The family of Dashwood
had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence
was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many
generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner, as to engage the
general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this
estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many
years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But
her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration
in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the
family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland
estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of
his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were
comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention
of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort
which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a
relish to his existence. By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son:
by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man,
was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and
half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage,
likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him
therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as
to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from
their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing,
and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and
he had only a life interest in it. The old Gentleman died; his will was read,
and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He
was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his
nephew; -- but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of
the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and
daughters than for himself or his son: -- but to his son, and his son's son, a
child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself
no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed
a provision, by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods.
The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits
with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of
his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or
three years old; and imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the
value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and
her daughters. He meant not to be unkind however, and, as a mark of his
affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece. Mr.
Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful
and sanguine, and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living
economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already
large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune, which had
been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no
longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that
remained for his widow and daughters. His son was sent for, as soon as his
danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength
and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and
sisters. Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a
time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable.
His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had
then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do
for them. He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold
hearted, and rather selfish, is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general,
well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his
ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made
still more respectable than he was: -- he might even have been made amiable
himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But
Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; -- more narrow-minded
and selfish. When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within
himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of
four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining
half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart and made him feel capable of
generosity. -- "Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be
liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three
thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little
inconvenience." -- He thought of it all day long, and for many days
successively, and he did not repent. No sooner was his father's funeral over,
than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her
mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could
dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater,
and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common feelings, must
have been highly unpleasing; -- but in her mind there was a sense of honour so
keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever
given or received, was to her a source of immoveable disgust. Mrs. John
Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she
had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little
attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required
it. So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so
earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of
the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of
her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her
own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay,
and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother. Elinor, this eldest
daughter whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding,
and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the
counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the
advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must
generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart; -- her
disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to
govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn, and which
one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught. Marianne's abilities were,
in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but
eager in every thing; her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was
generous, amiable, interesting: she was every thing but prudent. The
resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great. Elinor saw, with
concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued
and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their
affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily
renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up
wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection
that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in
future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she
could exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could receive her
sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could
strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar
forbearance. Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humoured well-disposed girl;
but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without
having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her
sisters at a more advanced period of life.
Mrs. John Dashwood now
installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were
degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were treated by
her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could
feel towards any body beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really
pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as
no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could
accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was
accepted. A continuance in a place where every thing reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no
temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that
sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she
must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in
pleasure she was beyond alloy. Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of
what her husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds
from the fortune of their dear little boy, would be impoverishing him to the
most dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could
he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a
sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him
only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his
generosity to so large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was
ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages;
and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all
his money to his half sisters? "It was my father's last request to
me," replied her husband, "that I should assist his widow and
daughters." "He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten
to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your
fortune from your own child." "He did not stipulate for any
particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to
assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power
to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.
He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it: at least I thought so at the time. The
promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be done
for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home."
"Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need not
be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money
is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will
be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could ever be restored to our little boy
--" "Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely,
"that would make a great difference. The time may come when Harry will
regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous
family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition." "To be
sure it would." "Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties if
the sum were diminished one half. -- Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!" "Oh! beyond any thing great! What
brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if really his
sisters! And as it is -- only half blood! -- But you have such a generous
spirit!" "I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied.
"One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one,
at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can
hardly expect more." "There is no knowing what they may expect,"
said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the
question is, what you can afford to do." "Certainly -- and I think I
may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any
addition of mine, they will each have above three thousand pounds on their
mother's death -- a very comfortable fortune for any young woman."
"To be sure it is: and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If
they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all
live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole,
it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives
rather than for them -- something of the annuity kind I mean. -- My sisters
would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would
make them all perfectly comfortable." His wife hesitated a little, however,
in giving her consent to this plan. "To be sure," said she, "it
is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But then if Mrs.
Dashwood should live fifteen years, we shall be completely taken in."
"Fifteen years! my dearFanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase." "Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for
ever when there is any annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and
healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of
what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for
my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants
by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice
every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of
getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards
it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income
was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the
more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given
me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down
to the payment of one for all the world." "It is certainly an
unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of
yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is
not one's own. To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every
rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence."
"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves
secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at
all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion
entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may be
very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our
own expences." "I believe you are right, my love; it will be better
that there should be no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them
occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because
they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger
income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It
will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then,
will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think be amply
discharging my promise to my father." "To be sure it will. Indeed, to
say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of
your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say,
was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as
looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their
things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they
are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would
be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dearMr.
Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may
live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds
belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a-year
a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.
Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth
can four women want for more than that? -- They will live so cheap! Their
housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and
hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expences of any
kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a-year! I am
sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving
them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to
give you something." "Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I
believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by
his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will
strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them
as you have described. When my mother removes into another house my services
shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present
of furniture too may be acceptable then." "Certainly," returned
Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, one thing must be considered. When your
father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold,
all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her
house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes
it." "That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy
indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to
our own stock here." "Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as
handsome as what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my
opinion, for any place they can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is.
Your father thought only of them. And I must say this: that you owe no
particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes, for we very well know
that if he could, he would have left almost every thing in the world to
them." This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever
of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and
children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife
pointed out.
Mrs. Dashwood remained
at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight
of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced
for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable
of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy
remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries
for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove far from
that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at
once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her
eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large
for their income, which her mother would have approved. Mrs. Dashwood had been
informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their
favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the
sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she
thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself
she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000 l. would support her
in affluence. For their brother's sake too, for the sake of his own heart she
rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in
believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and
his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long
time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions. The contempt which
she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was
very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a
year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every
consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former,
the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long,
had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility,
according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at
Norland. This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentlemanlike and pleasing young man, who
was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at
Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there. Some
mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward
Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have
repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of
his fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike
uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to
be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the
partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of
fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one
who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible. Edward Ferrars was not
recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address.
He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing.
He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was
overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open affectionate heart.
His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement.
But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of
his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished -- as -- they hardly
knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or
other. His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into
parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs.
John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these
superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see
him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All
his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life.
Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising. Edward had been
staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's
attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her
careless of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and
unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of
her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve
him farther, by a reflection whichElinor chanced one day to make on the
difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him
most forcibly to her mother. "It is enough," said she; "to say
that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies every thing amiable. I love him
already." "I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when
you know more of him." "Like him!" replied her mother with a
smile. "I can feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love."
"You may esteem him." "I have never yet known what it was to
separate esteem and love." Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted
with him. Her manners were attaching and soon banished his reserve. She
speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and
even that quietness of manner which militated against all her established ideas
of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she
knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate. No sooner did she
perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered
their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as
rapidly approaching. "In a few months, my dearMarianne," said she,
"Elinor will in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her;
but she will be happy." "Oh! mama, how shall we do without her?"
"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a
brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world
of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your
sister's choice?" "Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider
it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet
-- he is not the kind of young man -- there is a something wanting -- his
figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the
man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that
fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I
am afraid, mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and
though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a
person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent
attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.
He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters
must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books,
the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was
Edward's manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most
severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice
it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have
frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness,
such dreadful indifference!" -- "He would certainly have done more
justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you would
give him Cowper." "Nay, mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!
-- but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and
therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke
my heart had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama,
the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a
man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward's
virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every
possible charm." "Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It
is yet too early in life to despair of such an happiness. Why should you be
less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may
your destiny be different from her's!"
"What a pity it
is, Elinor", said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for
drawing." "No taste for drawing," replied Elinor; "why
should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great
pleasure in seeing the performance of other people, and I assure you he is by
no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have
drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he
is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate
propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly
right." Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject;
but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in
her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at
the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which
produced it. "I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not
consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you
cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him." Marianne hardly knew
what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and
yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied:
"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of
estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes as
you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and
sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable." "I am
sure," replied Elinor with a smile, "that his dearest friends could
not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you
could express yourself more warmly." Marianne was rejoiced to find her
sister so easily pleased. "Of his sense and his goodness," continued
Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough
to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding
and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his
minuter propensities as you call them, you have from peculiar circumstances
been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good
deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate
principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his
sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon
the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, his enjoyment
of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect
improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight,
his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called
handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the
general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so
well, that I think him really handsome; or, at least, almost so. What say you,
Marianne?" "I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not
now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see
imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart." Elinor started at
this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in
speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She
believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to
make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that
whatMarianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next --
that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to
explain the real state of the case to her sister. "I do not attempt to
deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him -- that I greatly
esteem, that I like him." Marianne here burst forth with indignation --
"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted!
Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again and I will leave the room
this moment." Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said
she, "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so
quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have
declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion --
the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But
farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard
for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his
sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any
encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.
In my heart I feel little -- scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there
are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from
being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's
occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to
think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware
that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a
woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank." Marianne was
astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had
outstripped the truth. "And you really are not engaged to him!" said
she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed
from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater
opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which
must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be
so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it
would be!" Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not
consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had
believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did
not denote indifference, spoke a something almost as unpromising. A doubt of
her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude.
It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently
attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation
which forbad the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither
behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him
any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending
to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was
impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending
on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still
considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful
seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she
believed it to be no more than friendship. But, whatever might really be its
limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy; and at
the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the
first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to
her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's
resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending
any young woman who attempted to draw him in; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither
pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavour to be calm. She gave her an answer
which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that,
whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her
beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations. In this
state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which
contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small
house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of
consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman
himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He
understood that she was in need of a dwelling, and though the house he now
offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that every thing should be
done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He
earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to
come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in
the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He
seemed really anxious to accommodate them, and the whole of his letter was
written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his
cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and
unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for
deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation
of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a
few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To
quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of
desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her
daughter-in-law's guest: and to remove for ever from that beloved place would
be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its
mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his
kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both
letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before
her answer were sent. Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for
them to settle at some distance from Norland than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance. On that head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her
mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described by
Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to
leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was
not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from
the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her
mother from sending her letter of acquiescence.
No sooner was her
answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of
announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with an house,
and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her
inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing;
but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. --
Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise
and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "Devonshire!
Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?"
She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of Exeter.
"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of
my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no
difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating
them." She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John
Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater
affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her
resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not
produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally
tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever;
and she wished to shew Mrs. John Dashwood by this pointed invitation to her
brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match. Mr. John
Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she
had taken an house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of
any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt conscientiously
vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the
performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered
impracticable. -- The furniture was all sent round by water. It chiefly
consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with an handsome
pianoforte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a
sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would
be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome
article of furniture. Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was
ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on
either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her
effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off
for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of
every thing that interested her, was soon done. -- The horses which were left
her by her husband, had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now
offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the
earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she
consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of
Elinor prevailed. Her wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three;
two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those
who had formed their establishment at Norland. The man and one of the maids
were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their
mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs.
Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at
Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the
house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her
own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the
evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a
satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold
invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her son-in-law's
promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he
had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house
might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.
Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be
convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance
extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so
frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the
perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world
was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of
more money himself than to have any design of giving money away. In a very few
weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland,
every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood
and her daughters to begin their journey. Many were the tears shed by them in
their last adieus to a place so much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!"
said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of
their being there; "when shall I cease to regret you! -- when learn to
feel a home elsewhere! -- Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now
viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more! -- And
you, ye well-known trees! -- but you will continue the same. -- No leaf will
decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can
observe you no longer! -- No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the
pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who
walk under your shade! -- But who will remain to enjoy you?"
The first part of their
journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than
tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest
in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their
dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them
cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.
After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A
small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate
admitted them into it. As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was
comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building
was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green,
nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly
through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a
sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and
the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had
not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it
was poor and small indeed! -- but the tears which recollection called forth as
they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of
the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to
appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from
first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression
in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting
approbation. The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately
behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs,
the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of
these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect
in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached
into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the
valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it
branched out again between two of the steepest of them. With the size and
furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for
though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter
indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this
time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to
the apartments. "As for the house itself, to be sure," said she,
"it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably
comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements.
Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may
think about building. These parlours are both too small for such parties of our
friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts of
throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave
the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing-room
which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a
very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must
not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to
widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring,
and we will plan our improvements accordingly." In the mean time, till all
these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred
a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be
contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging
their particular concerns, and endeavouring, by placing around them their books
and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was
unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the
walls of their sitting room. In such employments as these they were interrupted
soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called
to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own
house and garden in which their's might at present be deficient. Sir John
Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at
Stanhill, but it was too long ago for his young cousins to remember him. His
countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as
the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction,
and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of
his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family,
and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were
better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of
perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not
confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full
of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the
end of the day by a present of game. He insisted moreover on conveying all
their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the
satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day. Lady Middleton had sent a
very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood
as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and
as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was
introduced to them the next day. They were of course very anxious to see a
person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance
of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more
than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and
striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her
husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his
frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from
their first admiration, by shewing that though perfectly well-bred, she was
reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place
inquiry or remark. Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very
chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her
their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there
was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity,
for they had to inquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him
questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held
down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being
so shy before company as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal
visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In
the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most
like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of
course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the
others. An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the
rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing
their promise of dining at the park the next day.
Barton Park was about
half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had passed near it in their way along
the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of an
hill. The house was large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of
equal hospitality and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification,
the latter for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends
staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than
any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness of
both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they strongly
resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined
their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, within a very
narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted
and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources.
Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the
year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only
half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all
the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir
John, and gave exercise to the good-breeding of his wife. Lady Middleton piqued
herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements;
and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their
parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he
delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold,
and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all
the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming
parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private
balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the
insatiable appetite of fifteen. The arrival of a new family in the country was
always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with
the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss
Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good
opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her
mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his disposition made him
happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be considered, in
comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In shewing kindness to his cousins
therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a
family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a
sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are
sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by
admitting them to a residence within his own manor. Mrs. Dashwood and her
daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to
Barton Park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to the drawing
room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn
from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet
them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a
particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young
nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and
could assure them it should never happen so again. He had been to several
families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but
it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady
Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as she was a
very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so
very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother,
were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and
wished for no more. Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a
good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very
happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner
was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands;
hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to
see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her
sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these
attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise
from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's. Colonel Brandon, the friend
of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend,
than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's
mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in
spite of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old
bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face
was not handsome his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly
gentlemanlike. There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them
as companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was
so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel
Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law was
interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the
entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore
her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to
themselves. In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was
invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be
charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the
chief of the songs whichLady Middleton had brought into the family on her
marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the
pianoforte=, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music,
although by her mother's account she had played extremely well, and by her own
was very fond of it. Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was
loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his
conversation with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from
music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song whichMarianne
had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without
being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a
respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by
their shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to
that extatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable
when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was
reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have
outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She
was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state
of life which humanity required.
Mrs. Jennings was a
widow, with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had
lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but
marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously
active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting
weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably
quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising
the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power
over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her
arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in
love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very
first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while
she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining at
the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be
so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for he
was rich and she was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel
Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him
to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every
pretty girl. The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable,
for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she
laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her
raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly
indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its
object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity,
or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection
on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old
bachelor. Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than
herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her
daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to
throw ridicule on his age. "But at least, mama, you cannot deny the
absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally
ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is
old enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love,
must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When
is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect
him?" "Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel
Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to
you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the
use of his limbs!" "Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?
and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?" "My
dearest child," said her mother laughing, "at this rate you must be
in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life
has been extended to the advanced age of forty." "Mama, you are not
doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to
make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may
live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with
matrimony." "Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and
seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if
there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and
twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to
his marrying her." "A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne,
after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again,
and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she
might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there
would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the
world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that
would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each
wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." "It would be
impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of
seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five any thing near enough to
love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming
Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber,
merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a
slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders." "But he talked of
flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat
is invariably connected with the aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species
of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble." "Had he been
only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess,
Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek,
hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?" Soon after this, upon Elinor's
leaving the room, "Mama," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the
subject of illness, which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars
is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not
come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.
