to her. But at last she found herself, with some surprise, accosted
by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in
meeting them; and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs.
Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join theirs. Mrs. Jennings
immediately whispered to Elinor,-
"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing, if
you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's
too, that she would tell any thing without being asked; for nothing would
otherwise have been learnt.
"I am so glad to meet you," said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly
by the arm- "for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And then
lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is she
angry?"
"Not at all, I believe, with you."
"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is she angry?"
"I cannot suppose it possible that she should."
"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time
of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would
never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as
she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever.
Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There
now, you are going to laugh at me too.- But why should not I wear pink ribands?
I do not care if it is the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I
should never have known he did like it better than any other colour, if he had
not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes
I do not know which way to look before them."
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to
say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the
first.
"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say
what they choose about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is
no such thing, I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured
reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you
know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain."
"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure
you," said Elinor.
"Oh, did not you? But it was said, I know, very well, and by more
than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could
expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand
pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele, that had nothing at all; and I had it
from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that
when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when
Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think
myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away
from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday,
Friday, and Saturday and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought
to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However, this morning
he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had
been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and
all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but
Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what
passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got
upon his horse, and rid into the country, somewhere or other; and how he had
stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of
it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as
if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to
keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had
nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to
go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy; and
how was they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no
better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the
matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as
plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for her sake, and upon her
account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take
my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry
Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to
such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet
and love, you know, and all that- Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things
you know)- she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be
off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little soever he might
have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind.
So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should
do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be
married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my
cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and
would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room
and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to
leave Edward; so I just ran up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and
came off with the Richardsons."
"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said
Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were you not?"
"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make
love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better
than that. (Laughing affectedly.) No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room
together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door."
"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door! I am sorry I did not know it before;
for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a
conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so
unfairly by your sister?"
"Oh, la! there is nothing in that. I only stood at the door, and
heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for
a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she
never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on
purpose to hear what we said."
Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not
be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
"Edward talks of going to Oxford, soon," said she; "but now he is,
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan't say
anything against them to you; and to be sure they did send us home in their own
chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a
fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had given us a
day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to
keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he
must go there for a time; and after that, as soon as he can light upon a bishop,
he will be ordained, I wonder what curacy he will get? Good gracious! (giggling
as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of
it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of
his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for
all the world. 'La!' I shall directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a
thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'"
"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the
worst. You have got your answer ready."
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the
approach of her own party made another more necessary.
"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say
to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are
very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own
coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell
her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton
the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and
Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and
stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't
ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here.
Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on! I
wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."
Such was her parting concern; for after this she had time only to
pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by
Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed
her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than
what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's
marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place
remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be:- every thing
depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that perferment, of
which there seemed not the smallest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager
for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible
intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined
herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured
that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The
continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for
promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs.
Jennings the following natural remark:-
"Wait for his having a living!- ay, we all know how that will end:-
they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down
upon a curacy of fifty pounds a year, with the interest of his two thousand
pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her. Then they
will have a child every year! and, Lord help 'em! how poor they will be! I must
see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men,
indeed! as I talked of t' other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works. Betty's sister would never do for them now."
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself. It was as follows:-
"Bartlett's Building, March.
"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of
writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear
such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have
went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say
that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now,
and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great
trials, and great persecutions, but, however, at the same time, gratefully
acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great
kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told
of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I
spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon: he would not hear of our
parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it
for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent
to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger,
while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure,
but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should
it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to
bestow, am very sure you will not forget us; and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust
she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that
may be able to assist us.- Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she
did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too
much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, it would
be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.- My paper
reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully
remembered to her, and to Sir John and Lady Middleton, and the dear children,
when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
"I am, &c. &c."
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded
to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who
read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.
"Very well indeed!- how prettily she writes!- ay, that was quite
proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul! I wish
I could get him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings,
you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very well, upon my word. That
sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough.
How attentive she is, to think of every body!- Thank you, my dear, for showing
it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart
great credit."
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE MISSES DASHWOOD had now been rather more than two months in
town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for
the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied, that if any place
could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than
herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected
immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey,
which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began, however,
seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment; and had already
mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the
eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining
them from yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more
eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland, about the end
of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends,
received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would not,
in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood; but it was
enforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the
very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known
to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.
When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply
was not very auspicious.
"Cleveland!" she cried, with great agitation. "No I cannot go to
Cleveland."
"You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not- that
it is not in the neighbourhood of-"
"But it is in Somersetshire. I cannot go into Somersetshire. There,
where I looked forward to going;- no, Elinor, you cannot expect me to go there."
Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
feelings; she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others; and
represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her
returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more
eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps
without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of
Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's
journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down;
and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland,
they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's
affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty,
over the imaginary evils she had started.
Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her that she pressed
them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful
for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's
concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was
arranged as far as it could be; and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a
statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton.
"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the
Misses Dashwood," was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on her,
after their leaving her was settled; "for they are quite resolved upon going
home from the Palmers; and how forlorn we shall be when I come back! Lord! we
shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats."
Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of
their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself
an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her
object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously
the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he
followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her
there for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady, too, could
not escape her observation; for though she was too honorable to listen, and had
even changed her seat, on purpose that she might not hear, to one close by the
piano-forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from
seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent
on what he said to pursue her employment. Still farther in confirmation of her
hopes, in the interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some
words of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be
apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt.
She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to
be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish,
but judged, from the motion of her lips, that she did not think that any
material objection; and Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for being so
honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a
syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these
words in the Colonel's calm voice,-
"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."
Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost
ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it?" but checking her desire,
confined herself to this silent ejaculation,-
"This is very strange!- sure he need not wait to be older."
This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend
or mortify his fair companion in the least; for, on their breaking up the
conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very
plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to feel what she
said,-
"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you."
Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered,
that, after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of
them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without
making her any reply! She had not thought her old friend could have made so
indifferent a suitor.
What had really passed between them was to this effect.
"I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice
your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for, if I understand the
matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his
engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I been rightly informed? Is
it so?"
Elinor told him that it was.
"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty," he replied, with great
feeling, "of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached
to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing-
what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in
Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one
can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to
wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more.
I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him
that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's
post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance; but that, perhaps, so
unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it be nonsense to appear to doubt; I
only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late
incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200l. per annum; and though it is
certainly capable of improvement, I fear not to such an amount as to afford him
a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him
to it will be very great. Pray assure him of it."
Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been
greater had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The
preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward,
was already provided to enable him to marry; and she, of all people in the world,
was fixed on to bestow it! Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed
to a very different cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing,
might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and
her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel
Brandon to this act, were strongly felt and warmly expressed. She thanked him
for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with
that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the
commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an
office to another. But, at the same time, she could not help thinking that no
one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office, in short, from which,
unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from her, she would
have been very glad to be spared herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of
equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being
given through her means, that she would not, on any account, make farther
opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had
heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake, therefore, to inform
him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel
Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and
agreeable a neighbour, and then it was that he mentioned, with regret, that the
house was small and indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had
supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.
"The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them; for it will be in proportion to their family and income."
By which the Colonel was surprised to find that she was considering
Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he
did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income as
anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on, and he said so.
"This little rectory can do no more than make Mr. Ferrars
comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that
my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If,
however, by an unforseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I
must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to
be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now
doing, indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards
what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must
still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."
Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended
the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but, after this narration of what really
passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the
gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting may perhaps appear, in
general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded, than if it had
arisen from an offer of marriage.