What else can detain him at Norland?" "Had you any idea of his coming
so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I had none. On the contrary, if I have
felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he
sometimes shewed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation,
when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?"
"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must." "I
rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of
getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no
immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for
some time." "How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But
the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold,
how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last
evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no distinction
between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to
both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the morning,
and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor,
in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command
is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid
society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"
The Dashwoods were now
settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the
garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and
the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms, were engaged
in again with far greater enjoyments than Norland had been able to afford,
since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every
day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much
occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always
employed. Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in
spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the
neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their
service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of
society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family
beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and
it was not all of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the
cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of
Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks,
discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion, which, by reminding them a
little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better
acquainted with it. But they learnt, on inquiry, that its possessor, an elderly
lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the
world, and never stirred from home. The whole country about them abounded in
beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of
the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were an
happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior
beauties; and towards on of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one memorable
morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky,
and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two
preceding days had occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the
two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration
that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be
drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together. They gaily
ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue
sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of an high
south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and
Elinor from sharing such delightful sensations. "Is there a felicity in
the world," said Marianne, "superior to this? -- Margaret, we will
walk here at least two hours." Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way
against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes
longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain
set full in their face. -- Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though
unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One
consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave
more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down
the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate. They set
off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly
to the ground, and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was
involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety. A gentleman
carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill
and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He put down his
gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her
foot had been twisted in the fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The
gentleman offered his services, and perceiving that her modesty declined what
her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther
delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate
of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house,
whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated
her in a chair in the parlour. Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at
their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident
wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he
apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so
graceful, that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional
charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar,
the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act
of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance,
gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings. She thanked him
again and again; and with a sweetness of address which always attended her,
invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs.
Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was
Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she
would allow him the honour of calling to-morrow to inquire after Miss Dashwood.
The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still
more interesting, in the midst of an heavy rain. His manly beauty and more than
common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the
laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne, received particular spirit
from his exterior attractions. -- Marianne herself had seen less of his person
than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting
her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the
house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the
others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air
were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story;
and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there
was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her.
Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his
residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all
manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was
busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ancle was
disregarded. Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair
weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident
being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the
name of Willoughby at Allenham. "Willoughby!" cried Sir John;
"what, is he in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over
to-morrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday." "You know him
then," said Mrs. Dashwood. "Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is
down here every year." "And what sort of a young man is he?"
"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot,
and there is not a bolder rider in England." "And is that all you can
say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners
on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents and genius?"
Sir John was rather puzzled. "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not
know much about him as to all that. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow,
and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out
with him to-day?" But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour
of Mr. Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind. "But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from?
Has he a house at Allenham?" On this point Sir John could give more
certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his
own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old
lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to
inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching, I can tell
you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire
besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister in
spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have
all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care."
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of my
daughters towards what you call catching him. It is not an employment to which
they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich.
I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young
man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible." "He is as
good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John.
"I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at the park, he danced from
eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down." "Did he
indeed?" cried Marianne, with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance,
with spirit?" "Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to
covert." "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.
Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
leave him no sense of fatigue." "Aye, aye, I see how it will
be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your
cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon." "That is an
expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly
dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and ""setting
one's cap at a man,"" or ""making a conquest,""
are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their
construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its
ingenuity." Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed
as heartily as if he did, and then replied, "Aye, you will make conquests
enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten
already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in
spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ancles."
Marianne's preserver,
as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, stiled Willoughby, called at
the cottage early the next morning to make his personal inquiries. He was
received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness whichSir
John's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that
passed during the visit, tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual
affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now
introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview
to be convinced. Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and
a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not
so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more
striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise
she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually
happens. Her skin was very brown, but from its transparency, her complexion was
uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and
attractive, and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit,
an eagerness which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their
expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance
of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became
collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he
united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare that
of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of
approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the
rest of his stay. It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to
engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced,
and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it
arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either.
Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to
question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward
and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and
twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to
the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was
strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each -- or
if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till
the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed.
He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before
his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established
acquaintance. "Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left
them, "for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already
ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You
know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating
their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his
admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long
supported, under such extraordinary dispatch of every subject for discourse?
You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice
to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then
you can have nothing farther to ask." -- "Elinor," cried
Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see
what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have
erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and
sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:
-- had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once
in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared." "My
love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor -- she
was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to
check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." -- Marianne
was softened in a moment. Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his
pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could
offer. He came to them every day. To inquire after Marianne was at first his
excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater
kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible,
by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house;
but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of
good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate
manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this,
he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was
now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him
to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most
exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical
talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit
whichEdward had unfortunately wanted. In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation, he was as
faultless as in Marianne's; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a
propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister,
of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to
persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention
where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly
propriety, he displayed a want of caution whichElinor could not approve, in
spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support. Marianne began now
to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of
ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and
unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy
hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his
behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his
abilities were strong. Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative
thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before
the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself
on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby. Colonel
Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his
friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed
by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival;
and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was
removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly
annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that
the sentiments whichMrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction,
were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance
of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr.
Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the
regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man
of five and thirty hope, when opposed by a very lively one of five and twenty?
and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him
indifferent. She liked him -- in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld
in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his
reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits, than of any
natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropt hints of past injuries and
disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man,
and she regarded him with respect and compassion. Perhaps she pitied and
esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who,
prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to
undervalue his merits. "Brandon is just the kind of man," said
Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every
body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and
nobody remembers to talk to." "That is exactly what I think of
him," cried Marianne. "Do not boast of it, however," said
Elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all
the family at the park, and I never see him myself without taking pains to
converse with him." "That he is patronized by you," replied
Willoughby, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the
others, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being
approved by such women as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the
indifference of any body else?" "But perhaps the abuse of such people
as yourself and Marianne, will make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and
her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they
are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust." "In
defence of your protege=you can even be saucy." "My protege=, as you
call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attraction for me. Yes,
Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of
the world; has been abroad; has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him
capable of giving me much information on various subjects, and he has always
answered my inquiries with the readiness of good-breeding and good
nature." "That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously,
"he has told you that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the
mosquitoes are troublesome." "He would have told me so, I doubt not,
had I made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had
been previously informed." "Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his
observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and
palanquins." "I may venture to say that his observations have
stretched much farther than your candour. But why should you dislike him?"
"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
respectable man, who has every body's good word and nobody's notice; who has
more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two
new coats every year." "Add to which," cried Marianne,
"that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has
no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression."
"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can
only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle
address, and I believe possessing an amiable heart." "Miss
Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. You are
endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. But it
will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have three
unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon: he has threatened me with
rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my
curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any
satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in
other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an
acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege
of disliking him as much as ever."
Little had Mrs.
Dashwood or her daughters imagined, when they first came into Devonshire, that
so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented
themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such
constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet
such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at
home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put in
execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water
were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every
meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which
naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing
intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of
witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of
her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance
of her affection. Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only
wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest
the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all
concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the
restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to
her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to
common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their
behaviour, at all times, was an illustration of their opinions. When he was
present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every
thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards,
he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If
dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the
time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to
stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made
them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and
seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings
with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display
of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a
young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart
was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she
brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had
thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her
present home. Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at
ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no
companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could
teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady
Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed;
although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded
her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had
already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's
memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early
in their acquaintance, all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and
what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more
agreeable than her mother, only in being more silent. Elinor needed little
observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with
which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same
as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired.
She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her
insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and
though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every
thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she
never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them, than she might have
experienced in sitting at home; -- and so little did her presence add to the
pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were
sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her
troublesome boys. In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did
Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities,
excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby
was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard,
was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and
a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel
Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of
Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for
the total indifference of her sister. Elinor's compassion for him increased, as
she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been
known by him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropt
from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by
mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne,
and, after a silence of some minutes, he said with a faint smile, "Your
sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments." "No,"
replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic." "Or rather, as
I believe, she considers them impossible to exist." "I believe she
does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own
father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle
her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then
they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body
but herself." "This will probably be the case," he replied;
"and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind,
that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general
opinions." "I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor.
"There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all
the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her
systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a
better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest
possible advantage." After a short pause he resumed the conversation by
saying -- "Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against
a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who
have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of
its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent
during the rest of their lives?" "Upon my word, I am not acquainted
with the minutia of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her
admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable."
"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of
sentiments -- No, no, do not desire it, -- for when the romantic refinements of
a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such
opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I
once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who
thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change -- from a series
of unfortunate circumstances" ---- Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to
think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to
conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady
would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss
Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it
required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender
recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her
place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily
formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most
melancholy order of disastrous love.
As Elinor and Marianne
were walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news
to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne's
imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of
both. Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given
her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and
which was exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was
not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her
resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and
keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she
had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in
raptures. "He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for
it," she added, "and when it arrives, we will ride every day. You
shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dearElinor, the delight of
a gallop on some of these downs." Most unwilling was she to awaken from
such a dream of felicity, to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended
the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an
additional servant, the expence would be a trifle; mama she was sure would
never object to it; and any horse would do for him; he might always get one at
the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so
little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much. "You are
mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very little
of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better
acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself
and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; -- it is
disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people
acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I
should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my
brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived
together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister's
temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her
own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing
the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as
would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment,
Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such
imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined. She was faithful to her word; and when
Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her
disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance
of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related,
and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His
concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he
added in the same low voice -- "But, Marianne, the horse is still yours,
though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When
you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen
Mab shall receive you." This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the
whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing
her sister by her christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From
that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the
belief of it created no other surprise, than that she, or any of their friends,
should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident. Margaret
related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still
clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and
Margaret, being left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had
had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she
communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves. "Oh!
Elinor," she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne.
I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon." "You have
said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on
High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before
you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned
out to be only the miniature of our great uncle." "But indeed this is
quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a
lock of her hair." "Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of
some great uncle of his." "But indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am
almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and
mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as
could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took
up her scissars and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled
down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper,
and put it into his pocket-book." From such particulars, stated on such
authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit: nor was she disposed to it,
for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen
herself. Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give
the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which had been
long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her
sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor?" This of course
made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful.
She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person, whose name she could not
bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings. Marianne felt
for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by
turning very red, and saying in an angry manner to Margaret, "Remember
that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them."
"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it
was you who told me of it yourself." This increased the mirth of the company,
and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more. "Oh! pray, Miss
Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the
gentleman's name?" "I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what
it is; and I know where he is too." "Yes, yes, we can guess where he
is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I
dare say." "No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all."
"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all
this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence." "Well then he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure
there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F." Most grateful
did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing at this moment, that it rained
very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any
attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant
subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however
started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every
occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to
sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to
quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover
from the alarm into which it had thrown her. A party was formed this evening
for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from
Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose
interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left
strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful,
and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be
a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice
every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a
sail on which was to form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold
provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every
thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure. To some few
of the company, it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of
year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; -- and Mrs.
Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
Their intended
excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently from whatElinor had expected.
She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was
still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all. By ten o'clock the whole
party were assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was
rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then
dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in
high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to
the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise. While they
were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for
Colonel Brandon; -- he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and
immediately left the room. "What is the matter with Brandon?" said
Sir John. Nobody could tell. "I hope he has had no bad news," said
Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make
Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly." In about five
minutes he returned. "No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs.
Jennings, as soon as he entered the room. "None at all, ma'am, I thank
you." "Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister
is worse." "No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of
business." "But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it
was only a letter of business? Come, come, this wo'nt do, Colonel; so let us
hear the truth of it." "My dear Madam," said Lady Middleton,
"recollect what you are saying." "Perhaps it is to tell you that
your cousin Fanny is married?" said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to
her daughter's reproof. "No, indeed, it is not." "Well, then, I
know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well." "Whom do you
mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little. "Oh! you know who I
mean." "I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing
Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter to-day, for it is on
business which requires my immediate attendance in town." "In
town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this
time of year?" "My own loss is great," he continued, "in
being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I
fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell." What a
blow upon them all was this! "But if you write a note to the housekeeper,
Mr. Brandon," said Marianne eagerly, "will it not be
sufficient?" He shook his head. "We must go," said Sir John. --
"It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town
till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all." "I wish it could be so easily
settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!"
"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."
"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you
were to defer your journey till our return." "I cannot afford to lose
one hour." -- Elinor then heard Willoughby say in a low voice to Marianne,
"There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one
of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for
getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own
writing." "I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne. "There
is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said
Sir John, "when once you are determined on any thing. But, however, I hope
you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over
from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr.
Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to
Whitwell." Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
"Well then, when will you come back again?" "I hope we shall see
you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently
leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return."
"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my
power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all." "Oh! he must
and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end
of the week, I shall go after him." "Aye, so do, Sir John,"
cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business
is." "I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of." Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John. "No.
Only to Honiton. I shall then go post." "Well, as you are resolved to
go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind."
"I assure you it is not in my power." He then took leave of the whole
party. "Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter,
Miss Dashwood?" "I am afraid, none at all." "Then I must
bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." To Marianne,
he merely bowed and said nothing. "Come, Colonel," said Mrs.
Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about."
He wished her a good morning, and attended by Sir John, left the room. The
complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst
forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to
be so disappointed. "I can guess what his business is, however," said
Mrs. Jennings exultingly. "Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.
"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure." "And who is Miss
Williams?" asked Marianne. "What! do not you know whoMiss Williams
is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the
Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of
shocking the young ladies." Then lowering her voice a little, she said to
Elinor, "She is his natural daughter." "Indeed!" "Oh!
yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her
all his fortune." When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the
general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that
as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy;
and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only
be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by
driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was
first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove
through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more
of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return
of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive, but said only in
general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the
downs. It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came
to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table,
whichSir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place
between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand;
and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby,
and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you
out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?" --
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?" "Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was
determined to find out where you had been to. -- I hope you like your house,
Miss Marianne. It is a very large one I know, and when I come to see you, I
hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much, when I was
there six years ago." Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs.
Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know
where they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom, and that she had by that method been informed that they had
gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the
garden and going all over the house. Elinor could hardly believe this to be
true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne
consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whomMarianne had
not the smallest acquaintance. As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor
enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every
circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite
angry with her for doubting it. "Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we
did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have
often wished to do yourself?" "Yes, Marianne, but I would not go
while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr.
Willoughby." "Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have
a right to shew that house; and as we went in an open carriage, it was
impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in
my life." "I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the
pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety."
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if
there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible
of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a
conviction I could have had no pleasure." "But, my dearMarianne, as
it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now
begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?" "If the
impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in
conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her
censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having
done any thing wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her
house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and"---- "If they were
one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have
done." She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to
her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it was
rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted
particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house I assure you. --
There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable
size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is
a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the
bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other
you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold
hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing
could be more forlorn than the furniture, -- but if it were newly fitted up --
a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England." Could Elinor have listened to her
without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in
the house with equal delight.
The sudden termination
of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its
cause, filled the mind and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three
days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively
interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered
with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be
some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen
him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she.
"I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may
be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a
year, and his brother left every thing sadly involved. I do think he must have
been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it
is so. I would give any thing to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss
Williams -- and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious
when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more
likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager
it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in
his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have
cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is
worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry
seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart,
and a good wife into the bargain." So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings,
her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally
probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the
welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so
suddenly away, whichMrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that
the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or
variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed
by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which
they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence
continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the
disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and
herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken
place, Elinor could not imagine. She could easily conceive that marriage might
not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there
was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at
about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that
income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his
poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to
their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not
account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and
practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really
engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of
Marianne. Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness
which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the
affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be
considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent
there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the
park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of
ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of
Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet. One evening in particular,
about a week after Colonel Brandon had left the country, his heart seemed more
than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and
on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in
the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had
established as perfect with him. "What!" he exclaimed --
"Improve this dear cottage! No. That I will never consent to. Not a stone
must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are
regarded." "Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood,
"nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money
enough to attempt it." "I am heartily glad of it," he cried.
"May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better."
"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice
one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all
the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may
remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it
uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you
really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?" "I
am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the
only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough,
I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of
this cottage." "With dark narrow stairs, and a kitchen that smokes, I
suppose," said Elinor. "Yes," cried he in the same eager tone,
"with all and every thing belonging to it; -- in no one convenience or
inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and
then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have
been at Barton." "I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that
even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will
hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."
"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which
might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim on my
affection, which no other can possibly share." Mrs. Dashwood looked with
pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby,
as plainly denoted how well she understood him. "How often did I
wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that
Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring
its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I
then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next
came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an
immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of
prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must
it not have been soMarianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then
continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil,
Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and
this dear parlour, in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many
happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the
condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through
the room which has hitherto contained within itself, more real accommodation
and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world
could possibly afford." Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration
of the kind should be attempted. "You are a good woman," he warmly
replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it
will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but
that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that
you will always consider me with the kindness which has made every thing
belonging to you so dear to me." The promise was readily given, and
Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his
affection and happiness. "Shall we see you to-morrow to dinner?" said
Mrs. Dashwood when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the
morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton." He
engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
Mrs. Dashwood's visit
to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with
her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party under some trifling
pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made
by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was
perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home. On their return from the park
they found Willoughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and
Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was
all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight
had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came
hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her
handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised
and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where
they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantle-piece with his
back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance
shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which overpowered Marianne.
"Is any thing the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered -- "is she ill?" "I hope not," he replied, trying
to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "It is I who
may rather expect to be ill -- for I am now suffering under a very heavy
disappointment!" "Disappointment!" "Yes, for I am unable to
keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the
privilege of riches upon a poor dependant cousin, by sending me on business to
London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewel of Allenham;
and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewel of you."
"To London! -- and are you going this morning?" "Almost this
moment." "This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;
-- and her business will not detain you from us long I hope." He coloured
as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into
Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the
twelvemonth." "And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the
only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame,
Willoughby. Can you wait for an invitation here?" His colour increased;
and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, "You are too
good." Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal
amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
"I have only to add, my dearWilloughby, that at Barton cottage you will
always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, because
you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head
I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your
inclination." "My engagements at present," replied Willoughby
confusedly, "are of such a nature -- that -- I dare not flatter
myself" -- He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and
another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint
smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself
any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now
to enjoy." He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They
saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight. Mrs.
Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give
way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure
occasioned. Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought
of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in
taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and,
above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness
so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she
feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next
that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister; --
the distress in whichMarianne had quitted the room was such as a serious
quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered
whatMarianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible. But
whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's affliction
was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent
sorrow whichMarianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a
relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty. In about half an hour her mother
returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
"Our dearWilloughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she,
as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"
"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of
a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate?
And now after only ten minutes notice -- Gone too without intending to return!
-- Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not
speak, he did not behave like himself. You must have seen the difference as
well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have
shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?" -- "It was
not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see that. He had not
the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can
perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as
to you." "Can you indeed?" "Yes. I have explained it to
myself in the most satisfactory way; -- but you, Elinor, who love to doubt
where you can ---- It will not satisfy you, I know; but you shall not talk me
out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for
Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and
on that account is eager to get him away; -- and that the business which she
sends him off to transact, is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is
what I believe to have happened. He is moreover aware that she does disapprove
the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement
with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to
give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will
tell me, I know, that this may, or may not have happened; but I will listen to
no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair
as satisfactory as this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?"
"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer." "Then you would
have told me, that it might or might not have happened. Oh! Elinor, how
incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than
good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne and guilt for poor
Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him
blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour
has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits
depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely
because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all so
much reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the
possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret
for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?" "I can
hardly tell you myself. -- But suspicion of something unpleasant is the
inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we have just witnessed in him.
There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances
which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment
of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his
conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like
Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I
cannot help wondering at its being practised by him." "Do not blame
him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is
necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his
defence? -- I am happy -- and he is acquitted." "Not entirely. It may
be proper to conceal their engagement (if they are engaged) from Mrs. Smith --
and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but
little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it
from us." "Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse
Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes
have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness." "I want no
proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement I
do." "I am perfectly satisfied of both." "Yet not a
syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them." "I
have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his
behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight,
declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt
for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood
each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his
attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their
engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed
that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave
her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection; --
that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?" "I
confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except one is in
favour of their engagement; but that one is the total silence of both on the
subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other." "How strange
this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if after all that has
openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they
are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all
this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her?" "No, I
cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure." "But with a
strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such
carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him." "You must
remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain.
I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they
may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine
will be removed." "A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see
them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious
girl! But I require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and
unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willoughby
therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has
there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be
deceitful?" "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I
love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be
more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not
encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this
morning; -- he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness
with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his
affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her
leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of
offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet
aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our
family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and
open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as
well as more consistent with his general character; -- but I will not raise
objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a
difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right
and consistent." "You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does
not deserve to be suspected. Though we have not known him long, he is no
stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his
disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry
immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without
acknowledging every thing to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be
at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed,
may now be very advisable." They were interrupted by the entrance of
Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of
her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of
all. They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room
and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and
swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with
difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and
after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender
compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into
tears and left the room. This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole
evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of
command over herself. The slightest mention of any thing relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously
attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to
keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him.
Marianne would have
thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first
night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her
family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more
need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such
composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with an headache,
was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every
moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation
from either. Her sensibility was potent enough! When breakfast was over she
walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging
the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the
chief of the morning. The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of
feeling. She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to
Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat
at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for
her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and
this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the
pianoforte=alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by
her tears. In books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a
contrast betwen the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing
but what they had been used to read together. Such violence of affliction
indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer
melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary
walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as
lively as ever. No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by
Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least
satisfied herself. "Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often
Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We
have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that
it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir
John's hands." Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to
find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of
the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help
suggesting it to her mother. "Why do you not ask Marianne at once,"
said she, "whether she is or is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her
mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give
offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to
be all unreserve, and to you more especially." "I would not ask such
a question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what
distress would not such an inquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most
ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her
a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I
know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be
the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the
revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any
one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial
which her wishes might direct." Elinor thought this generosity
overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but
in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's
romantic delicacy. It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned
before Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; -- but one
evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,
exclaimed, "We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dearWilloughby
went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes
again---- But it may be months, perhaps, before that happens."
"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No -- nor many
weeks." Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in
Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions. One morning, about a week after his
leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their
usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully
avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley,
she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the
others set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who
greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked along the road
through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind could not be
controuled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then
attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though
still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they
had travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that
point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed
the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never
happened to reach in any of their walks before. Amongst the objects in the
scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding
towards them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman;
and in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed, "It is he; it
is indeed; -- I know it is!" -- And was hastening to meet him, when Elinor
cried out, "Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not
Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."
"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air,
his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come." She walked eagerly on
as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt
almost certain of its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with
her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked
again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying
back, when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her, a third,
almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and
she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars. He was the
only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being
Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile from her; but she
dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a
time her own disappointment. He dismounted, and giving his horse to his
servant, walked back with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to
visit them. He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially
by Marianne, who shewed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even
Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister
was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often
observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On Edward's side, more
particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say
on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in
seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced
from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.
Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast
sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect. After a short silence
which succeeded the first surprise and inquiries of meeting, Marianne asked
Edward if he came directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire a
fortnight. "A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so
long in the same county with Elinor without seeing her before. He looked rather
distressed as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near
Plymouth. "Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor. "I was
at Norland about a month ago." "And how does dear, dear Norland
look?" cried Marianne. "Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor,
"probably looks much as it always does at this time of year. The woods and
walks thickly covered with dead leaves." "Oh!" cried Marianne,
"with what transporting sensations have I formerly seen them fall! How
have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the
wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now
there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily
off, and driven as much as possible from the sight." "It is not every
one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves."
"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But sometimes
they are." -- As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments;
-- but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she, calling his
attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up it, and be
tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? To the
left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see one end
of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such
grandeur, is our cottage." "It is a beautiful country," he
replied; "but these bottoms must be dirty in winter." "How can
you think of dirt, with such objects before you?" "Because,"
replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before me, I see a
very dirty lane." "How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she
walked on. "Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons
pleasant people?" "No, not at all," answered Marianne, "we
could not be more unfortunately situated." "Marianne," cried her
sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so unjust? They are a very
respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest
manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to
them?" "No," said Marianne in a low voice, "nor how many
painful moments." Elinor took no notice of this, and directing her
attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse
with him by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c.
extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate
her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every
appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he
ought to be treated from the family connection.
Mrs. Dashwood was
surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her
opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expressions of regard long
outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness,
coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to
fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the
captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in
love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself. His
affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their
welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits however; he praised
their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was
not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing
it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant
against all selfish parents. "What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at
present, Edward?" said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round
the fire; "are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!" "But how is your fame to be
established? for famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and with no
inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no
assurance, you may find it a difficult matter." "I shall not attempt
it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and I have every reason to hope I never
shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."
"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well
as every body else to be perfectly happy; but like every body else it must be
in my own way. Greatness will not make me so." "Strange if it
would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or grandeur to do with
happiness?" "Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but
wealth has much to do with it." "Elinor, for shame!" said
Marianne; "money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to
give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as
mere self is concerned." "Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling,
"we may come to the same point. Your competence and my wealth are very much
alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree
that every kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more
noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?" "About eighteen
hundred or two thousand a-year; not more than that." Elinor laughed.
"Two thousand a-year! One is my wealth! I guessed how it would end."
"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said
Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am
not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage,
perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less." Elinor smiled
again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at
Combe Magna. "Hunters!" repeated Edward -- "But why must you
have hunters? Every body does not hunt." Marianne coloured as she replied,
"But most people do." "I wish," said Margaret, striking out
a novel thought, "that somebody would give us all a large fortune
apiece!" "Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling
with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness. "We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said
Elinor, "in spite of the insufficiency of wealth." "Oh
dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I should
do with it!" Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point. "I
should be puzzled to spend a large fortune myself," said Mrs. Dashwood,
"if my children were all to be rich without my help." "You must
begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and your
difficulties will soon vanish." "What magnificent orders would travel
from this family to London," said Edward, "in such an event! What a
happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood,
would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you --
and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her. And books! -- Thomson, Cowper, Scott -- she
would buy them all over and over again; she would buy up every copy, I believe,
to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book
that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne?
Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to shew you that I had not
forgot our old disputes." "I love to be reminded of the past, Edward
-- whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it -- and you will never
offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my
money would be spent -- some of it, at least -- my loose cash would certainly
be employed in improving my collection of music and books." "And the
bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their
heirs." "No, Edward, I should have something else to do with
it." "Perhaps then you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favorite maxim, that no one can ever be in
love more than once in their life -- for your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?" "Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are
tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear anything to
change them." "Marianne is as stedfast as ever, you see," said
Elinor, "she is not at all altered." "She is only grown a little
more grave than she was." "Nay, Edward," said Marianne,
"you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself." "Why
should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was
a part of my character." "Nor do I think it a part of
Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly call her a lively girl --
she is very earnest, very eager in all she does -- sometimes talks a great deal
and always with animation -- but she is not often really merry." "I
believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl." "I have frequently detected myself in such
kind of mistakes," said Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of
character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or
ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why, or in what
the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without
giving oneself time to deliberate and judge." "But I thought it was rightElinor,"
said Marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I
thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of our
neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure." "No,
Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the
understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour.
You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often
wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but
when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or conform to their judgment
in serious matters?" "You have not been able then to bring your
sister over to your plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor.
"Do you gain no ground?" "Quite the contrary," replied
Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne. "My judgment," he returned,
"is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much
more on your sister's. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that
I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural aukwardness. I
have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of
low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"
"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor. "She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied
Edward. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way
or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and
graceful, I should not be shy." "But you would still be
reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse." Edward stared --
"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?" "Yes, very." "I
do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! -- how, in
what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?" Elinor looked
surprised at his emotion, but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him,
"Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do
not you know that she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and
admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?" Edward made no answer.
His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent -- and
he sat for some time silent and dull.
Elinor saw, with great
uneasiness, the low spirits of her friend. His visit afforded her but a very
partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It
was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he
still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt
of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very
uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one
moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one. He joined her
and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were
down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as
she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way up stairs
she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see
Edward himself come out. "I am going into the village to see my
horses," said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be
back again presently." ------ Edward returned to them with fresh
admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen
many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher
situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly
pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention, and she was
beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him
more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward
interrupted her by saying, "You must not inquire too far, Marianne --
remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my
ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills
steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be
irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be
indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied
with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country --
the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks
comfortable and snug -- with rich meadows and several neat farm houses
scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because
it unites beauty with utility -- and I dare say it is a picturesque one too,
because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and
promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know
nothing of the picturesque." "I am afraid it is but too true,"
said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" "I
suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward
here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more
admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted
with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination
in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will have an
affectation of his own." "It is very true," said Marianne,
"that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body
pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who
first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and
sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language
to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
meaning." "I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really
feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in
return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine
prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted,
blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight and
flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles,
or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than
a watch-tower -- and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the
finest banditti in the world." Marianne looked with amazement at Edward,
with compassion at her sister. Elinor only laughed. The subject was continued
no farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object
suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his
tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a
ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his
fingers. "I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried.
"Is thatFanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I
should have thought her hair had been darker." Marianne spoke
inconsiderately what she really felt -- but when she saw how much she had
pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed
by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor,
replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair. The setting always casts a
different shade on it you know." Elinor had met his eye, and looked
conscious likewise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well
satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclusions was, that
whatMarianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious
must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She
was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take
no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of something else, she
internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair
and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of
her own. Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning. Marianne
severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might
have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had given her
sister. Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came
to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir
John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. and
this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which
nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented
from being immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned from some very
significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's
instructions, extended. Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either
inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that
evening. On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their
visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished
to engage them for both. "You must drink tea with us to night," said
he, "for we shall be quite alone -- and to-morrow you must absolutely dine
with us, for we shall be a large party." Mrs. Jennings enforced the
necessity. "And who knows but you may raise a dance," said she.
"And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne." "A dance!" cried
Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?" "Who! why yourselves,
and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure. -- What! you thought nobody could
dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone!" "I
wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among
us again." This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.
"And who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood,
by whom he was sitting. She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was
more communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of
others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when
their visitors left them, he went immediately round to her and said, in a
whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?"
"What do you mean?" "Shall I tell you?"
"Certainly." "Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby
hunts." Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help
smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and, after a moment's silence,
said, "Oh! Edward! How can you? -- But the time will come I hope ---- I am
sure you will like him." "I do not doubt it," replied he, rather
astonished at her earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a
joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something
or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
mention it.