CHAPTER XL
"WELL, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as
soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been
saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I tried to keep out of hearing, I
could not help catching enough to understand his business; and I assure you I
never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my
heart."
"Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor. "It is a matter of great joy to me,
and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men
who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I
never was more astonished in my life."
"Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at
it in the world; for I have often thought, of late, there was nothing more
likely to happen."
"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general
benevolence; but at least you could not forsee that the opportunity would so
very soon occur."
"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings. "Oh, as to that, when a man
has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an
opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever
there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look
for them."
"You mean to go to Delaford after them, I suppose," said Elinor,
with a faint smile.
"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed; and as to the house being a bad
one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever
I saw."
"He spoke of its being out of repair."
"Well, and whose fault is that? Why don't he repair it?" Who should
do it but himself?
They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the
carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings, immediately preparing to go,
said,-
"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.
But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite
alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of
the matter to care for company; and, besides, you must long to tell your sister
all about it."
Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not
mention it at present to any body else."
"Oh, very well," said Mrs. Jennings, rather disappointed. "Then you
would not have me tell it to Lucy; for I think of going as far as Holborn to-
day."
"No, ma'am, not even Lucy, if you please. One day's delay will not
be very material; and, till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not
to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do that directly. It is of importance
that no time should be lost with him; for he will of course have much to do
relative to his ordination."
This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr.
Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry she could not
immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however, produced a very
happy idea; and she exclaimed,-
"Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so
much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I
am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not
this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? Sure, he is
the proper person."
Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's
speech, neither did she think it worth enquiring into; and therefore only
replied to its conclusion.
"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any
one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."
"And so you are forced to do it. Well, that is an odd kind of
delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write). You
know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing
to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed."
And away she went; but returning again in a moment,-
"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be
very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's
maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well
at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure."
"Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she
said, and more anxious to be alone than to be mistress of the subject.
How she should begin,- how she should express herself in her note
to Edward,- was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them
made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest
thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and
sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her band, till broken in on by
the entrance of Edward himself.
He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door, in her way to the carriage,
as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not
returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was
above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business.
Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her
perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by
letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth,
when her visitor entered, to force her upon this great exertion of all. Her
astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had
not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since
his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what
she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel
particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He, too, was much distressed; and
they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. Whether he
had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could
not recollect; but, determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology
inform, as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair.
"Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me,
at least I understood her so,- or I certainly should not have intruded on you in
such a manner; though, at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to
leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most
likely be some time- it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of
meeting you again. I go to Oxford to-morrow."
"You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself,
and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible,
"without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in
person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of
consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper.
I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as
she spoke). Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me
to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in
offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were
more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-
judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living- it is about two
hundred a year- were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you
to- as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself- such, in short,
as might establish all your views of happiness."
What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be
expected that any one else should say it for him. He looked all the astonishment
which such unexpected, such unthought of information could not fail of exciting;
but he said only these two words,
"Colonel Brandon!"
"Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the
worst was over; "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what
has lately passed,- for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct
of your family has placed you,- a concern, which I am sure Marianne, myself, and
all your friends, must share; and, likewise, as a proof of his high esteem for
your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the
present occasion."
"Colonel Brandon give me a living! Can it be possible?"
"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to
find friendship any where."
"No," replied be, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in you;
for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I feel it-
I would express it if I could- but, as you well know, I am no orator."
"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it
entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's
discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I
understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to
me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my
family, he may, perhaps, indeed I know he has, still greater pleasure in
bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation."
Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action;
but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of
Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to
fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time
he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it
were rather an effort, he said,-
"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I
have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him
highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the
gentleman."
"Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on
farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be; and as you will be such
very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the
mansion-house) it is particularly important that he should be all this."
Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave
her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he
might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house
much greater.
"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he,
soon afterwards, rising from his chair.
Elinor told him the number of the house.
"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will
not allow me to give you; to assure him that he has made me a very- an
exceedingly happy man."
Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very
earnest assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in
every change of situation that might befall him; on his, with rather an attempt
to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.
"When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut
him out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy."
And with this pleasing anticipation she sat down to reconsider the
past, recall the words, and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward;
and of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.
When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing
people whom she had never seen before, and of whom, therefore, she must have a
great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in
her possession, than by any thing else, that she reverted to it again as soon as
Elinor appeared.
"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up to the young man. Did
not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty you did not find him
very unwilling to accept your proposal?"
"No, ma'am; that was not very likely."
"Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend
upon that."
"Ready," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms,
that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary;
but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."
"Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how
calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless
me! I am sure it would put me quite out of patience! And though one would be
very glad to do a kindness to poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while
to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that
would do as well; somebody that is in orders already."
"My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why,
Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."
"Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that
the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!"
The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation
immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the
moment, without any material loss of happiness to either; for Mrs. Jennings only
exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her
expectation of the first.
"Ay, ay, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the
first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely may be
out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to
my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the
housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! and to you, too, that had been
used to live in Barton cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must
touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable
for them, before Lucy goes to it."
"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's
being enough to allow them to marry."
"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a
year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it,
that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before
Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't there."
Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not
waiting for any thing more.
CHAPTER XLI
EDWARD, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded
with his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached
Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on
her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in
such spirits before in her life.
Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain;
and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all
comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at
the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward
would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most
gratefull warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly
declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present
or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any
thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was
not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was, moreover, truly anxious that
he should be treated as one in all wordly concerns; anxious that his tithes
should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at
Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows,
and his poultry.
It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkely
Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's
indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to
pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own
inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her
companions. Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was
very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her
carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John
Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late
discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could
overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that
Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have
less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman whom neither
of the others had so much reason to dislike.
Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from
the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in
meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkely Street,
and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come
in.
They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room. Nobody was there.
"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he: "I will go to her
presently, for or am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to
seeing you. Very far from it, indeed. Now especially there cannot be- but,
however, you and Marianne were always great favourites. Why, would not Marianne
come?"
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good
deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's- can it be true? has he
really given it to Edward? I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you
on purpose to enquire farther about it."
"It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living of
Delaford to Edward."
"Really! Well, this is very astonishing!- no relationship!- no
connection between them!- and now that livings fetch such a price!- what was the
value of this?"
"About two hundred a year."
"Very well- and for the next presentation to a living of that
value- supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to
vacate it soon- he might have got, I dare say- fourteen hundred pounds. And how
came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death? Now, indeed,
it would be too late to sell it; but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense! I wonder
he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!
Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every
human character. I suppose, however- on recollection- that the case may probably
be this. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel
has really sold the presentation is old enough to take it. Ay, ay, that is the
fact, depend upon it."
Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating
that she had herself been employed in conveying the off from Colonel Brandon to
Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged
him to submit to her authority.
"It is truly astonishing!" he cried, after hearing what she said:
"what could be the Colonel's motive?"
"A very simple one,- to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."
"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very
lucky man. You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however; for though I have
broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well, she will not like to hear it much
talked of."
Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she
thought Fanny might have borne with composure an acquisition of wealth to her
brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly improverished.
"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming
so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present; and I believe it
will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be. When the
marriage takes place, I fear, she must hear of it all."
"But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be
supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that
her son has money enough to live upon, for that must be quite out of the
question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? She
has done with her son,- she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over
whom she had any influence cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she
cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account;
she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be so weak
as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a
parent!"
"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good; but it is
founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes place,
depend upon it, his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him;
and, therefore, every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event must
be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that
Edward is her son."
"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her
memory by this time."
"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most
affectionate mothers in the world."
Elinor was silent.
"We think now," said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of
Robert's marrying Miss Morton."