Edward remained a week
at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but
as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone
when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the
last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved -- he
grew more and more partial to the house and environs -- never spoke of going
away without a sigh -- declared his time to be wholly disengaged -- even
doubted to what place he should go when he left them -- but still, go he must.
Never had any week passed so quickly -- he could hardly believe it to be gone.
He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his
feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; he
detested being in town; but either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued
their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with
them. Yet he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and
his own, and without any restraint on his time. Elinor placed all that was
astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for
her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to
be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son.
Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his
uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to
regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications,
which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for Willoughby's
service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency,
were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better
knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition and designs. The shortness of his
visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same
fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporising with his
mother. The old, well established grievance of duty against will, parent
against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when
these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield, -- when Mrs.
Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such
vain wishes, she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her
confidence in Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in
look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and above all to that
flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger. "I
think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the last
morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage
your time and give an interest of your plans and actions. Some inconvenience to
your friends, indeed, might result from it -- you would not be able to give
them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you would be materially benefited
in one particular at least -- you would know where to go when you left
them." "I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long
thought on this point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will
always be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to
engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like
independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends,
have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree in our
choice of a profession. I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that
was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great
deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young
men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first
circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination
for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved.
As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject
was first started to enter it -- and, at length, as there was no necessity for my
having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a
red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be the
most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general
so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends
to do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle
ever since." "The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,"
said Mrs. Dashwood, "since leisure has not promoted your own happiness,
that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments,
professions, and trades as Columella's." "They will be brought
up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as unlike myself as is
possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing."
"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, Edward.
You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be
happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every
body at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own happiness.
You want nothing but patience -- or give it a more fascinating name, call it
hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so
anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness
to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a
few months do?" "I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy
many months to produce any good to me." This desponding turn of mind,
though it could not be communicated to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to
them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable
impression on Elinor's feelings especially, which required some trouble and
time to subdue. But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent
herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his
going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Marianne,
on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence,
solitude, and idleness. Their means were as different as their objects, and
equally suited to the advancement of each. Elinor sat down to her drawing-table
as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day,
neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest
herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if,
by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented
from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much
solicitude on her account. Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of
her own, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed
faulty to her. The business of self-command she settled very easily; -- with
strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed
to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking
proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying
conviction. Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house
in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge
meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of
Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the
different state of her spirits at different times could produce; -- with
tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments in
abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by
the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and
every effect of solitude was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her
thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a
subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and
engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy. From a reverie of this kind,
as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after
Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company. She happened to be quite
alone. The closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in
front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party
walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs.
Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite
unknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John
perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the
door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak
to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to
make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the other.
"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you
like them?" "Hush! they will hear you." "Never mind if they
do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you. You may
see her if you look this way." As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a
couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open." "She is walking, I believe." They were now
joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was
opened before she told her story. She came hallooing to the window, "How
do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are your sisters?
What! all alone! you will be glad of a little company to sit with you. I have
brought my other son and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so
suddenly! I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our
tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing
but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir
John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back
again" ---- Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story,
to receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers;
Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat
down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she
walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir John. Mrs. Palmer
was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally unlike her in every
respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest
expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her manners were by no
means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. She
came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she
laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young
man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his
wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with
a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a
word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a
newspaper from the table and continued to read it as long as he staid. Mrs.
Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for
being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the
parlour and every thing in it burst forth. "Well! what a delightful room
this is! I never saw anything so charming! Only think, mama, how it is improved
since I was here last! I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning
to Mrs. Dashwood,) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how
delightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should
not you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even
raise his eyes from the newspaper. "Mr. Palmer does not hear me,"
said she, laughing, "he never does sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood, she had never been used to find wit
in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them
both. Mrs. Jennings, in the mean time, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their
friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed
heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two
or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise. "You
may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs. Jennings,
leaning forwards towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to
be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the
room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so
fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by London
upon account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing
to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home
and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see
you all!" Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.
Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore
exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper. "No,
none at all," he replied, and read on. "Here comes Marianne,"
cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty girl."
He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in
himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she had not been
to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to shew
she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her
some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now
caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.
"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,
mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them for
ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were
any such things in the room. When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer
rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself, and looked at them all
round. "My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing. He
made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it
was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow
and departed with the rest. Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend
the next day at the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them
oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;
her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them
in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise to excuse themselves; the
weather was uncertain and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be
satisfied -- the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady
Middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs.
Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to
avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield. "Why
should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. "The
rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if
we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or
with us." "They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,"
said Elinor," by these frequent invitations than by those which we
received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their
parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."
As the Miss Dashwoods
entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer
came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She
took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing
them again. "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself
between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you
might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow.
We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a
sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was
coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to
Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot
stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope." They
were obliged to put an end to such an expectation. "Not go to town!"
cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do
not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to our's, in
Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to
chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like
to go into public." They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her
entreaties. "Oh! my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just
then entered the room -- "You must help me persuade the Miss Dashwoods to
go to town this winter." Her love made no answer; and after slightly
bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather. "How horrid all
this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body
disgusting. Dulness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It
makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by
not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is!
Sir John is as stupid as the weather." The rest of the company soon dropt
in. "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been
able to take your usual walk to Allenham to-day." Marianne looked very
grave and said nothing. "Oh! don't be so sly before us," said Mrs.
Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste
very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way
from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."
"Much nearer thirty," said her husband. "Ah! well! there is not
much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty
place." "As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr.
Palmer. Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
interest in what was said. "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer
-- "then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose."
When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that
they were only eight altogether. "My dear," said he to his lady,
"it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the
Gilberts to come to us to-day?" "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when
you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us
last." "You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should
not stand upon such ceremony." "Then you would be very
ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer. "My love, you contradict every
body," -- said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you
are quite rude?" "I did not know I contradicted any body in calling
your mother ill-bred." "Aye, you may abuse me as you please,"
said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands,
and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you."
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her;
and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live
together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or
more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference,
insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain: and when he scolded
or abused her, she was highly diverted. "Mr. Palmer is so droll!"
said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour."
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for
being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear.
His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his
sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the
husband of a very silly woman, -- but she knew that this kind of blunder was
too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. -- It was rather a
wish of distinction she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of
every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire
of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered
at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority
in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife.
"Oh! my dearMiss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I
have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend
some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do, -- and come while the
Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite
delightful! ---- My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long
to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?" "Certainly," --
he replied with a sneer -- "I came into Devonshire with no other
view." "There now" -- said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer
expects you; so you cannot refuse to come." They both eagerly and
resolutely declined her invitation. "But indeed you must and shall come. I
am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it
will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and
we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
against the election; and so many people come to dine with us that I never saw
before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him!
for he is forced to make every body like him." Elinor could hardly keep
her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation.
"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament! -- won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all
his letters directed to him with an M.P. -- But do you know, he says, he will
never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?" Mr.
Palmer took no notice of her. "He cannot bear writing, you know," she
continued -- "he says it is quite shocking." "No;" said he,
"I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of
language upon me." "There now; you see how droll he is. This is
always the way with him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day
together, and then he comes out with something so droll -- all about any thing
in the world." She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the
drawing-room by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
"Certainly;" said Elinor, "he seems very agreeable."
"Well -- I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and
Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and
you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland. --
I can't imagine why you should object to it." Elinor was again obliged to
decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her
entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs.
Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby's
general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial
acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a
confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear for Marianne.
She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and
whether they were intimately acquainted with him. "Oh! dear, yes; I know
him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer -- "Not that I ever spoke to
him indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never
happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here
once before; -- but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we
should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened
very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is
very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not
think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition you know, and
besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your
sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her
for a neighbour you know." "Upon my word," replied Elinor,
"you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to
expect such a match." "Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it
is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through
town." "My dearMrs. Palmer!" "Upon my honour I did. -- I
met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town,
and he told me of it directly." "You surprise me very much. Colonel
Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence
to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not
what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do." "But I do assure you it
was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he
turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and
sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, ""So, Colonel,
there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word
they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr.
Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as
you have been in Devonshire so lately.""" "And what did the
Colonel say?" "Oh! -- he did not say much; but he looked as if he
knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be
quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?" "Mr. Brandon
was very well I hope." "Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your
praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you." "I am flattered
by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly
pleasing." "So do I. -- He is such a charming man, that it is quite a
pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mama says he was in love with your
sister too. -- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly
ever falls in love with any body." "Is Mr. Willoughby much known in
your part of Somersetshire?" said Elinor. "Oh! yes, extremely well;
that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe
Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you.
Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell
your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but
that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and
agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However I don't think her
hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both
excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not
get him to own it last night." Mrs. Palmer's information respecting
Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however
small, was pleasing to her. "I am so glad we are got acquainted at
last," continued Charlotte. -- "And now I hope we shall always be
great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you! It is so
delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it to be
sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will
be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place by all accounts."
"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"
"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. -- He was a particular
friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would
have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton
wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me,
otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have
been married immediately." "Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's
proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to
yourself?" "Oh! no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he
would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it
was before I left school. However I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is just
the kind of man I like."
The Palmers returned to
Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to
entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their
last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being
so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good
abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between
husband and wife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the
cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.
In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies,
whomMrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and
this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as
their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter
instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into
no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to
receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of
whose elegance, -- whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for
the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at
all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs.
Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when
she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because
they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible
however now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the
idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well bred woman, contenting herself
with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six
times every day. The young ladies arrived, their appearance was by no means
ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very
civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,
and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middleton's
good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the
Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her
ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment
rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell
the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their
being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however,
there was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in
the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible
variation of form, face, temper, and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole
family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent,
philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to
himself. "Do come now," said he -- "pray come -- you must come
-- I declare you shall come -- You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is
monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all
hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both
long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the
most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all very
true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am sure. They
have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. How can you
be so cross as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a
fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be
related." But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise
of their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in
amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their
attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss
Steeles to them. When their promised visit to the Park and consequent
introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of
the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face,
nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and
twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and
she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give
actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. -- Their manners were
particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense,
when she saw with what constant and judicious attentions they were making
themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in
continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and
humouring all their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the
importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration
of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or
in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day
before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay
their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise
for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most
credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the
excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring,
were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or
distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent incroachments
and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes
untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their
knives and scissars stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal
enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should
sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing. "John
is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss Steele's pocket
handkerchief, and throwing it out of the window -- "He is full of monkey
tricks." And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one
of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William
is!" "And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added,
tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise
for the last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet -- Never
was there such a quiet little thing!" But unfortunately in bestowing these
embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's
neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness, such violent screams, as could
hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation
was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection
could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was
seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with
lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her,
and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her
tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed
lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their
united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that
in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been
successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed
for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young
lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. --
She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of
this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated
by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness
which the room had not known for many hours. "Poor little creature!"
said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very
sad accident." "Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne,
"unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the
usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in
reality." "What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy
Steele. Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not
feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of
telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when
thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt,
though with far less than Miss Lucy. "And Sir John too," cried the
elder sister, "what a charming man he is!" Here tooMiss Dashwood's
commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely
observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly. "And what a
charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. --
I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly
fond of children." "I should guess so," said Elinor with a
smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning." "I have a
notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much
indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in
Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and
spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet." "I
confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never
think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." A short pause
succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very
much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how
do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave
Sussex." In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least
of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss
Steele. "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy,
who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
"I think every one must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever
saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do." "And had you a great many smart beaux there? I
suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think
they are a vast addition always." "But why should you think,"
said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many
genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?" "Nay, my dear, I'm sure I
don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux
in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about
Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton,
if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may
not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my
part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave
civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at
Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson you
know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. --
I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as
he was so rich?" "Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot
tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I
can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still, for
there is not the smallest alteration in him." "Oh! dear! one never
thinks of married mens' being beaux -- they have something else to do."
"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but
beaux; -- you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else."
And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of
the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the
beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and
artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better. Not
so, the Miss Steeles. -- They came from Exeter, well provided with admiration
for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no
niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared
to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished and agreeable girls they had
ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better
acquainted. -- And to be better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was
their inevitable lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss
Steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of
intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two
together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do not more; but he
did not know that any more was required; to be together was, in his opinion, to
be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual,
he had not a doubt of their being established friends. To do him justice, he
did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Miss
Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations
in the most delicate particulars, -- and Elinor had not seen them more than
twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so
lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.
"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure,"
said she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I
hope you may have as good luck yourself soon, -- but perhaps you may have a
friend in the corner already." Elinor could not suppose that Sir John
would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than
he had been with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke
of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since Edward's
visit, they had never dined together, without his drinking to her best
affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite
general attention. The letter F-- had been likewise invariably brought forward,
and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the
wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with Elinor. The Miss
Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the
eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman
alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a
piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But
Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for
he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in
hearing it. "His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible
whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret."
"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man,
is he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable
young man to be sure; I know him very well." "How can you say
soAnne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's
assertions. "Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is
rather too much to pretend to know him very well." Elinor heard all this
with attention and surprise. "And who was this uncle? Where did he live?
How came they acquainted?" She wished very much to have the subject
continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of
it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings
deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to
communicate it. The manner in whichMiss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased
her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the
suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his
disadvantage. -- But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was
taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly
mentioned by Sir John.
Marianne, who had never
much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of
parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly
ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss
Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her
behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their
side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon
became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no
opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their
acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments. Lucy was
naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion
for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had
received no aid from education, she was ignorant and illiterate, and her
deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most
common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her
constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the
neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but
she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her
flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in
the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of
instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and
whose conduct towards others, made every shew of attention and deference
towards herself perfectly valueless. "You will think my question an odd
one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day as they were walking together
from the park to the cottage -- "but, pray, are you personally acquainted
with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?" Elinor did think the
question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that
she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars. "Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I
wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then
perhaps you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?" "No;"
returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and
not very desirous of satisfying, what seemed impertinent curiosity -- "I
know nothing of her." "I am sure you think me very strange, for
inquiring about her in such a way;" said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively
as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons -- I wish I might venture;
but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean
to be impertinent." Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for
a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again
by saying with some hesitation. "I cannot bear to have you think me
impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than
be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours.
And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed I
should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable
situation as I am; but however there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry
you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars." "I am sorry I do not,"
said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to you to
know my opinion of her. But really, I never understood that you were at all
connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess,
at so serious an inquiry into her character." "I dare say you are,
and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you
would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at
present, -- but the time may come -- how soon it will come must depend upon
herself -- when we may be very intimately connected." She looked down as
she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to
observe its effect on her. "Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what
do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be ----?"
And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No;" replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Robert Ferrars -- I never saw
him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his elder
brother." What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have
been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to
divine the reason or object of such a declaration, and though her complexion
varied, she stood firm in incredulity and felt in no danger of an hysterical
fit, or a swoon. "You may well be surprised," continued Lucy;
"for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he
never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it
was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so
by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I
never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest
dependance in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in
asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars, must seem so odd, that it ought to
be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I
have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all
your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods, quite as his
own sisters." -- She paused. Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her
astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length
forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said with a calmness of
manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude -- "May
I ask if your engagement is of long standing?" "We have been engaged
these four years." "Four years!" "Yes." Elinor, though
greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it. "I did not know,"
said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day."