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her
brother's tone, calmly replied,-
"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."
"Choice! how do you mean?"
"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must
be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert."
"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now, to all
intents and purposes, be considered as the eldest son; and, as to any thing else,
they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one is superior to
the other."
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His
reflections ended thus:-
"Of one thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and
speaking in an awful whisper, "I may assure you; and I will do it, because I
know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think- indeed I have it from the
best authority, or I should not repeat it; for otherwise it would be very wrong
to say any thing about it,- but I have it from the very best authority, not that
I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself, but her daughter did, and I
have it from her,- that, in short, whatever objections there might be against a
certain- a certain connection, you understand me,- it would have been far
preferable to her,- it would not have given her half the vexation that this does.
I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light;
a very gratifying circumstance, you know, to us all. 'It would have been beyond
comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two; and she would be glad to
compound now for nothing worse.' But, however, all that is quite out of the
question,- not to be thought of, or mentioned. As to any attachment, you know,
it never could be: all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of
this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason
to regret, my dear Elinor: there is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well,-
quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon
been with you lately?"
Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind; and she was, therefore,
glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from
the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr.
Robert Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that
Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest
of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the
gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner, while enjoying so
unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his
banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life and that
brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head
and heart.
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began
to speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living and was very
inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had
given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not
less striking than it had been on him. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of
Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him
beyond measure; and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward
reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage
between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity the
conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him
with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very
well bestowed; for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him.
He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own
sensibility.
"We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the
affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the
moment; "but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is
ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it; for I know him to be a very good-
hearted creature,- as well-meaning a fellow, perhaps, as any in the world. You
must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from your slight acquaintance. Poor Edward!
His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we are not all born,
you know, with the same powers,- the same address. Poor fellow! to see him in a
circle of strangers! To be sure it was pitiable enough; but, upon my soul, I
believe he bas as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest
to you, I never was so shocked in my life as when it all burst forth. I could
not believe it. My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling
myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,- 'My dear
madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion; but as for
myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see
him again.' That was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked,
indeed. Poor Edward! he has done for himself completely,- shut himself out for
ever from all decent society! But, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in
the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be
expected. My poor mother was half frantic."
"Have you ever seen the lady?"
"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop
in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her; the merest awkward country
girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I remember her
perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor
Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to
talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late then, I
found, to do any thing; for, unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew
nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when, it was not for me,
you know, to interfere. But, had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I
think it is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly
should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear fellow,' I
should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are making a most
disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in
disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been
found; but now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know, that is certain;
absolutely starved."
He had just settled this point with great composure, when the
entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though she never
spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind in
the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an
attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as
to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town,
as she had hoped to see more of them; an exertion in which her husband, who
attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to
distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.
CHAPTER XLII
ONE other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton without any
expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or
two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town; and a faint
invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland whenever it should happen to be in
their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm,
though less public, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with
which he should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting
in the country.
It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to
send her to Delaford; a place, in which, of all others, she would now least
choose to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future
home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they parted, gave her
a pressing invitation to visit her there.
Very early in April and tolerably early in the day, the two parties
from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes, to
meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her
child, they were to be more than two days on their journey; and Mr. Palmer,
travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them at
Cleveland soon after their arrival.
Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager
as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu
to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that
confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great
pain. Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new
engagements, and new schemes, in which she could have no share, without shedding
many tears.
Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on; she left no
creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for
ever; she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's
friendship; she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughby
since his marriage; and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of
tranquility at Barton might do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and
confirming her own.
Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them
into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset; for as such was it
dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third
they drove up to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping
lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and,
like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open
shrubbery, and closer wood walk; a road of smooth gravel, winding round a
plantation, led to the front; the lawn was dotted over with timber; the house
itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia,
and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars,
shut out the offices.
Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from
the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from
Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the
others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she
quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just
beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian
temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the southeast, could
fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from
their summits Combe Magna might be seen.
In such moments of precious, of invaluable misery, she rejoiced in
tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to
the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from
place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost
every hour of every day, while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence
of such solitary rambles.
She returned just in time to join the others, as they quitted the
house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the
morning was easily whiled away in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining
the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon
blights,- in dawdling through the greenhouse, where the loss of her favourite
plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter
of Charlotte,- and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed
hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox,
or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of
merriment.
The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of
employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their
stay at Cleveland. With great surprise, therefore, did she find herself
prevented, by a settled rain, from going out again after dinner. She had
depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the
grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it;
but a heavy and settled rain even she could not fancy dry or pleasant weather
for walking.
Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs.
Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they had talked of the
friends they had left behind; arranged Lady Middleton's engagements, and
wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading
that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse;
and Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library,
however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a
book.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and
friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The
openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of
recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of
politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her
folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and
Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.
The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner,
affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to
their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced
very low.
Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had
seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not
what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly
the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude
to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant
companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to
fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to
be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits,
they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual
in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours;
fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at
billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him, however,
upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not
sorry that she could like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation
of his epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on
the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident
feelings.
Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who,
treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind of
confidant of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at Delaford,
described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards
removing them. His behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other
particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days,
his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might
very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would have
been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed Marianne
his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it was, such a notion
had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and
she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two: she watched
his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his looks
of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and throat, the
beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the
latter lady's observation,- she could discover in them the quick feelings, and
needless alarm of a lover.
Two delighted twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of
her being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the
grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was
something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest,
and the grass was the longest and wettest, had- assisted by the still greater
imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings- given Marianne a cold so
violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself
by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined.
Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore
throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty
that Elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the
simplest of the remedies.
CHAPTER XLIII
MARIANNE got up the next morning at her usual time; to every
enquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging
in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the
fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary
and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when,
at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was
only astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her
the whole day, against Marianne inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her
at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.
A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the
expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed
herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very
ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending for the Palmers' apothecary.
He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood
to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word
"infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby's
account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think Marianne's
complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report,
and confirming Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her
immediate removal with the infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their
apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great
to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour
after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for
the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other
side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her
in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to
accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made
Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland
as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care,
to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and Elinor
found her, on every occasion, a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to
share in all her fatigues, and often, by her better experience in nursing, of
material use.
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and
feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that to-morrow would find
her recovered; and the idea of what to-morrow would have produced, but for this
unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have
begun their journey home; and attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs.
Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon.
The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though
Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she then really
believed herself, that it would be a very short one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the
patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment,
did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer,
though very unwilling to go, as well from real humanity and good-nature as from
a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last,
by Colonel Brandon, to perform his promise of following her; and while he was
preparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to
talk of going likewise. Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed
most acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister's account would be to deprive them both, she thought,
of every comfort; and, therefore, telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland
was necessary to herself that she should want him to play at piquet of an
evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, &c., she urged him so
strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart
by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs.
Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a
relief to himself in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or
advise Miss Dashwood in any emergency.
Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these
arrangements. She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of
Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her
no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no
concern, she never mentioned her name.
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure; and
her situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who
attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery; and Miss
Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means
so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined, very early in the seizure, that
Marianne would never get over it; and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in
listening to Mrs. Jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist
their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different
judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each
day in which he was left entirely alone were but too favourable for the
admission of every melancholy idea; and he could not expel from his mind the
persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.
On the morning of the third day, however, the gloomy anticipations
of both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his
patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more
favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope,
was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that, in her letters to her mother, she had
pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the
indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time
when Marianne would be able to travel.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the
evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to
attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have
her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with
satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most
beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it,
lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing
of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one
of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and
Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed, and her
sister, who watched, with unremitting attention, her continual change of posture,
and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her
lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne,
suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and,
with feverish wildness, cried out,-
"Is mamma coming?"