"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's
care, you know, a considerable while." "Your uncle!" "Yes;
Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?" "I think I
have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with
her increase of emotion. "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at
Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and
me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed,
though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost
always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may
imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too
young and loved him too well to be so prudent as I ought to have been. --
Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen
enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely
attached to him." "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing
what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added with revived security
of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood -- "Engaged to
Mr. Edward Ferrars! -- I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell
me, that really -- I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of
person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars." "We can mean no
other," cried Lucy smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of
Mrs. Ferrars of Park-street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John
Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be
deceived, as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends."
"It is strange," replied Elinor in a most painful perplexity,
"that I should never have heard him even mention your name."
"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has
been to keep the matter secret. -- You knew nothing of me, or my family, and
therefore there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you, and as
he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, that
was reason enough for his not mentioning it." She was silent. -- Elinor's
security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it. "Four years you
have been engaged," said she with a firm voice. "Yes; and heaven
knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out
of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added,
"To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this
face. It does not do him justice to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be
deceived as to the person it was drew of. -- I have had it above these three
years." She put it into her hands as she spoke, and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish
of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none
of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the
likeness. "I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him
my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."
"You are quite in the right;" replied Elinor calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first. "I am sure," said
she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret,
because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his
mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune,
and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman." "I certainly did not
seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than
justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me;
but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You
must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its
safety." As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to
discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure,
personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a
great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old
acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation
was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother;
and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask.
Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all;
indeed she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear
of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must
perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day,
when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all.
You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only
wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last
four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so
seldom -- we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is
not quite broke." Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not
feel very compassionate. "Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping
her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both, to break
off the matter entirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her
companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.
-- I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very
mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too -- so dear as he is
to me -- I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do
in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?" "Pardon
me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give you no
advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you."
"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward
is so cast down about it! Did not you think him dreadful low-spirited when he
was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you,
that I was afraid you would think him quite ill." "Did he come from
your uncle's then, when he visited us?" "Oh! yes; he had been staying
a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?"
"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he
had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She
remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther
of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names. "Did
not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy. "We did
indeed, particularly so when he first arrived." "I begged him to
exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him
so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing
me so much affected. -- Poor fellow! -- I am afraid it is just the same with
him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left
Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly shewing the direction
to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that
is not written so well as usual. -- He was tired, I dare say, for he had just
filled the sheet to me as full as possible." Elinor saw that it was his
hand, and she could doubt no longer. The picture, she had allowed herself to
believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's
gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments,
she was almost overcome -- her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly
stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary, and she struggled so
resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy,
and for the time complete. "Writing to each other," said Lucy,
returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such
long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture; but poor Edward
has not even that. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave
him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that
was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might
notice the ring when you saw him?" "I did;" said Elinor, with a
composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond
any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation
could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss
Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be
wretched.
However small Elinor's
general dependance on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on
serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could
be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description.
WhatLucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer
doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs,
and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of
acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once
indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his melancholy
state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain
behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to
Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the
picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as
overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact,
which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. -- Her
resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a
short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other
considerations soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he
feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy, an
engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not
believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She could not be
deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his
regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He
certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much
could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blameable, highly blameable, in
remaining at Norland after he felt her influence over him to be more than it
ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how
much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless.
His imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have
deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time
regain tranquillity; but he, what had he to look forward to? Could he ever be
tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out
of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be
satisfied with a wife like her -- illiterate, artful, and selfish? The youthful
infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty
and good nature; but the four succeeding years -- years, which if rationally
spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to
her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in
inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that
simplicity, which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from
his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when
the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and
probably inferior in fortune to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with an
heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but
melancholy was the state of the person, by whom the expectation of family
opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief! As these considerations
occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself.
Supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present
unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit
her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy
blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her
mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,
that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered
the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the
appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles
which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that Marianne
was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she
felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which
drove near their house. The necessity of concealing from her mother and
Marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged
her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the
contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would
give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that
condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their
partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to
support. From their counsel, or their conversation she knew she could receive
no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her
self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from
their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported
her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as
invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them
to be. Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the
subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more
reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement
repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand whatLucy really felt for
Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard
for him, and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to
enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was
no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her
involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her, appeared very probable;
it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely
from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a
personal acquaintance, with a secret, so confessedly and evidently important.
And even Sir John's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed,
while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by
Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural
that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a
proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but
that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be
taught to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus
much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her
as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection
for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the
comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as
she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already
been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition
of particulars with composure. But it was not immediately that an opportunity
of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to
take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough
to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate
themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening
either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be
supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter
either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head, and therefore very little leisure was
ever given for general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met
for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards,or consequences,
or any other game that was sufficiently noisy. One or two meetings of this kind
had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in
private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg in the name of
charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was
obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,
except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer
opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to
be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction
of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy
purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother's
permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to
join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to
have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise. The
young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful
solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly
such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or
expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their
discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the
children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well
convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They
quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then
placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a
hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in
preparation for a round game. "I am glad," said Lady Middleton to
Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria's basket this
evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work fillagree by candlelight.
And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow,
and then I hope she will not much mind it." This hint was enough, Lucy
recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much
mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your
party without me, or I should have been at my fillagree already. I would not
disappoint the little angel for all the world, and if you want me at the
card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper."
"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes -- will you ring the
bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed,
I know, if the basket was not finished to-morrow, for though I told her it
certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done." Lucy
directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and
cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than
in making a fillagree basket for a spoilt child. Lady Middleton proposed a
rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who,
with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed,
"Your ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me -- you know I detest
cards. I shall go to the piano-forte=; I have not touched it since it was tuned."
And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude
a speech. "Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know,
ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I
do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte=I ever
heard." The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I
may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I
think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work
exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it." "Indeed I shall be
very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find
there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a
shocking thing to disappoint dearAnnamaria after all." "Oh! that
would be terrible indeed," said Miss Steele -- "Dear little soul, how
I do love her!" "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to
Elinor: "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well
pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance
now?" Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus
by a little of that address, whichMarianne could never condescend to practise,
gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room
for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by
side at the same table, and with the utmost harmony engaged in forwarding the
same work. The piano-forte=, at which Marianne, wrapt up in her own music and
her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room
besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged, she
might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting
subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
In a firm, though
cautious tone, Elinor thus began. "I should be undeserving of the
confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance,
or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for
bringing it forward again." "Thank you," cried Lucy warmly,
"for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was
somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that
Monday." "Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,"
and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther
from my intention, than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for
the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?" "And yet I
do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning,
"there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner, that
made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have
been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to
trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own
fancy, and that you do not really blame me. If you knew what a consolation it
was to me to relieve my heart by speaking to you of what I am always thinking
of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing
else I am sure." "Indeed I can easily believe that it was a very
great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that
you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;
you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of
all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is
entirely dependent on his mother." "He has only two thousand pounds
of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I
could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to
a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love
him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his
mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for
many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming
prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know."
"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your reciprocal
attachment had failed, as between many people and under many circumstances it
naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been
pitiable indeed." Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding
her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious
tendency. "Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty
well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first
engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to
doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on
that account from the first." Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh
at this assertion. Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by
nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more
in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for
suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the
slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of
spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than
another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be.
I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in
general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived." "All
this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us." "But what," said she after a short silence,
"are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's
death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? -- Is her son determined
to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in
which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a
while by owning the truth?" "If we could be certain that it would be
only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her
first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to
Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my
inclination for hasty measures." "And for your own sake too, or you
are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason." Lucy looked at Elinor
again, and was silent. "Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked
Elinor. "Not at all -- I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother -- silly and a great coxcomb." "A great coxcomb!"
repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in
Marianne's music. -- "Oh! they are talking of their favourite beaux, I
dare say." "No, sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken
there, our favourite beaux are not great coxcombs." "I can answer for
it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily;
"for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw;
but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who
she likes." "Oh!" cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round
at them, "I dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as
Miss Dashwood's." Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip,
and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time.
Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then
giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto -- "I
will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing
matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a
party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he
would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he
should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I
am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope
out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland
living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not
likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we
might trust to time and chance for the rest." "I should be always
happy," replied Elinor, "to shew any mark of my esteem and friendship
for Mr. Ferrars; but do not you perceive that my interest on such an occasion
would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood -- that
must be recommendation enough to her husband." "But Mrs. John
Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into orders." "Then
I rather suspect that my interest would do very little." They were again
silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh, "I
believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by
dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side,
that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps
in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood?"
"No;" answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that
my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your
wishes." "Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy with great solemnity;
"I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I
do really believe, that if you was to say to me, ""I advise you by
all means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more
for the happiness of both of you,"" I should resolve upon doing it
immediately." Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife,
and replied, "this compliment would effectually frighten me from giving
any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much too
high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an
indifferent person." "'Tis because you are an indifferent
person," said Lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on
those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. If
you could be supposed to be biassed in any respect by your own feelings, your
opinion would not be worth having." Elinor thought it wisest to make no
answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of
ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject
again. Another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this
speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it. "Shall you be in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she with all her accustomary complacency.
"Certainly not." "I am sorry for that," returned the other,
while her eyes brightened at the information, "it would have gave me such
pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be
sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them." "It will
not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do." "How
unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne and me are
to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been wanting us to
visit them these several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing Edward. He
will be there in February, otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have
not spirits for it." Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the
conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two
ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any
reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side, to make them dislike each
other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table
with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without affection for
the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being
tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on her side would have
given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an
engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary. From
this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when entered on by Lucy,
who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly
careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a
letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and
dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to
be an indulgence whichLucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to
herself. The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased, they could not be
spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous
and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of
their returning to fulfil them immediately, which was in full force at the end
of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park,
and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more
than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its
importance.
Though Mrs. Jennings
was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her
children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own.
Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant
part of town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets
near Portman-square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to
turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by
them, asked the elder Miss Dashwoods to accompany her. Elinor, without
observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which
spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute
denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united
inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving
their mother at that time of year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some
surprize, and repeated her invitation immediately. "Oh! Lord, I am sure
your mother can spare you very well, and I do beg you will favour me with your
company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any
inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It
will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three
shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do
not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my
daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such
good luck in getting my own children off my hands, that she will think me a
very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at
least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I
shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon
it." "I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne
would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It
is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when
you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it."
"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad
of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more
the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be
together; because if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and
laugh at my odd ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them,
I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who
have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss
Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will
change her mind by and bye, why so much the better." "I thank you,
ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth; "your
invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such
happiness, yes almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to
accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, -- I feel the justice of
whatElinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable
by our absence -- Oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not,
must not be a struggle." Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs.
Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her
sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else, she was
carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from
whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to
prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which on her
own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous
of, her mother would be eager to promote -- she could not expect to influence
the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair, respecting which she had
never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the
motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious
as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted
by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard
whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one
object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to
witness. On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that
such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters,
and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the
heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon
her account; insisted on their both accepting it directly, and then began to
foresee with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue
to them all, from this separation. "I am delighted with the plan,"
she cried, "it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as
much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we
shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You
will find Margaret so improved when you come back again! And I have a little
plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you should go to town; I would
have every young woman of your condition in life, acquainted with the manners
and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of
woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you
will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his
wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly
estranged from each other." "Though with your usual anxiety for our
happiness," said Elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to
the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which,
in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed." Marianne's countenance sunk.
"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going
to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do not let me
hear a word about the expense of it." "My objection is this; though I
think very well of Mrs. Jennings' heart, she is not a woman whose society can
afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence."
"That is very true," replied her mother; "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all,
and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton." "If
Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne,
"at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I have no such
scruples, and I am sure, I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind
with very little effort." Elinor could not help smiling at this display of
indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had
difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness: and
resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the
sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to
the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this
determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting, that Edward
Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that
their visit, without any unreasonable abridgment, might be previously finished.
"I will have you both go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections
are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially
in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment,
she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would perhaps expect
some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's
dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be the
less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost
hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as
calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be
glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect
indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not." Mrs. Dashwood
smiled and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and
Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue. After very
little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be
fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of
joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure
merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety
was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of
inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of
being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for
the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives
as this intelligence made them. Elinor submitted to the arrangement which
counteracted her wishes, with less reluctance than she had expected to feel.
With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to
town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan,
and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not
be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the
consequence. Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was
the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at
the moment of parting, her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's
affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who
seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal. Their
departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons were to
follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and
were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
Elinor could not find
herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and beginning a journey to London
under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situation,
so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were
they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a
measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy
ardour of youth whichMarianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or
overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's
constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled
the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank
was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison,
and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to
have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short,
a very short time however must now decide whatWilloughby's intentions were; in
all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone
declared her dependance on finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only
upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or
the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his
behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he
was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result
of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open
the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a
different nature -- she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and
banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of
Marianne. They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as
they travelled was a happy specimen of what her future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence
almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily
speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew
from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone
for this conduct therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of
civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to
Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever
she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible
kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and
only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the
inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls
to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be
released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready
to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. The house was handsome and handsomely
fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very
comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the
mantlepiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in
proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Elinor
determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for
that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same. "I am writing home,
Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a
day or two?" "I am not going to write to my mother," replied
Marianne hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said
no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby,
and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that however mysteriously
they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction,
though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her
letter with greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in
length it could be no more than a note: it was then folded up, sealed and
directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W.
in the direction, and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
bell, requested the footman who answered it, to get that letter conveyed for
her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once. Her spirits still
continued very high, but there was a flutter in them which prevented their
giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening
drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned
to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged
in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea things were
brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap
at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be
mistaken for one at any other house. Elinor felt secure of its announcing
Willoughby's approach, and Marianne starting up moved towards the door. Every
thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds, she opened the door,
advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute,
returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard
him would naturally produce; in the extasy of her feelings at that instant she
could not help exclaiming, "Oh! Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it
is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel
Brandon appeared. It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she
immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time
her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her, and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she
experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly
saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she
quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the
recollection of what civility demanded towards herself. "Is your sister
ill?" said he. Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then
talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to
which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour. He heard her with
the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on
the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in
London, making the usual inquiries about their journey and the friends they had
left behind. In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either
side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of
both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were
then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any inquiry after his
rival; and at length by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in
London ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied, with some
embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delaford
for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to Barton."
This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her
remembrance, all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the
uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful
that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had
ever felt. Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with
her usual noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you -- sorry I
could not come before -- beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about
me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at
home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one
has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with --
Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how
came you to conjure out that I should be in town to-day?" "I had the
pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been dining."
"Oh! you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does
Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time." "Mrs.
Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that you will
certainly see her to-morrow." "Aye, to be sure, I thought as much.
Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see -- that is, you
see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend Miss
Marianne, too -- which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you
and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her. Aye, it is a fine thing to be
young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome --
worse luck for me. However I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the
greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years
and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does
your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends." He
replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without
satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne was
obliged to appear again. After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more
thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not
prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the
ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed. Marianne rose the next
morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of the
evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that
day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche
stopt at the door, and in few minutes she came laughing into the room; so
delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most
pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so
angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own,
though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not
come! "Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "what
do you think he said when he heard of your coming with mama? I forget what it
was now, but it was something so droll!" After an hour or two spent in
what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of
inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in
laughter without cause on Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that
they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that
morning, to whichMrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at first,
was induced to go likewise. Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the
watch. In Bond-street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes
were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind
was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that
interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every where, her
sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it
might equally concern them both; she received no pleasure from any thing; was
only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her
vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing
pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none,
and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision. It was late in the morning
before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than
Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when Elinor followed, she found her
turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no
Willoughby had been there. "Has no letter been left here for me since we
went out?" said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. She
was answered in the negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she
replied. "Are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter
or note?" The man replied that none had. "How very odd!" said
she in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window.