"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again; "but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It
is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."
"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner. "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."
Elinor perceived, with alarm, that she was not quite herself, and,
while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker
than ever. And Marianne, still talking wildly of mamma, her alarm increased so
rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and
despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel
Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter was a thought which
immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung
up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-
room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the
present.
It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him. Her fears, he had, no courage, no confidence, to attempt
the removal of: he listened to them in silent despondence; but her difficulties
were instantly obviated; for, with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion,
and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger
who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily
overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude; and while he
went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for
post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon,- or
such a companion for her mother,- how gratefully was it felt! a companion whose
judgment would guide, whose must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!
As far as the shock of such a summons could be lessened to her, his presence,
his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.
He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness
of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch,
and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return.
Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they
were expected; and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of
solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the
carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's
apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the
rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after
hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the
most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions
once raised paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant
who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only
tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on
her mother; and whenever she mentioned her name it gave a pang to the heart of
poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of
illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might
soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to
herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to
see her rational.
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if he
could not come, for some other advice, when the former- but not till after 5
o'clock- arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay;
for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his
patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief
which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a
lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the
course of three or four hours; and left both the patient and her anxious
attendant more composed than he had found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called
to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her
former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the
event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her
sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was
really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely
as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs.
Jennings's compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her
companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly
injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister, too, particularly a
favourite, was before her; and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to her what Charlotte was to herself,
her sympathy in her sufferings was very sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had
failed; the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet- not more herself-
remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fear in
a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he
had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success
he was as confident as the last; and his visit concluded with encouraging
assurances which reached the ear but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood.
She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless;
and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's
bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to
another; and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs.
Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack
to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment had
brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh
misery to her reflections.
About noon, however, she began- but with a caution- a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent even to her friend- to fancy,
to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse: she waited,
watched, and examined it again and again; and at last, with an agitation more
difficult to bury under exterior calmness than all her foregoing distress,
ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination,
to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from
indulging a thought of its continuance; and Elinor, coming over every injunction
of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had
already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister
to watch- she hardly knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable
symptom yet blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin,
her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her
eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now
oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the
arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock; when his assurances, his felicitations on
a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence,
comfort, and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every respect materially better; and he declared
her entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial
justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm,
allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and
soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.
Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and
led to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne, restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations
of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervant gratitude; but it lead to no
outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor's breast
was satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission,
the whole afternoon; calming every fear, satisfying every enquiry of her
enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and
every breath. The possibility of a relapse would, of course, in some moments,
occur to remind her of what anxiety was; but when she saw, on her frequent and
minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne
at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable,
sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on when Colonel Brandon might be expected
back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later, her mother would
be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling
towards them. The Colonel, too!- perhaps scarcely less an object of pity! Oh!
how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!
At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined
Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her
fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much; and the present
refreshment. therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was
particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclusion,
to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow her to take her place
by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that
moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary
instant. Mrs. Jennings, therefore, attending her up stairs into the sick chamber,
to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge
and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and
the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it
not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers, they had a rich
reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been
convinced that at the moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and
so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility
of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet
and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw
that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were
immediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it
to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor
mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm as at
that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage
stopped at the door- of her doubt- her dread- perhaps her despair!- and of what
she had to tell! with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that
remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore, staying only till she
could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,
assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room:
she entered it- and saw only Willoughby.
CHAPTER XLIV
ELINOR, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him,
obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room; and
her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily
advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication-
"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour- for ten minutes- I entreat you to
stay."
"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall not stay. Your
business cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr.
Palmer was not in the house."
"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and
all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door.
My business is with you, and only you."
"With me!"- in the utmost amazement- "well, sir, be quick- and if
you can, less violent."
"Sit down, and I will be both."
She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel
Brandon's arriving and finding her there came across her. But she had promised
to hear him; and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. After a
moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch,
and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the
table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair; and for half a minute not a
word was said by either.
"Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently; "I have no time to
spare."
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to
hear her.
"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards, "is
out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! But is it true? Is
it really true?"
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the enquiry with yet greater
eagerness.
"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"
"We hope she is."
He rose up, and walked across the room.
"Had I known as much half an hour ago;- but since I am here,"
speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,- "what does it
signify? For once, Miss Dashwood- it will be the last time, perhaps- let us be
cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly," a deeper
glow overspreading his cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?"
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began
to think that be must be in liquor;- the strangeness of such a visit, and of
such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she
immediately rose, saying,-
"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you, at present, to return to Combe. I am
not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me,
will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow."
"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a
voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef
at Marlborough was enough to overset me."
"At Marlborough!" cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to
understand what he would be at.
"Yes,- I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only
ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nunchion
at Marlborough."
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he
spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him
to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a
moment's recollection,-
"Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do that after
what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my
notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it than you mean by it?"
"I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate
me one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation,
some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by
convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been
always a rascal, to obtain something like
"Is this the real reason of your coming?"
"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought
all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and, in spite of herself, made her
think him sincere.
"If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne does,
she has long forgiven you."
"Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven
me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more
reasonable grounds. Now will you listen to me?"
Elinor bowed her assent.
"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side,
and thoughtfulness on his own, "how you may have accounted for my behaviour to
your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you
will hardly think the better of me,- it is worth the trial, however,- and you
shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no
other intention, no other view in the acquaintance, than to pass my time
pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I
had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person, and interesting manners,
could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first was of a
kind- it is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that
my heart should have been so insensible! But at first, I must confess, my vanity
only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own
amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit
of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing
to her, without any design of returning her affection."
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most
angry contempt, stopped him, by saying:-
"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or
for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any
thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing anything more on the subject."
"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied. "My fortune
was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming
of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death
of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free, yet that event being uncertain,
and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish
my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister,
therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood,
can ever reprobate too much- I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her
regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me:
even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the
injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to love. But have I
ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have
sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or what is more, could I have
sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her
affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by
raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing."
"You did, then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself
at one time attached to her?"
"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such
tenderness! Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself,
by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life
were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable,
and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on paying
my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to
day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement
while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here- nor
will I stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity,
of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has
proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a
possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At
last, however, my resolution was taken; and I had determined, as soon as I could
engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and
openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to
display. But in the interim- in the interim of the very few hours that were to
pass before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private- a
circumstance occurred- an unlucky circumstance- to ruin all my resolution, and
with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,"- here he hesitated and looked
down. "Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant
relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a
connection- but I need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her
with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye- "your particular intimacy- you
have probably heard the whole story long ago."
"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her
heart anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all; and how you
will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business I confess is
beyond my comprehension."
"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account.
Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character
ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the
same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge- that because
she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must
be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding-
I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better
treatment; and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which,
for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish- I heartily
wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured
one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers;
and whose mind- oh, how infinitely superior!"
"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl- I must
say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be- your
indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself
excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the
wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were
enjoying yourself in Devonshire, pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always
happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."
"But, upon my soul, I did not know it," he warmly replied: "I did
not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense
might have told her how to find it out."
"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"
"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be
guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of
the world- every thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and
vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe,
to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was, moreover, discontented
with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had
bestowed on her in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By
one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not be; and
I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this
affair- I was to go the next morning- was spent by me in deliberating on what my
future conduct should be. The struggle was great, but it ended too soon. My
affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me- it was
all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those
false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel;
and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my
present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that
nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A heavy scene, however,
awaited me before I could leave Devonshire: I was engaged to dine with you on
that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this
engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person,
was a point of long debate. To see Marianne I felt would be dreadful; and I even
doubted whether I could see her again and keep to my resolution. In that point,
however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I
saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable; and left her hoping
never to see her again."
"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a
note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call?"
"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the
country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to
suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself, and I
resolved, therefore, on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight
of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter,
I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not know where. I had left her only
the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!
A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how happy,
how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied
with myself, delighted with every body? But in this, our last interview of
friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the
power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I
told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately- I never shall
forget it- united, too, with such reliance, such confidence in me! Oh, God! what
a hard-hearted rascal I was!"
They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.
"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"
"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less
than was due to the past beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than
was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do. Then came your
dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank
Heaven! it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an
idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a
grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my
past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I went,
left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was only
indifferent. My journey to town- travelling with my own horses, and therefore so
tediously- no creature to speak to- my own reflections so cheerful- when I
looked forward every thing so inviting!- when I looked back at Barton, the
picture so soothing!- oh, it was a blessed journey!"
He stopped.
"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient
for his departure, "and this is all?"
"All!- no:- have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous
letter? Did she show it you?"
"Yes, I saw every note that passed."
"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I
was in town the whole time), what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one, perhaps too simple to raise my emotion, my
feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word, was- in the hackneyed
metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid- a dagger to my
heart. To know that Marianne was in town was, in the same language, a
thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers! what a reproof would she have given me!
Her taste, her opinions- I believe they are better known to me than my own, and
I am sure they are dearer."
Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of
this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again; yet she felt it her
duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."
"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as
in former days- that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she
was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of
mine as ever- awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London,
business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing
a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to
fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business; shrugging up my shoulders in
proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple,
by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well
married.' But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was
infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using
her infamously. But every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.
To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do was to avoid you both. I sent no
answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her farther notice;
and for some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley Street; but at
last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than
anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left
my name."
"Watched us out of the house!"
"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you,
how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop
to avoid your sight as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street,
there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you;
and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably
prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I
avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as every body else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town,
however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and
the day after I had called on Mrs. Jennings. He asked me to a party, a dance at
his house in the evening. Had he not told me as an inducement that you and your
sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing to trust
myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne-
still affectionate, open, artless, confiding- everything that could make my
conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried- but could not frame a
sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you can
pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart
full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!
Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell
you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of
agony Willoughby was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me
such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation,
with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! and
Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other, looking all that was- Well, it does
not signify; it is over now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as
I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. That
was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in which she appeared
to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying,
it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would
appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly
before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue."
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first
rousing himself, broke it thus:-
"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly
better, certainly out of danger?"
"We are assured of it."
"Your poor mother, too! doting on Marianne."
"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter: have you any
thing to say about that?"
"Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you
know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the
Ellisons',- and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my
lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine;- and its size,
the elegance of the paper, the handwriting altogether, immediately gave her a
suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some
young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the
preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous
than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in
a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She
was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her
wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion- her malice- at all events it
must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my letter-writing?
delicate- tender- truly feminine- was it not?"
"Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing."
"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences
as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own- her own happy
thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged, every thing
in preparation, the day almost fixed- but I am talking like a fool. Preparation!
Day! In honest words, her money was necessary to me; and in a situation like
mine any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it
signify to my character, in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what
language my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel; and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster
was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion,' said I to
myself: 'I am shut out for ever from their society; they already think me an
unprincipled fellow; this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.'
Such were my reasonings as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my
wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes,-
unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever- I was forced to put them up, and could not
even kiss them. And the lock of hair- that, too, I had always carried about me
in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by madam with the most
ingratiating virulence,- the dear lock, all, every memento was torn from me."
"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby; very blamable," said Elinor;
while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you
ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had
made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your
politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would
not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly,
is no atonement to Marianne; nor can I suppose it a relief to your own
conscience."
"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh; "she
does not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and
afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or
have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,- be it only one degree,- am I less
guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong.
Have I explained away any part of my guilt?"
"Yes, you have certainly removed something- a little. You have
proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have
proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know- the misery
that you have inflicted- I hardly know what could have made it worse."
"Will you repeat to your sister, when she is recovered, what I have
been telling you? Let me be a little lightened, too, in her opinion as well as
in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy
that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from
her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.
Tell her of my misery and my penitence;- tell her that my heart was never
inconstant to her; and, if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me
than ever."
"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be
called your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular
reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."
"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton;
and when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to me.
That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or
resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of
indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the
temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think
it would, vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told
me that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland- a letter
that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent- the
Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be able to
pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was
softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that
when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old
promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying,
and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating
me in her latest moments- for how could I tell what horrid projects might not
have been imputed? One person I was sure would represent me as capable of any
thing. What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at eight
o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all."
Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the
irreparable injury which too early an independence, and its consequent habits of
idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the
happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a
disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The
world had made him extravagant and vain- extravagance and vanity had made him
cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity while seeking its own guilty triumph at the
expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance,
or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The
attachment, from which against honor, against feeling, against every better
interest, he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed
every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little
scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness
to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was
recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a
reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said-
"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."
"Are you going back to town?"
"No- to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in
a day or two. Good-by."
He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers: he
pressed it with affection.
"And you do think something better of me than you did?" said he,
letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece, as if forgetting he was
to go.
Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished
him well- was even interested in his happiness- and added some gentle counsel as
to the behavior most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging.
"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I
can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to
think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the
means- it may put me on my guard- at least it may be something to live for.
Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance
at liberty again-"
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
"Well," he replied, "once more good-by. I shall now go away and
live in dread of one event."
"What do you mean?"
"Your sister's marriage."
"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is
now."
"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one
should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear- but I will not
stay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that where I
have most injured I can least forgive. Good-by- God bless you!"
And with these words he almost ran out of the room.
CHAPTER XLV
ELINOR, for some time after he left her, for some time even after
the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd
of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general
result, to think even of her sister.
Willoughby- he whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the
most worthless of men- Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree
of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of
him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret,
rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself, to his wishes
than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by
circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight: by that person of
uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner, which it was no
merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not
even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she
could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found
her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her
hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's
visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her
altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of
fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was
the time, however, in which that fear could affect her; for within half an hour
after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the
sound of another carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary
moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the
outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had
produced almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to
enquire after her, no voice even for Elinor: but she, waiting neither for
salutation nor enquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother,
catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her
happiness as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the
drawing-room between her daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of
joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from
her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at
once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss
of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was
her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered
dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor's delight,
as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of
its robbing Marianne of farther sleep: but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be
even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake; and Marianne, satisfied in
knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every
nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood would sit up with her all night; and Elinor, in
compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one
night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to
make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor
Willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her
thoughts: she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now
blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the
performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether,
after such an explanation, she could ever be happy with another; and for a
moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved
herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy, far more than to his
rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.
The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much
softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her
uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out for
Cleveland on that very day without waiting for any further intelligence, and had
so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then
expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to
take her where there might be infection.
Marianne continued to mend every day; and the brilliant
cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she
repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor
could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes
wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood,
trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment, which Elinor had
sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would
increase it. Marianne was restored to her, from a danger in which, as she now
began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate
attachment to Willoughby had contributed to place her; and in her recovery she
had yet another source of joy, unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to
her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my
happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself."