"How odd indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her
sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she would
not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and
if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh! my dear
mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so
young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a
manner! I long to inquire; but how will my interference be borne!" She
determined after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days
longer, as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest
manner to her mother the necessity of some serious inquiry into the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate acquaintance,
whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left
them soon after tea to fulfil her evening engagements; and Elinor was obliged
to assist in making a whist-table for the others. Marianne was of no use on these
occasions, as she would never learn the game, but though her time was therefore
at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to
her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the
pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read;
but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting
employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a
moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the
long-expected rap.
"If this open
weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when they met at breakfast
the following morning. "Sir John will not like leaving Barton next week;
'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always
pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart." "That
is true," cried Marianne in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as
she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of that. This weather
will keep many sportsmen in the country." It was a lucky recollection, all
her good spirits were restored by it. "It is charming weather for them
indeed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a
happy countenance. "How much they must enjoy it! But" (with a little
return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of
year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more
of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In
another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer --
nay, perhaps it may freeze to-night!" "At any rate," said
Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as
clearly as she did, "I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton
in town by the end of next week." "Aye, my dear, I'll warrant you we
do. Mary always has her own way." "And now," silently
conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by this day's post." But
if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded
all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be,
and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she
saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And
Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still
happier in her expectation of a frost. The morning was chiefly spent in leaving
cards at the houses of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being
in town; and Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the
wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the
air. "Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There
seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in
my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun
will be out in a moment; and we shall have a clear afternoon." Elinor was
alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and saw every night
in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the
atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost. The Miss Dashwoods had
no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and
set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was
invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the
most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady
Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one, to whom an
introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions.
Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she
had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real
enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad,
formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her. Colonel Brandon, who had
a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to
look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from
conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the
same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it
was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he
often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at
Barton. About a week after their arrival it became certain that Willoughby was
also arrived. His card was on the table, when they came in from the morning's
drive. "Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we
were out." Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now
ventured to say, "depend upon it he will call again to-morrow." But
Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings's entrance, escaped
with the precious card. This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor,
restored to those of her sister, all, and more than all, their former
agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing
him every hour of the day, made her unfit for anything. She insisted on being
left behind, the next morning, when the others went out. Elinor's thoughts were
full of what might be passing in Berkeley-street during their absence; but a
moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that
Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and
laid on the table. "For me?" cried Marianne, stepping hastily
forward. "No, ma'am, for my mistress." But Marianne, not convinced,
took it instantly up. "It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how
provoking!" "You are expecting a letter then?" said Elinor,
unable to be longer silent. "Yes, a little -- not much." After a
short pause, "you have no confidence in me, Marianne." "Nay,
Elinor, this reproach from you -- you who have confidence in no one!"
"Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I
have nothing to tell." "Nor I," answered Marianne with energy,
"our situations then are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell;
you, because you communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing." Elinor,
distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty
to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater
openness in Marianne. Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given
her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in
Conduit-street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and
cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold
on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley-street. The invitation was
accepted: but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in
common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a
visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she
had seen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for
amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her
absence. Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town,
Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and
to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of whichLady Middleton
did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable;
but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less
easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls,
to have it known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine
couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation. Mr. and Mrs. Palmer
were of the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their
arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to
his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of
recognition on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to
know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of
the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered; it was
enough, he was not there -- and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive
or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr.
Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing
them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival
at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they
were to come. "I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.
"Did you?" replied Elinor. "When do you go back again?"
"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse. Never had Marianne
been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so
much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of it as they returned to
Berkeley-street. "Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the
reason of all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been
there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not
very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."
"Invited!" cried Marianne. "So my daughter Middleton told me,
for it seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street this morning."
Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation
to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved
to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for
the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long
delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving
after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to Willoughby,
for she could not suppose it to be to any other person. About the middle of the
day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on business, and Elinor began her letter
directly, while Marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for
conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in
melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in her application to her
mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's
inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from
Marianne, an account of her real situation with respect to him. Her letter was
scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was
announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of
any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked more than usually
grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if
he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a
word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her
sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first
time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for more than once before,
beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day,"
or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point,
either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. After a
pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a
voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of
a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer
ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he
meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to Mr.
Willoughby is very generally known." "It cannot be generally
known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do not know it." He
looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has
been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly
correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of." "How can
that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?" "By many -- by
some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs.
Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have believed
it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will
always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let
me in to-day, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr.
Willoughby in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced
before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it
impossible to --? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding.
Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I
hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence.
Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short
concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains." These
words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister,
affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say anything, and even
when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it
would be most proper to give. The real state of things between Willoughby and
her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it,
she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced
that Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel
Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the
same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most
prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or
believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed
by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual
affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished
to hear. He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,
rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to
your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may
endeavour to deserve her," -- took leave, and went away. Elinor derived no
comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her
mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy
impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from
wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.
Nothing occurred during
the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in
applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. The were engaged
about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from whichMrs. Jennings
was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this
party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming
equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of
hope, or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing room fire after
tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without once stirring from
her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts and insensible of
her sister's presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton
waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one
was expected. They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon
as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the
stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an
audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and
insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtesying
to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the croud, and take
their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must
necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little and doing less, Lady
Middleton sat down to Casino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving
about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no
great distance from the table. They had not remained in this manner long,
before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in
earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon
caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to
her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then
continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to
Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she
first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she
would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there -- he is there --
Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?" "Pray,
pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to
every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet." This however was
more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was
not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an
agony of impatience, which affected every feature. At last he turned round
again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a
tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing
himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and
determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs.
Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all
presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the
feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over,
and she exclaimed in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God!
Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will
you not shake hands with me?" He could not then avoid it, but her touch
seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this
time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance
and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he spoke
with calmness. "I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley-street last
Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope."
"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure -- some dreadful mistake. What
can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what
is the matter?" He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his
embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with
whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion,
he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of
receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to
send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her
chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her
from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavendar water.
"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and
force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again -- must speak to him
instantly. -- I cannot rest -- I shall not have a moment's peace till this is
explained -- some dreadful misapprehension or other. -- Oh go to him this
moment." "How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must
wait. This is not a place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow."
With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and
to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance
of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect,
was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice
to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time
Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and
telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him
again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly
begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was
too miserable to stay a minute longer. Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a
rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object
for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend,
they departed as soon as the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was
spoken during their return to Berkeley-street. Marianne was in a silent agony,
too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come
home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a
little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed
desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the
return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past. That
some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could
not doubt; and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for
however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such
behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough
change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still
stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to
speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing
him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister
from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might
have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome
it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to
doubt. As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already
have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its
probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her
own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could esteem Edward as
much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always
supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed
uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from
Willoughby -- in an immediate and irreconcileable rupture with him.
Before the house-maid
had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold,
gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against
one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command
from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In
this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first
perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety,
said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness, "Marianne, may I
ask?" -- "No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will
soon know all." The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said,
lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return
of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on
with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at
intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than
probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. Elinor
paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have
tried to sooth and tranquillize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her,
with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her
for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should
not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only
prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but
requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about
the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body. At breakfast
she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention was
then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to
regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jennings's notice entirely to
herself. As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a
considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the
common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she
eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness,
instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she
had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately
such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat
in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs.
Jennings's notice. That good lady, however, saw only thatMarianne had received
a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she
treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her
liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths
of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her
talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said, "Upon my word I never saw
a young woman so desperately in love in my life! My girls were nothing to her,
and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite
an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he wo'nt keep her
waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and
forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?" Elinor, though never less
disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack
as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really,
Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr.
Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems
to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself
any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of
their being going to be married." "For shame, for shame, Miss
Dashwood! how can you talk so! Don't we all know that it must be a match, that
they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they
met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and
did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding
clothes? Come, come, this wo'nt do. Because you are so sly about it yourself,
you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you,
for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it
and so does Charlotte." "Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very
seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in
spreading the report, and you will find that you have, though you will not
believe me now." Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits
to say more, and eager at all events to know whatWilloughby had written,
hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne
stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two
or three others lying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and
seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several
times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less
violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all
the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint
affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her
face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that
such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by
her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning
eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows: Bond Street, January. MY DEAR
MADAM, I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to
return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was any
thing in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though
I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to
offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been
perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with
your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter
myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions.
My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so
unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to
express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my
professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow
to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged
elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is
fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands of returning the
letters, with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which
you so obligingly bestowed on me. I am, dear Madam, Your most obedient humble
Servant, JOHN WILLOUGHBY. With what indignation such a letter as this must be
read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that
it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for
ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it;
nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the
appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling -- so far from the common
decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter
which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of
regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever
-- a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer
to be deep in hardened villany. She paused over it for some time with indignant
astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to
increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against
him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might woundMarianne
still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any
possible good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all
evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the
most real, a blessing the most important. In her earnest meditations on the
contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it,
and, probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had
no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with
every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister,
forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot
how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to
the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably
early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she
knew had not been ordered till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though
hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse
herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being
indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its
cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off,
returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom
she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and
giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she
had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her
mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all
this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
faintness. A glass of wine, whichElinor procured for her directly, made her
more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her
kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!" "I
only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I could do,
which might be of comfort to you." This, as every thing else would have
been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her
heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am miserable indeed," before her voice was
entirely lost in sobs. Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of
unresisted grief in silence. "Exert yourself, dearMarianne," she
cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your
mother; think of her misery while you suffer; for her sake you must exert
yourself." "I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me,
leave me, if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture
me so. Oh! how easy for those who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer."
"Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! -- And can you believe
me to be so, while I see you so wretched!" "Forgive me, forgive
me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I know you feel for
me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are -- you must be happy; Edward
loves you -- what, oh! what can do away such happiness as that?"
"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly. "No, no,
no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You can have
no grief." "I can have no pleasure while I see you in this
state." "And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which
nothing can do away." "You must not talk soMarianne. Have you no
comforts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation?
Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery
of his character had been delayed to a later period -- if your engagement had
been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose
to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side,
would have made the blow more dreadful." "Engagement!" cried
Marianne, "there has been no engagement." "No engagement!"
"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith with
me." "But he told you that he loved you?" -- "Yes -- no --
never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared.
Sometimes I thought it had been -- but it never was." "Yet you wrote
to him?" -- "Yes -- could that be wrong after all that had passed? --
But I cannot talk." Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three
letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over
the contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their
arrival in town, was to this effect. Berkeley Street, January. How surprised
you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I think you will feel something
more than surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming
hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish
you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on
it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu. M. D. Her
second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the
Middletons', was in these words: -- "I cannot express my disappointment in
having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having
received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been
expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day.
Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having
expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are
generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a
dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be
so? You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the
case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very
soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise." M. D. The
contents of her last note to him were these: -- "What am I to imagine, Willoughby,
by your behaviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was
prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced,
with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I
was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a
conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not
yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly
ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or
purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in
your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I
shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to
be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you
are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was
insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be
told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful
indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to
what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will
return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession." M.
D. That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so
answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe.
But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their
having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence
which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by
anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne,
perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they
contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.
"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him,
as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other." "I
can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the
same." "He did feel the same, Elinor -- for weeks and weeks he felt
it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the
blackest art employed against me can have done it,) I was once as dear to him
as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give
up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look,
his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last
evening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When
he told me that it might be many weeks before we meet again -- his distress --
can I ever forget his distress!" For a moment or two she could say no
more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,
"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."
"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been
instigated?" "By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could
rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in
his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of
whom he writes -- whoever she be -- or any one, in short, but your own dear self,
mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is
there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than
Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?" Elinor would not contend, and
only replied, "Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be
cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the
consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits.
It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."
"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I
care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open
to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent
as they like -- may resist insult, or return mortification -- but I cannot. I
must feel -- I must be wretched -- and they are welcome to enjoy the
consciousness of it that can." "But for my mother's sake and
mine" -- "I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I
am so miserable -- Oh! who can require it?" Again they were both silent.
Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from
the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or
discerning objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the
bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's
letter, and after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed -- "It is too
much! Oh! Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel -- nothing
can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me --
ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it,
to have given me the power of clearing myself? ""The lock of hair,
(repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on
me"" -- That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart, when
you wrote those words? Oh! barbarously insolent! -- Elinor, can he be
justified?" "No, Marianne, in no possible way." "And yet
this woman -- who knows what her art may have been -- how long it may have been
premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her! -- Who is she? -- Who can she
be? -- Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his
female acquaintance? -- Oh! no one, no one -- he talked to me only of
myself." Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended
thus. "Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Cannot we be
gone to-morrow?" "To-morrow, Marianne!" "Yes; why should I
stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake -- and now who cares for me? Who
regards me?" "It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs.
Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must
prevent such a hasty removal as that." "Well, then, another day or
two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the
questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers -- how am
I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh! what
would he say to that!" Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a
moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of
mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more
hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and
for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some
lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of
use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed
quiet and motionless.
Mrs. Jennings came
immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her
request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of
real concern. "How do you do my dear?" -- said she in a voice of
great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to
answer. "How is she, Miss Dashwood? -- Poor thing! she looks very bad. --
No wonder. Aye, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon -- a
good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it
half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey
herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready
to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if it is true, he has
used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my
soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you
may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way: and if ever I
meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a
day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young
man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want
admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better
have her cry out at once and have done with it. The Parrys and Sandersons
luckily are coming to-night you know, and that will amuse her." She then
went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young
friend's affliction could be increased by noise. Marianne, to the surprise of
her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it.
But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle
about her would be less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a
moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit
out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she
could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it. When there, though looking
most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she
tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant
but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained;
but not a syllable escaped her lips, and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her. Elinor,
who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often
distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments,
and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return
for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that
every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her
therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite
child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by
the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be
amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad
countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been
entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by
a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the
consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she
could stay no longer. With an hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her
sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how
it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without
finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her
any good. I am sure if I knew any thing she would like, I would send all over
the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such
a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next
to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!
--" "The lady then -- Miss Grey I think you called her -- is very
rich?" "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a
smart, stilish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well,
Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich
together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts it wo'nt come before it's
wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his
curricle and hunters! Well, it don't signify talking, but when a young man, be
he who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage,
he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a
richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his
horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at
once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters
came round. But that won't do, now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can
ever be given up by the young men of this age." "Do you know what
kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable?" "I never
heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that
Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that
she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married,
for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree." -- "And who are the
Ellisons?" "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may
choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made! What now," after
pausing a moment -- "your poor sister is gone to her own room I suppose to
moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it
seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few
friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates
whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?" "Dear Ma'am,
this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne I dare say will not leave her room
again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am
sure she wants rest." "Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let
her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so
bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been
hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came to-day
finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have
joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such
a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you
know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir
John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had had my senses about
me I might have called in Conduit-street in my way home, and told them of it.
But I shall see them to-morrow." "It would be unnecessary I am sure,
for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby,
or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their
own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know
any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to
myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear
madam will easily believe." "Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must
be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I
would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all
dinner time. No more would Sir John nor my daughters, for they are all very
thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly
will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better,
the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you
know?" "In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in
many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which,
for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public
conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby -- he has broken no
positive engagement with my sister." "Law, my dear! Don't pretend to
defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham
House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"
Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she
hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though Marianne might
lose much, he could gain very little by the inforcement of the real truth.
After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural
hilarity, burst forth again. "Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an
ill wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her
at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Midsummer.
Lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come to-night. It will
be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt
or drawback -- except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but
she may be 'prenticed out at small cost, and then what does it signify?
Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old
fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great
garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country: and such
a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only
time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stewponds, and
a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for: and,
moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the
turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew
arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh!
'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house
within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton
Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a
neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon
as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we can but
put Willoughby out of her head!" "Aye, if we can but do that,
Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel
Brandon." And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found,
as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small
remains of a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.
"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister
received from her." "I will leave you," said Elinor, "if
you will go to bed." But this, from the momentary perverseness of
impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though
gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her
lay her aching head on the pillow, and saw her, as she hoped, in a way to get
some quiet rest before she left her. In the drawing-room, whither she then
repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of
something, in her hand. "My dear," said she, entering, "I have
just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the
house, that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister.
My poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old
cholicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world.
Do take it to your sister." "Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor,
smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended,
"how good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope,
almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as
rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself." Mrs.
Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was
satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it,
reflected that, though its good effects on a cholicky gout were, at present, of
little importance to her, its healing powers on a disappointed heart might be
as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister. Colonel Brandon came in while
the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for
Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected, nor wished to
see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her
absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for, soon after his
entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided,
and whispered -- "The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows
nothing of it; do tell him, my dear." He shortly afterwards drew a chair
close to her's, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good
information, inquired after her sister. "Marianne is not well," said
she. "She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to
bed." "Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I
heard this morning may be -- there may be more truth in it than I could believe
possible at first." "What did you hear?" "That a gentleman,
whom I had reason to think -- in short, that a man, whom I knew to be engaged
-- but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may
be spared." "You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness,
"Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we do know it all. This
seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first
unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?"
"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies were
waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of
the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was
impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John Willoughby,
frequently repeated, first caught my attention, and what followed was a
positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his
marriage with Miss Grey -- it was no longer to be a secret -- it would take
place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other
matters. One thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the
man still more: -- as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe
Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment! -- but it would be
impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on
inquiry, for I staid in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and
that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian."
"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation." "It
may be so; but Willoughby is capable -- at least I think" -- he stopped a
moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And your
sister -- how did she --" "Her sufferings have been very severe. I
have only to hope that they may be proportionably short. It has been, it is a
most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps -- But I am almost convinced that he never was really
attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a
hardness of heart about him." "Ah!" said Colonel Brandon,
"there is, indeed! But your sister does not -- I think you said so -- she
does not consider it quite as you do?" "You know her disposition, and
may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could." He made
no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the
arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs.
Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who
expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication, in such an
instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a man in
the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the
whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.
From a night of more
sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same
consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes. Elinor encouraged her
as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready,
they had gone through the subject again and again; with the same steady
conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous
feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could
believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at
others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment
she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another
she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with
energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in
avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a
determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against
the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her
kindness is not sympathy; her good nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it." Elinor had not
needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in
her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too
great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and
the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than
half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and
an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from
other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their
motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a
circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after
breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation;
because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain
to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost
good-will. With a letter in her out-stretched hand, and countenance gaily
smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
saying, "Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you
good." Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before
her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of
all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by
Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by
the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment
was destroyed by the next. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome,
was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such
an extasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never
suffered. The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach
her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence --
a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many
expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter for
comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little
comfort. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother, still confident of their
engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been
roused by Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness
towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection
for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other,
that she wept with agony through the whole of it. All her impatience to be at
home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through
the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly
urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better
for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except
of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she
obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge. Mrs. Jennings left
them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the Middletons and
Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing
Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning.
Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to
communicate, and perceiving by Marianne's letter how ill she had succeeded in
laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of
what had passed, and intreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who
came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the
table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over
her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect
on her mother. In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour,
when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled
by a rap at the door. "Who can this be?" cried Elinor. "So early
too! I thought we had been safe." Marianne moved to the window -- "It
is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation. "We are never safe from
him." "He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."
"I will not trust to that," retreating to her own room. "A man
who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on
that of others." The event proved her conjecture right, though it was
founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon did come in; and Elinor,
who was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw
that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though
brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so
lightly. "I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond-street," said he, after the
first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone,
which I was very desirous of doing. My object -- my wish -- my sole wish in
desiring it -- I hope, I believe it is -- is to be a means of giving comfort;
-- no, I must not say comfort -- not present comfort -- but conviction, lasting
conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your
mother -- will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances, which
nothing but a very sincere regard -- nothing but an earnest desire of being
useful ---- I think I am justified -- though where so many hours have been
spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I
may be wrong?" He stopped. "I understand you," said Elinor.
"You have something to tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his
character farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that
can be shewn Marianne. My gratitude will be insured immediately by any
information tending to that end, and her's must be gained by it in time. Pray,
pray let me hear it." "You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted
Barton last October, -- but this will give you no idea -- I must go farther
back. You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know
where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it
shall be a short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "I can
have little temptation to be diffuse." He stopt a moment for recollection,
and then, with another sigh, went on. "You have probably entirely
forgotten a conversation -- (it is not to be supposed that it could make any
impression on you) -- a conversation between us one evening at Barton Park --
it was the evening of a dance -- in which I alluded to a lady I had once known,
as resembling, in some measure, your sister Marianne." "Indeed,"
answered Elinor, "I have not forgotten it." He looked pleased by this
remembrance, and added, "If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the
partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between
them, as well in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness
of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from
her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages were nearly the
same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends. I cannot
remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we
grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless
gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was,
I believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby, and it
was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen, she was
lost to me for ever. She was married -- married against her inclination to my
brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And
this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once
her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love
her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty,
and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she
experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had
promised me that nothing ---- but how blindly I relate! I have never told you
how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for
Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was
banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no
liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had
depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one -- but had her
marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled
me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not
the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they
ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence
of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's,
was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her
situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets
which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that with such a
husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her,
(for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with my
regiment in the East Indies) she should fall? Had I remained in England,
perhaps -- but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her
for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her
marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation,
"was of trifling weight -- was nothing -- to what I felt when I heard,
about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was that which threw this gloom,
-- even now the recollection of what I suffered --" He could say no more,
and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by
his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. He saw her
concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with
grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed
with composure. "It was nearly three years after this unhappy period
before I returned to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course
to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could
not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that
she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal
allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable
maintenance, and I learnt from my brother, that the power of receiving it had
been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly
could he imagine it, that her extravagance and consequent distress had obliged
her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I
had been six months in England, I did find her. Regard for a former servant of
my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a
spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house,
under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered -- so faded
-- worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the
melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely,
blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doated. What I endured in so
beholding her -- but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to
describe it -- I have pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance,
in the last stage of a consumption, was -- yes, in such a situation it was my
greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a
better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in
comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every day
during the rest of her short life; I was with her in her last moments."
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in an
exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the
resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their
fates, their fortunes cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition
of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or an happier marriage, she might
have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what does all this
lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood -- a
subject such as this -- untouched for fourteen years -- it is dangerous to
handle it at all! I will be more collected -- more concise. She left to my care
her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection,
who was then about three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it
with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have
discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself,
had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and
my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I
could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago,
and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she frequently
visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware
that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It
is now three years ago, (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I
removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable
woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls
of about the same time of life; and for two years I had every reason to be
pleased with her situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she
suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned
out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who
was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good
sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter -- better than she deserved,
for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing,
would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a
well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information;
for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging
over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince
me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely
unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was
gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I
thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."
"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be -- could Willoughby!
-- "The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came
in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford,
and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and
this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at
the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence
to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured
me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the
relief of one, whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what
would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles
of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for
another, would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had
seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no
help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her promising to return;
he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her." "This is beyond
every thing!" exclaimed Elinor. "His character is now before you;
expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now
known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond
of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him; guess what I
must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you
alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it
was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will
comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister -- but
what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I
thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such
dishonourable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her? Whatever they
may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will, turn with
gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor
Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor
girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him as strong, still
as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must
attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She
will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct,
and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still
more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her
fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion,
however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what
will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it
might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself
to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which
may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others."
Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too
with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the
communication of what had passed. "I have been more pained," said
she, "by her endeavours to acquit him than by all the rest; for it
irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness
can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon
become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever
seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton?" "Yes," he
replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable." Elinor,
startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? have you
met him to --" "I could meet him in no other way. Eliza had confessed
to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to
town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to
defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore,
never got abroad." Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but
to a man and a soldier, she presumed not to censure it. "Such," said
Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between
the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my
trust!" "Is she still in town?" "No; as soon as she
recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her
and her child into the country, and there she remains." Recollecting, soon
afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end
to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and
leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.
When the particulars of
this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very
soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to
see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for
she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made
neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and
seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this
behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of his guilt was carried home to
her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer
avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even
voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw
her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less
wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy
dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than
she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss
Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might
once have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she
could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and brooding over
her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been
communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them. To give the
feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's
letter, would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already
felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne's, and an
indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly
succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to
express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with
fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's
affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating
must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be anywhere, at that time,
than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the
past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing
Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended
it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs.
Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by
all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of
objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be
inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some
interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the idea of both
might now be spurned by her. From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her
mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country,
since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could
never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in
the croud of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force
him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, whichMrs.
Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to
expect as a certain one. She had yet another reason for wishing her children to
remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and
his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it
right that they should sometimes see their brother. Marianne had promised to be
guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without
opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and
expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds,
and that by requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the
only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever
knowing a moment's rest. But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that
what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the
other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely,
comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore
militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an
immediate return into Devonshire. Her carefulness in guarding her sister from
ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though
without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs.
Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before
her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day
to the indignation of them all. Sir John could not have thought it possible.
"A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured
fellow! He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an
unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would
not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No,
not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept waiting
for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It
was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies!
and this was the end of it!" Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry.
"She was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very
thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with
all her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,
for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she
was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she
saw, how good-for-nothing he was." The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was
shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching
marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what
coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's
portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was an happy
relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous
kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her, to be sure of exciting
no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends; a great
comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without feeling any
curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health. Every
qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more
than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence
to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. Lady
Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if
the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very shocking
indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able
not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion,
but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having
thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of
what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against
the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of
elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.
Colonel Brandon's delicate unobtrusive inquiries were never unwelcome to Miss
Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her
sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to
soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the
painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given
in the pitying eye with whichMarianne sometimes observed him, and the
gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was
obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave
Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who
knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as
ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor
commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think
that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by
the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours
of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to
her; and Mrs. Jennings had for some time ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's letter,
Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. She
had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was
known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not
receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her
eagerly examining every morning. She received the news with resolute composure;
made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time
they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly
less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event. The Willoughbys left
town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no
danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never
yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she
had done before. About this time, the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their
cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn, presented themselves again
before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley-street; and were
welcomed by them all with great cordiality. Elinor only was sorry to see them.
Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very
gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her still in
town. "I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
still," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But
I always thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet
awhile; though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above
a month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your
mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have
went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will be
in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to your
word." Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
self-command to make it appear that she did not. "Well, my dear,"
said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?" "Not in the stage,
I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation; "we came
post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming
to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very
genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did." "Oh,
oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a
single man, I warrant you." "There now," said Miss Steele,
affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I
cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for
my part I declare I never think about him from one hour's end to another.
""Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,"" my cousin said
t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My beau,
indeed! said I -- I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of
mine." "Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking -- but it won't do --
the Doctor is the man, I see." "No, indeed!" replied her cousin,
with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever
hear it talked of." Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying
assurance that she certainly would not, and Miss Steele was made completely
happy. "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation
of hostile hints, to the charge. "No, I do not think we shall."
"Oh, yes, I dare say you will." Elinor would not humour her by
farther opposition. "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare
you both for so long a time together!" "Long a time, indeed!"
interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun!" Lucy
was silenced. "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,"
said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well;" for Marianne had left
the room on their arrival. "You are very good. My sister will be equally
sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued
lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or
conversation." "Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends
as Lucy and me! -- I think she might see us; and I am sure we would not speak a
word." Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was
perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able
to come to them. "Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can
just as well go and see her." Elinor began to find this impertinence too
much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's
sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much
sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of
the other.
After some opposition,
Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her
and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned,
however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to
Gray's in Sackvill-street, where Elinor was carrying on a negociation for the
exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother. When they stopped at the
door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the
street, on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's, it was
resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her
visit and return for them. On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so
many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to
attend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done
was, to sit down at the end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest
succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that
Elinor was not without hopes of exciting his politeness to a quicker dispatch.
But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be
beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself,
and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after
examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in
the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure
to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in
three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on
Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling
insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion. Marianne was
spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this
impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in
deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases
presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as
well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what
was passing around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bed-room. At last the
affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their
appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence
could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his
gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods,
but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off
with an happy air of real conceit and affected indifference. Elinor lost no
time in bringing her business forward, and was on the point of concluding it,
when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes
towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother. Their
affection and pleasure in meeting, was just enough to make a very creditable
appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to
see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries
after their mother were respectful and attentive. Elinor found that he and
Fanny had been in town two days. "I wished very much to call upon you
yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to
take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange: and we spent the rest of
the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. This morning I had fully
intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one
has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak
Fanny a seal. But to-morrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in
Berkeley-street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand
she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce
me to them. As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to shew them
every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I
understand." "Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their
friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express." "I am
extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought
to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every
civility, and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant, might
be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little
cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the
place; the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear
it, I assure you." Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and
was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of
Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them
at the door. Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.
Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to
call on them the next day, took leave. His visit was duly paid. He came with a
pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but
she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for
going any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she
should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like
it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring
her sisters to see her. His manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind;
to Mrs. Jennings most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in
soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he
only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to him. After staying
with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit-street, and
introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine,
and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries
began. "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?" "Yes;
he has very good property in Dorsetshire." "I am glad of it. He seems
a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the
prospect of a very respectable establishment in life." "Me, brother!
what do you mean?" "He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am
convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?" "I believe about
two thousand a-year." "Two thousand a-year;" and then working
himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I
wish, with all my heart, it were twice as much, for your sake."
"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me." "You are
mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your
side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of
your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it.
But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so
easily give, will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why
you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment
on your side -- in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is
quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable -- you have too
much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no
civility shall be wanting on my part, to make him pleased with you and your
family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a
kind of thing that" -- lowering his voice to an important whisper --
"will be exceedingly welcome to all parties." Recollecting himself,
however, he added, "That is, I mean to say -- your friends are all truly
anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest
very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother tooMrs. Ferrars, a very
good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as
much the other day." Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer. "It would
be something remarkable now," he continued, "something droll, if
Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time. And yet
it is not very unlikely." "Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor,
with resolution, "going to be married?" "It is not actually
settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent
mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle
on him a thousand a-year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss
Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A
very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking
place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to
make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another
instance of her liberality: -- The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware
that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into
Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it
is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here." He paused for
her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say, "Your expenses
both in town and country must certainly be considerable, but your income is a
large one." "Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do
not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope
will in time be better. The inclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a
most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half
year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to
live. The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately
adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have
answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must
pay for his convenience; and it has cost me a vast deal of money."
"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth." "Why, I
hope not that. I might have sold it again the next day, for more than I gave:
but with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate
indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to
have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great
loss." Elinor could only smile. "Other great and inevitable expenses
too we have had on first coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well
know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very
valuable they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing
so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose. But,
in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen,
china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess, after
all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable
Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is." "Certainly," said Elinor; "and
assisted by her liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances."