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised
and not surprised, was all silent attention.
"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your
composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I
should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you, as the object most
desirable; and I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two."
Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none, founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given: but her mother must always be carried
away by her imagination, on any interesting subject; and, therefore, instead of
an enquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came
out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of
nothing but my child:- he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled
my own; and he, perhaps thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes,
would not justify so warm a sympathy; or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose,
giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender,
constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the
first moment of seeing her."
Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the language, not the
professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's
active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing any thing that
Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant,
whichever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear
Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! and without
selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have seen her happy with
another. Such a noble mind! such openness, such sincerity! No one can be
deceived in him."
"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man,
is well established."
"I know it is," replied her mother, seriously, "or, after such a
warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased
by it. But his coming for me, as he did, with such active, such ready friendship,
is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."
"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on one
act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the
case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been
long and intimately known: they equally love and respect him; and even my own
knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do
I value and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as
ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the
world. What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope?"
"Oh, my love! I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
Marianne might, at that moment, be dying. But he did not ask for hope, or
encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a
soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet, after a time, I did say,
for, at first, I was quite overcome, that if she lived, as I trusted she might,
my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our
arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully,
have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell
him, will do every thing; Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such
a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it."
"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet
made him equally sanguine."
"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any
change in it under a great length of time; and even supposing her heart again
free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age
and disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken.
His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his
character and principles fixed; and his disposition, I am well convinced, is
exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners, too,
are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me: he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby; but, at the same time, there is something much more
pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if you remember, in
Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like."
Elinor could not remember it; but her mother, without waiting for
her assent, continued:
"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing
to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more
solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to
other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity, is much more accordant with
her real disposition than the liveliness, often artificial, and often ill-timed
of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really
amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have
been so happy with him as she will be with Colonel Brandon."
She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her; but her
dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.
Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability- for I hear it is
a large village- indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage
close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation."
Poor Elinor!- here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!-
but her spirit was stubborn.
"His fortune too!- for at my time of life, you know, every body
cares about that;- and though I neither know, nor desire to know, what it really
is, I am sure it must be a good one."
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person; and
Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend,
and yet, in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
CHAPTER XLVI
MARIANNE'S illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her
mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove,
within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-
room. When there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour
forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to
visit her.
His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and
in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such as,
in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for
Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon
discovered, in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her
sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind,
brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged,
and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of
reclining weakness; and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter,
but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the
most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of
Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude
already dawned.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's
wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On her measures depended those of
her two friends: Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods
stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider
his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his
and Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation
of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and
Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for
other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit
at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.
The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after
taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from
a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon
farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the
carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs.
Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to
talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was
summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of
her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.
The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her
journey on both without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care, could do to render her comfortable, was the
office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily
ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was
particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly
suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak
of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally
share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result, as she trusted,
of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which
every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she
grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat
earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor
blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she
had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any
thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In
the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened
to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sittingroom,
than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if
determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which
the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every
sentence aimed at cheerfulness; and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it
never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try
her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was
an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite
duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing. That
would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over
the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the
instrument again; declaring, however, with firmness, as she did so, that she
should in future practice much.
The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On
the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest she looked and
spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return,
and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their
mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.
"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,"
said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm
at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir
John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go
the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are
told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass
happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time
till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed
my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere
amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there
are others of more modern production, which I know I can borrow of Colonel
Brandon. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of a
twelvemonth a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."
Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the
extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining now at work in introducing
excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her
smile, however, changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby
was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again
unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin, at least for a time, this fair prospect
of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to
wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the
resolution was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft,
genial morning appeared, such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the
mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to
walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne
in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had
advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the
important behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly
said,-
"There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting
mound, there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,-
"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the
spot! Shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?" hesitatingly it was said. "Or
will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do."
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as
he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for
him, but what they are now. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if
I could be allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not always
deceiving me; but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so very
wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that
unfortunate girl-"
She stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,-
"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."
"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to of such designs,
but what must it make me appear to myself? What, in a situation like mine, but a
most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to-"
"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his
behaviour?"
"I would suppose him- oh, how gladly would I suppose him!- only
fickle, very, very fickle."
Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the
eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were
in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last, with a
sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own.
He will suffer enough in them."
"Do you compare your conduct with his?"
"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it
with yours."
"Our situations have borne little resemblance."
"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor,
let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has
made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection.
Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I
considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our
acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards
myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared
my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the
grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such
negligence of my own health, as I had felt, even at the time, to be wrong. Had I
died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the
danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I
wonder at my recovery,- wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to
have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had
I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my
sister! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had
known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in your
remembrance! My mother, too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot express
my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty
neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The
kindness, the unceasing kindness, of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful
contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common
acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against
their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny,
yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But
you, you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew
your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?- not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me; but to
what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your
forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of
general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to
discharge alone? No; not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had
believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship;
scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which
had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for or I professed an unbounded
affection, to be miserable for my sake."
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that
praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved.
Marianne pressed her hand and replied,-
"You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down
my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it, my feelings shall be governed
and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I
shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must
henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between
you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to
move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit
is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby, to say that
I shall soon, or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance
can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall be
regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment."
She paused- and added, in a low voice, "If I could but know his
heart, every thing would become easy."
Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety
or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did
nothing resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on
which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and
softened only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word. She
trembled: her eyes were fixed on the ground; and her lips became whiter than
even sickness had left them. A thousand enquiries sprung up from her heart, but
she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness: her
hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
her cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till
they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
must be, though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but
Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every
particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As
soon as they entered the house, Marianne, with a kiss of gratitude, and these
two words just articulate through her tears, "Tell mamma," withdrew from her
sister, and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a
solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously
prearranging its results, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should
Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.
CHAPTER XLVII
MRS. DASHWOOD did not hear, unmoved, the vindication of her former
favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;
she was sorry for him; she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could
not be recalled. Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken, a character
unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter
had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards
Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure
the interests of Colonel Brandon.
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from
himself,- had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his
countenance and his manner,- it is probable that her compassion would have been
greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such
feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called
forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her
own opinion of Willoughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the
simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character,
without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an effort, the
restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously
sitting, her rising colour, as she spoke, and her unsteady voice, plainly showed.
"I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing as
you can desire me to do."
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing
tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiassed
opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued,-
"It is a great relief to me, what Elinor told me this morning; I
have now heard exactly what I wished to hear." For some moments her voice was
lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before,-
"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish no change. I never could have been happy
with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. I
should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my
feelings."
"I know it, I know it," cried her mother. "Happy with a man of
libertine practices! With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our
friends, and the best of men! No- my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy
with such a man! Her conscience would have felt all that the conscience of her
husband ought to have felt."
Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."
"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and
a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as well as
myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be
convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and
disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection,
on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor.
His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself; and his whole conduct
declares, that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands, and
your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on
distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been
entirely unknown and unthought of before. Your sense of honour and honesty would
have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy
that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality
retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it,
but beyond that and how little could the utmost of your single management do to
stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? beyond that, had you
endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be
feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you
would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the
connection which had involved him in such difficulties?"
Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "selfish" in a
tone that implied, "Do you really think him selfish?"
"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning
to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness
which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own
were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him
from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his
ruling principle."
"It is very true. My happiness never was his object."
"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And
why does he regret it? Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It
has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed- he suffers from
no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less
amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he
would have been happy? The inconveniences would have been different. He would
then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are
removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he
could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous- always poor;
and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear
estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness,
than the mere temper of a wife."
"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to
regret- nothing but my own folly."
"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood:
"she must be answerable."
Marianne would not let her proceed; and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken
her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately
continued-
"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of
the story- that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence
against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the
origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents."
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was
led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as
friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however,
as if much of it were heard by her.
Elinor, according to her expectation, saw, on the two or three
following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done;
but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful
and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.
Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual
studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least
planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard
nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing
certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her
brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's there
had been this sentence:- "We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can
make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at
Oxford;" which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the
correspondence; for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding
letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter, on business;
and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the enquiries of his mistress
as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication-
"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married?"
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes,
as she answered the servant's enquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction,
was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance, how much she really suffered;
and, in a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not
on which child to bestow her principal attention.
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had
sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,
supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better; and
her mother, leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor,
who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason
and voice as to be just beginning an enquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his
intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and
Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"
"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his
lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the
New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her
brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the
chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele, so I took off my
hat, and she knew me and called to me, and enquired after you, ma'am, and the
young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments
and Mr. Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was
they had not time to come on and see you; but they was in a great hurry to go
forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but however when
they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."
"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"
"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name
since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy."
"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"
"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up: he never was a gentleman much for talking."
Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself
forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.
"Was there no one else in the carriage?"
"No, ma'am, only they two."
"Do you know where they came from?"
"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy- Mrs. Ferrars told me."
"And are they going farther westward?"
"Yes, ma'am, but not to bide long. They will soon be back again,
and then they'd be sure and call here."
Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better
than to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was
very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low
voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near
Plymouth.
Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished
to hear more.
"Did you see them off, before you came away?"
"No, ma'am- the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide
any longer; I was afraid of being late."
"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"
"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady- and she seemed vastly contented."
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question; and Thomas and the
table-cloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had
already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and
Elinor's appetites were equally lost; and Margaret might think herself very well
off that, with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so
much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never
been obliged to go without her dinner before.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of
thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and
ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying
on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had
been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of
unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she
had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to
think the attachment of which once she had so well understood, much slighter in
reality than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She
feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost
unkind, to her Elinor; that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,
more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her
away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much,
certainly with less self-provocation and greater fortitude.
CHAPTER XLVIII
ELINOR now found the difference between the expectation of an
unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and
certainty itself. She now found that, in spite of herself, she had always
admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to
prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of
friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would
arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married; and she condemned
her heart for the lurking flattery which so much heightened the pain of the
intelligence.
That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could
be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living,
surprised her a little at first; but she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy,
in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every
thing but the risk of delay. They were married,- married in town,- and now
hastening down to her uncle's. What had Edward felt on being within four miles
from Barton,- on seeing her mother's servant,- on hearing Lucy's message!
They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford:- Delaford,
that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished
to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in
their parsonage-house: saw in Lucy the active, contriving manager; uniting at
once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be
suspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest in every
thought; courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend. In Edward, she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see.
Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her: she turned away her head from every
sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in
London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars;
but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though
uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend.
They were all thoughtless or indolent.
"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was an enquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see than
to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be
surprised to see him walk in to-day, or to-morrow, or any day."
This was gaining something,- something to look forward to. Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It was a
gentleman,- it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more, and she
trembled in expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Brandon; neither his air
nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked
again. He had just dismounted: she could not be mistaken,- it was Edward. She
moved away, and sat down. "He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I will
be calm,- I will be mistress of myself."
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of
the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour,- saw them look at
herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the
world to be able to speak, and to make them understand that she hoped no
coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him; but she had no
utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the
appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path: in
a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even
for Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation; and he looked as if fearful
of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood,
however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she
then meant, in the warmth of her heart, to be guided in every thing, met with a
look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's
lips had moved with her mother's; and, when the moment of action was over, she
wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late; and,
with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again, and talked of the
weather.
Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal
her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the
case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as
far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a
very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt
obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner, he
replied in the affirmative.
Another pause.
Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her
own voice, now said,-
"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"
"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise. "No; my
mother is in town."
"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to
enquire for Mrs. Edward Ferrars."
She dared not look up; but her mother and Marianne both turned
their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after
some hesitation, said,-
"Perhaps you mean my brother: you mean Mrs.- Mrs. Robert Ferrars."
"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!" was repeated by Marianne and her mother in
an accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even her
eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat,
and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair
of scissors that lay there; and, while spoiling both them and their sheath by
cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,-
"Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to- to the youngest- to Miss Lucy Steele."
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but
Elinor, who sat, with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such
agitation as made her hardly know where she was.
"Yes," said he: "they were married last week, and are now at
Dawlish."
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room; and,
as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she
thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather
than at her, saw her away, and perhaps saw, or even heard, her emotion; for
immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no enquiries,
no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate; and at last, without
saying a word, left the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the
others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation
so wonderful and so sudden,- a perplexity which they had no means of lessening
but by their own conjectures.
CHAPTER XLIX
UNACCOUNTABLE, however, as the circumstances of his release might
appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what
purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;- for
after experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without
his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing
less could be expected of him in the failure of that than the immediate
contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask
Elinor to marry him; and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in
such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the
present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however,
how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed
himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need
be said;- that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three
hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent,
and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality
of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more
than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to
swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released, without any reproach to
himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman
whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at once to that security with
another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had
learned to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense,
but from misery to happiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,
flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor; all its weaknesses, all its
errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the
consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my brother
given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of
Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I
left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable
preference for his niece, yet, had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage
my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon
have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world,
as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead
of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose myself, I
returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I
had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would
have given me, for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had
therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my
mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no
companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for
me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was
always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time
there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared every thing that was amiable and
obliging. She was pretty too- at least I thought so then; and I had seen so
little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects.
Considering every thing, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was,
foolish as it has since in every way proved, it was not at the time an unnatural
or an inexcusable piece of folly."
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the
happiness of the Dashwoods, was such- so great- as promised them all the
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable,
knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful
for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them
leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished,
the sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak her happiness only by tears. Comparisons would
occur- regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for her
sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor,- how are her feelings to be described? From the moment
of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was
every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when
she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with
what so lately it had been,- saw him honourably released from his former
engagement,- saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and
declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,-
she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as
is the human mind to be easily familiarised with any change for the better, it
required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of
tranquillity to her heart.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; for
whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say
half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; for though a
very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more
subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet,
with lovers it is different. Between them no subject is finished, no
communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; and Elinor's
particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her, in every view, as one
of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard.
How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn
on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any
admiration- a girl, too, already engaged to his brother, and on whose account
that brother had been thrown off by his family- it was beyond her comprehension
to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it
was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was quite a
puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that,
perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor
remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his
own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time.
She repeated it to Edward.
"That was exactly like Robert," was his immediate observation. "And
that," he presently added, "might perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance
between them first began. And Lucy, perhaps, at first might think only of
procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise."
How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was
equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained
for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her
but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent
nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had
ever occurred to prepare him for what followed; and when at last it burst on him
in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for sometime, he believed, half
stupefied between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He
put the letter into Elinor's hands.
"DEAR SIR,
"Being very sure I have long lost your affections. I have thought
myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as
happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to
accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your
choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our
near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and
am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has
gained my affections entirely; and as we could not live without one another, we
are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few
weeks; which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I
would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,
"Your sincere well-wisher,
friend, and sister,
"LUCY FERRARS.