"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied;
"but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone
laid of Fanny's greenhouse, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden
marked out." "Where is the green-house to be?" "Upon the
knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come down to make room for
it. It will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the
flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We
have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow."
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that
Marianne was not present, to share the provocation. Having now said enough to
make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of
ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at Gray's, his thoughts
took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on having such a
friend as Mrs. Jennings. "She seems a most valuable woman indeed. -- Her
house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an
acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the
end may prove materially advantageous. -- Her inviting you to town is certainly
a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard
for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten. --
She must have a great deal to leave." "Nothing at all, I should
rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her
children." "But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her
income. Few people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves, she
will be able to dispose of." "And do you not think it more likely
that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?" "Her
daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive
the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her
taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given
you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman
would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can
hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation she raises."
"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far." "Why to
be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little,
have very little in their power. But, my dearElinor, what is the matter with Marianne?
-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she
ill?" "She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for
several weeks." "I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing
of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She
was as handsome a girl last September, as any I ever saw; and as likely to
attract the men. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them
particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and
better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of you, but so it
happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether
Marianne now, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at
the utmost, and I am very much deceived if you do not do better. Dorsetshire! I
know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dearElinor, I shall be exceedingly
glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and
myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors." Elinor tried
very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying
Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to
be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that
gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had just
compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be
exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer
from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of
atoning for his own neglect. They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at
home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities
passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr.
Dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
appearance, to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood went away
delighted with both. "I shall have a charming account to carry to
Fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton
is really a most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to
know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an exceeding well-behaved woman, though not so
elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting
her, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally;
for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his
money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed
that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like
to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of
both."
Mrs. John Dashwood had
so much confidence in her husband's judgment that she waited the very next day
both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by
finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by
no means unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of
the most charming women in the world! Lady Middleton was equally pleased with
Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides,
which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an
insipid propriety of demeanour, and a general want of understanding. The same
manners however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the good opinion of
Lady Middleton, did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to her she
appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address,
who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having
any thing to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on
Berkeley-street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence. Elinor
wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether Edward was
then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his
name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Morton was
resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on Colonel Brandon were
answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other,
that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every
occasion. The intelligence however, which she would not give soon flowed from
another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being
unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood.
He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though
their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at
present but write. Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a
very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley-street. Twice was his card found
on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor was
pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him. The
Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that though not
much in the habit of giving any thing, they determined to give them -- a
dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in
Harley-street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their
sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful
to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods
were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.
They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons
were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to
make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Edward's
mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an
introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her
opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her
curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever. The interest with
which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more
powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also to
be at it. So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable
had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly not
elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask
them to spend a week or two in Conduit-street: and it happened to be
particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods'
invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party
took place. Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of
the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not
have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady
Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be
personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and
her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please
them, had seldom been happier in her life than she was on receiving Mrs. John
Dashwood's card. On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately
to determine that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother
was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time after
all that passed, in the company of Lucy! -- she hardly knew how she could bear
it! These apprehensions perhaps were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her own
recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be
inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly would
not be in Harley-street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain
still farther by persuading her, that he was kept away by that extreme
affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together. The
important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this
formidable mother-in-law. "Pity me, dearMiss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as
they walked up the stairs together -- for the Middletons arrived so directly
after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time --
"There is nobody here but you, that can feel for me. -- I declare I can
hardly stand. Good gracious! -- In a moment I shall see the person that all my
happiness depends on -- that is to be my mother!" -- Elinor could have
given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss
Morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but
instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did
pity her, -- to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable
herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor. Mrs.
Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure,
and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and
her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a
lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of
insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was
not a woman of many words: for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them
to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not
one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited
determination of disliking her at all events. Elinor could not now be made
unhappy by this behaviour. -- A few months ago it would have hurt her
exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars's power to distress her by it now;
-- and the difference of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which
seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but
smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very
person -- for Lucy was particularly distinguished -- whom of all others, had
they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify;
while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly
slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she
could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe
the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance,
without thoroughly despising them all four. Lucy was all exultation on being so
honourably distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr.
Davis to be perfectly happy. The dinner was a grand one, the servants were
numerous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for shew, and the
Master's ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions
which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once
been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss,
nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it;
-- no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared -- but there, the
deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that
was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar
disgrace in this, for it was very much the case with the chief of their
visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications
for being agreeable -- Want of sense, either natural or improved -- want of
elegance -- want of spirits -- or want of temper. When the ladies withdrew to
the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the
gentlemen had supplied the discourse with some variety -- the variety of
politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses -- but then it was all over; and
one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the
comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,
who were nearly of the same age. Had both the children been there, the affair
might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry
only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides, and every
body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over
and over again as often as they liked. The parties stood thus: The two mothers,
though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided
in favour of the other. The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but
more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant. Lucy,
who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the
boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there
could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and Miss Steele,
with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she
offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of
enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on for her's,
offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had
never thought about it. Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a
very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted
and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,
catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the
room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration.
"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a
man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you
ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general
reckoned to draw extremely well." The Colonel, though disclaiming all
pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have
done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and the curiosity of the others being
of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them;
and after they had received the gratifying testimony of Lady Middleton's
approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her at
the same time, that they were done by Miss Dashwood. "Hum" -- said Mrs.
Ferrars -- "very pretty," -- and without regarding them at all,
returned them to her daughter. Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her
mother had been quite rude enough, -- for, colouring a little, she immediately
said, "They are very pretty, ma'am -- an't they?" But then again, the
dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over
her, for she presently added, "Do you not think they are something in Miss
Morton's style of painting, ma'am? -- She does paint most delightfully! -- How
beautifully her last landscape is done!" "Beautifully indeed! But she
does every thing well." Marianne could not bear this. -- She was already
greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at
Elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant
by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth, "This is admiration of
a very particular kind! -- what is Miss Morton to us? -- who knows, or who
cares, for her? -- it is Elinor of whom we think and speak." And so
saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them
herself as they ought to be admired. Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and
drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter phillippic;
"Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter." Fanny looked very angry too,
and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. Elinor was much
more hurt by Marianne's warmth, than she had been by what produced it; but
Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he
noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not
bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point. Marianne's feelings did
not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her
sister, seemed, to her, to foretel such difficulties and distresses to Elinor,
as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a
strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved, after a moment, to her
sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to
her's, said in a low, but eager, voice, "Dear, dearElinor, don't mind
them. Don't let them make you unhappy." She could say no more; her spirits
were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into
tears. -- Every body's attention was called, and almost every body was
concerned. -- Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he
did. -- Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately
gave her, her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the
author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one
close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole
shocking affair. In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to
put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits
retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening. "Poor
Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon in a low voice, as soon as
he could secure his attention, -- "She has not such good health as her
sister, -- she is very nervous, -- she has not Elinor's constitution; -- and
one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has
been a beauty, in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it
perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as
handsome as Elinor. -- Now you see it is all gone."
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 good 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 Berkeley-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 any thing 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 so 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 a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal curtsey, 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 door's 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 shewed 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 secrecy 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 inquired
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 of 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. "DearEdward!" 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 dearEdward, 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 outstaid 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 she not 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.
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 Miss Dashwoods, at the
particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of 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 Miss Steeles, by whom their company was in fact 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 monopolize. 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 whichLucy 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, and 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 so far to outrun truth and probability, that on merely
hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr.
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 Miss Dashwoods; 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 her's. 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 any thing 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 toilette, 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 every thing, and
asked every thing; 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
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 the 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 away her eyes from the grand pianoforte=, whenever it suited
her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and a violoncello, 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 familiarly 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 and conceit of the one, put her at all out of 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 every body 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 dearCourtland,"" 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 dearFerrars, 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 dearLady 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 all, for 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 any thing 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. Jennings'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 shews.
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 vigour,
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 Miss Steeles 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 Miss Steeles 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
Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of
inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly 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 her, 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 shewn 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 every thing thatLucy
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 Miss Steeles 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.
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 Miss Dashwoods very ready to reassume their former
share. About the third or fourth morning after their being thus re-settled in
Berkeley-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 dearMiss 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. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to be just
come in from Harley-street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he
saw the child, he 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 never was any thing 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 any 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 go down upon his knees too, 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 Mr. 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 of a 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 every
thing; and 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 feelings, or to represent herself as
suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since
her first knowledge of Edward's engagement, 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 sooth 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, and I have borne it as much as
possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of all essential
misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his
duty, that though now 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 any thing 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 too
well know, 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 shewing 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 thatMrs.
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 any thing 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 any thing. She has
borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think
well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived! --
meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, 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 thatMrs.
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, every thing 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 that 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 his advancing in it." Here Marianne, in an ecstacy 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 anybody, especially anybody 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 inquiry." "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. Everybody 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 any
thing 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.
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 inquiry 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 anybody 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 their's. 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 ribbons? 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 whichElinor 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 chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy,
for it's no such a thing I can tell you; and it's 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 anything 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 all up for lost;
for we came away from your brother's on Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him
not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become with
him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirit 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 some where
or other; and how he had staid 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 to 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 anything 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 so ever 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 run 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 not you?" "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
lodging at No. @@, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother 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 gave 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 say 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 any
thing 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 bye; 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 preferment, of which, at present, 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 chuse to have known. The continuance
of their engagement, and the means that were 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! -- aye, 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 Buildings, March. I hope my
dearMiss 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 dearEdward, 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 dearMrs. 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 dearMrs. 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, 'twould 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! -- aye, 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 dearMrs. 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 shewing it
me. It is a pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great
credit."
The Miss Dashwoods 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, whichMarianne 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 home 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 inforced 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 for 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 evil she had started. Mrs. Jennings was
so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to
return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for the attention,
but it could not alter their 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 Miss Dashwoods;" -- 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 honourable 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 apologizing 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 shewed 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 may 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, as 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 whichElinor, 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 any body 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 any unforeseen 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.
"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 an 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 foresee 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 a 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 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
be 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. Aye, 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 inquiring 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 good bye, 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 hand, 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 greatest 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 in form
as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair. "Mrs. Jennings
told me," said he, "that you wished to speak to 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." WhatEdward felt, as he could not
say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say 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 he, 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's-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
befal 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 re-consider
the past, recal 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 anything else,
that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared. "Well, my
dear," she cried, "I sent you up 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." "Really," 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 by 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. "Aye, aye, 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 seemed quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do
something 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 sha'nt go if Lucy an't there." Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to
the probability of their not waiting for any thing more.
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 whichEdward
would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most
grateful 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 anything 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 worldly concerns; anxious that
his tythes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly 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 Berkeley-street, and as since that time no notice had
been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal inquiry,
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 te--te-a`-te--te 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 Berkeley-street,
and assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come
in. They walked up stairs into the drawing-room. -- Nobody was there.
"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he; -- "I will go to
her presently, for I 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 inquire 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 then! -- 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. -- Aye,
aye, 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 offer 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 impoverished. "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, after her late
behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? -- she has done with her son, she
has 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 dearElinor.
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 his 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 of him. He was recalled from
wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of her's, 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 has 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.
One other short call in
Harley-street, in whichElinor 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 chuse 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 whichWilloughby 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 tranquillity 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 an 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 shew 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 south-east, 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 green-house, 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 decease 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 an
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 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 confidante 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 an 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 delightful 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, 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.
Marianne got up the
next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry 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's 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 her 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 more 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 that 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 emergence.
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 seisure
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 mama coming? --" "Not yet," replied 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 sooth her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and
quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm
increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris,
and dispatching 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 as 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 -- of
such a companion for her mother, -- how gratefully was it felt! --a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship
might sooth 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 dispatch, 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 five 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 whatCharlotte 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 an
heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment,
proposed to call in farther advice. But he judged it unnecessary; he had still
something more to try, some fresh application, of whose success he was almost
as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances
which reached the ear, but cold 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 whichMarianne'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, conning 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
anything rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and
to her doating mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of
exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude; -- but it led 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 inquiry 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 that 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
stopt 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 forwards towards the
drawing-room, -- she entered it, -- and saw only Willoughby.
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 him there, came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her
curiosity no less than her honour 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 inquiry 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 he 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, it will 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 over-set 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 nuncheon 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, that 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 forgiveness from Ma -- from
your sister." "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 any thing more on the subject." "I insist on your 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 her's? ---- 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 inquiring 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, recal 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 her's; 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. An 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 the 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 myself 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 an 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 everything so inviting! --
when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing! -- oh! it was a blessed
journey!" He stopt. "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 shew it you?" "Yes, I saw every note that
passed." "When the first of her's 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 any
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 rightMr.
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 chusing 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 everything 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 means 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 everybody
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 at Mrs. Jennings's. 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 it was! -- Marianne, beautiful as an
angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in 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 hand, 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 anything 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 hand-writing 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 wife's style of
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
pocket-book, 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 blameable," 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 have 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 an
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 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 anything -- 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 honour,
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 bye." He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him her's;
-- 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
mantle-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 behaviour 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 will 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 bye. 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 shewing that
where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye, -- God bless
you!" And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
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 croud 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
inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but she, waiting neither for salutation
nor inquiry, 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 farther 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
whichElinor 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, dearElinor,
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 inquiry, 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 anything thatWilloughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as
more sincere or constant -- which ever we are to call it -- has subsisted
through all the knowledge of dearMarianne's unhappy prepossession for that
worthless young man! -- and without selfishness -- without encouraging a hope!
-- could he have seen her unhappy 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 everything; -- 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 her's, 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, everybody 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.
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 in
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 farewel with
the 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 dulness, 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 anything 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 sitting-room, 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 practise 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 to 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 anything 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-controul. Her smile however
changed to a sigh when she remembered, that her 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 hill 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 stopt. -- 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 me,
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, the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common
acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with an 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 whom 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 sooth, 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 shew 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 lower voice, "If I could but know his heart, everything
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
whichWilloughby 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 inquiries 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 mama,"
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 pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject
again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfil her
parting injunction.
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 shewed. "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 -- whatElinor 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 for 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 had 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, her sensitive 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
practise 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
thence follow that had he married you, he would have been happy? -- The
inconveniencies 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 learnt 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 inquiries 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 inquiries 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 inquiry, 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 inquiry 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 tooMiss 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 inquired 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 howsever, 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 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 was 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, 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.
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 so
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 of 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 inquiry 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 stopt at
their gate. It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she should
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 should 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 everything, met him 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 an 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 inquire after 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 scissars that lay
there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to
pieces as he spoke, said, in an 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 hurry away, and perhaps saw -- or even heard, her emotion;
for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no
inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at
last, without saying a word, quitted 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.
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 learnt 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 mother 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 a case I must have done. But instead of
having anything to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being
allowed to chuse any 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 everything 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 everything, therefore, I
hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been
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 everything 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 familiarized 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 labour of incessant talking will dispatch 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 completely 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 whatRobert 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 afterwards 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 by 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 some time, he believed, half stupified 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 her's 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 any thing 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 he 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 tythes, 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 dependance; for since Edward would still
be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken of in
Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing 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 lovers' first te--te-a`-te--te 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. Every thing 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, not arrived to be read with less
emotion than 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
hussey, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, 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 shew 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 her 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." Mr. 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 was 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 every thing 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 shewn 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 penitent 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 intreat 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.
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 whichColonel 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 chuse
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 couple 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 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 adviseable 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
anybody 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 favour 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 re-established him completely in her
favour. 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
acquaintance 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 every thing 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. WhatEdward had done to forfeit
the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and
whatRobert 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
cheefulness 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 whatJohn 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; -- her 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 be behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might
at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus
brought it 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 everything 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 dicate; -- 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.