"I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the
first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls- but the ring with my hair you
are very welcome to keep."
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.
"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by you in former days. In
a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have blushed over the pages of
her writing and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our
foolish business this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the
substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."
"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause, "they
are certainly married; and your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate
punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against
you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been
bribing one son with a thousand a year to do the very deed which she
disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I
suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying
her."
"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.
She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much
sooner."
In what state the affair stood at present between them Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him.
He had quitted Oxford within four-and-twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived,
and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no
leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the
most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate
with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to be
supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel
Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the
politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole,
expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he did,
and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth
after must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish
of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor;
and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple
in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his
eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to
her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been
equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl,
and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have
prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery
of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of
disquiet and regret to him.
"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to
give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was renounced by
my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist
me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice
or the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly,
so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that anything but
the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to
her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who
had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel
Brandon would give me a living."
"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your
favour; that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered
neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a
respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and,
if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry you
than be single."
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could
have been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence
which compliments themselves for having spent so much time with them at Norland,
when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because, to
say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy
and expect what, as you were then situated, could never be."
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.
"I was simple enough to think, that because my faith was plighted
to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my
honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; and
till I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how
far I was got. After that, I suppose, I was wrong in remaining so much in Sussex;
and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it were no
better than these:- The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself."
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at
the cottage, as he really wished, not only to be better acquainted with him, but
to have an opportunity of convincing him, that he no longer resented his giving
him the living of Delaford. "Which, at present," said he, "after thanks so
ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never
forgiven him for offering."
Now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the
place. But so little interest had be taken in the matter, that he owed all his
knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of
the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of it
from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely
mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided between them; one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual
affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate
knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain, and they only
wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thousand pounds, and Elinor one,
which, with Delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was
impossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of
them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a year
would supply them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in
his mother towards him; and on that he rested for the residue of their income.
But Elinor had no such dependence; for, since Edward would still be unable to
marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's
flattering language as only a lesser evil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she
feared that Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having,
for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her
house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and
Colonel Brandon, therefore, walked every night to his old quarters at the Park;
from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the
lover's first tete-a-tete before breakfast.
A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours
at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-
six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all
the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all
the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. Among such
friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage
had yet reached him: he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of
his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Everything was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood; and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what
he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the
good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for
it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense,
in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to
unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love
with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard
inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time
and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made
every nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with
less emotion that mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent
her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion
towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless
hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost brokenhearted, at Oxford. "I do
think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two
days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected
anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the
day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing
how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy, it seems, borrowed all her money before she
went off to be married, on purpose, we suppose, to make a show with, and poor
Nancy had not seven shillings in the world; so I was very glad to give her five
guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four
weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor
again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in
the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward I cannot get him out of my head,
but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him."
Mrs. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women- poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility- and he
considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder.
Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of
them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might
hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged
as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with
which everything had been carried on between them was rationally treated as
enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to
the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and
he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with
Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of
spreading misery farther in the family. He thus continued:-
"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from
him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of
offending; and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that
his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed
perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for
we all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for
nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children."
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct
of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in
the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me
beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of honour to
me? I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble nor pentinent by what
has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would not interest. I know of no
submission that is proper for me to make."
"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you
have offended; and I should think you might now venture so far as to profess
some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your
mother's anger."
He agreed that he might.
"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in her
eyes as the first."
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
letter of proper submission; and, therefore, to make it easier to him, as he
declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth
than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go
to London, and personally entreat her good offices in his favour. "And if they
really do interest themselves," said Marianne, in her new character of candour,
"in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are
not entirely without merit."
After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days,
the two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and
assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it;
and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on
his journey to town.
CHAPTER L
AFTER a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so
violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was
admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years
of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward, a
few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had
left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward,
she had one again.
In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did
not feel the continuance of his existence secure till he had revealed his
present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might
give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before.
With apprehensive caution, therefore, it was revealed; and he was listened to
with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to
dissuade him from marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; told
him, that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;
and enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a
nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the daughter
of a private gentleman with no more than three; but when she found that, though
perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined
to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to
submit; and, therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own
dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her
decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.
What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was
next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now
her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably
endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the smallest objection was made
against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the
utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond
the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with Fanny.
It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected,
by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed
the only person surprised at her not giving more.
With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living but
the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for
the accommodation of Elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after
waiting some time for their completion,- after experiencing, as usual, a
thousand disappointments and delays; from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the
workmen,- Elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution, of not
marrying till every thing was ready; and the ceremony took place in Barton
church early in the autumn.
The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at
the mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the
parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot; could choose papers,
project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophecies, though
rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit
Edward and his wife in their parsonage by Michaelmas; and she found in Elinor
and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the
world. They had, in fact, nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel
Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.
They were visited on their first settling by almost all their
relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was
almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the expense
of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.
"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John,
as they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford House,
"that would be saying too much; for certainly you have been one of the most
fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it would give me
great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, his place,
his house,- every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition! And his
woods,- I have not seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire as there is now
standing in Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly
the person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be advisable for you
to have them now frequently staying with you; for, as Colonel Brandon seems a
great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen; for, when people are much
thrown together, and see little of any body else,- and it will always be in your
power to set her off to advantage, and so forth. In short, you may as well give
her a chance: you understand me."
But though Mrs. Ferrars did come to see them, and always treated
them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her
real favor and preference. That was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning
of his wife and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. The
selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape,
was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful
humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest
opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
reestablished him completely in her favor.
The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity
which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of
what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress
may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune,
with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. When Robert first
sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it
was only with the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to
persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to
overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two
interviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he
erred; for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her
in time, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this
conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which
could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself. His
attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead
of talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,- a subject on
which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon
betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and, in short, it became speedily
evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of
his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying privately
without his mother's consent. What immediately followed is known. They passed
some months in great happiness at Dawlish; for she had many relations and old
acquaintances to cut- and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and
from thence returning to town procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the
simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The
forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and
Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none,
still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of
conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude
for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice
which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid
degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became as
necessary to Mrs. Ferrars as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never
cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor, though
superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, she was in
everything considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child.
They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were
on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and, setting aside the
jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which
their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic
disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the
harmony in which they all lived together.
What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son might have
puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to it might
have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its
effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert's style of
living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his
income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;
and if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every
particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the
regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with
his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could
well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for
her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs.
Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of
her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon
together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had
expressed. It was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her
daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant
enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house
was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their
own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all.
With such a confederacy against her- with a knowledge so intimate
of his goodness- with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at
last, though long after it was observable to everybody else- burst on her- what
could she do?
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born
to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct,
her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late
in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and
lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!- and that other, a
man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment,
whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married,- and who still
sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, instead of
remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in
retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had
determined on, she found herself at nineteen submitting to new attachments,
entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family,
and the patroness of a village.
Colonel Brandon was now as happy as all those who best loved him
believed he deserved to be: in Marianne he was consoled for every past
affliction: he regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his
spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming
his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. Marianne
could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted
to her husband as it had once been to Willoughby.
Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
punishment was soon afterwards complete, in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs.
Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character as the source of
her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour
towards Marianne he might at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance
of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be
doubted; nor that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne
with regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society,
or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not
be depended on- for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy
himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always
uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every
kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her
loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing
that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; and
many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no
comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and, fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly
suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover.
Between Barton and Delaford there was that constant communication
which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the merits and
the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least
considerable, that, though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other,
they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness
between their husbands.
THE END .
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