VOLUME II
CHAPTER XVII
MRS. DASHWOOD was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for
his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her
joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest
welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a
reception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were
quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could
not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the
passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more
like himself. His affections seemed to re-animate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits,
however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive and kind;
but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it; and Mrs.
Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to
table indignant against all selfish parents.
"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said
she, when dinner was over, and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still to
be a great orator in spite of yourself?"
"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents
than inclination for a public life."
"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for
expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may
find it a difficult matter."
"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and
have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced into
genius and eloquence."
"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."
"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish,
as well as every body else, to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else, it
must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."
"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or
grandeur to do with happiness?"
"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do
with it."
"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no
real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."
"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.
Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them,
as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort
must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your
competence?"
"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than
that."
Elinor laughed. "Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed
how it would end."
"And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income," said
Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage,
perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."
Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately
their future expenses at Combe Magna.
"Hunters!" repeated Edward- "but why must you have hunters? Every
body does not hunt."
Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."
"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that
somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!"
"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.
"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in
spite of the insufficiency of wealth."
"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I
should do with it!"
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich my help."
"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor,
"and your difficulties will soon vanish."
"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"
said Edward, "In such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers,
and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every
new print of merit to be sent you- and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of
soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books!-
Thomson, Cowper, Scott- she would buy them all over and over again: she would
buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and
she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree.
Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to
show you that I had not forgot our old disputes."
"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward- whether it be
melancholy or gay, I love to recall it- and you will never offend me by talking
of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent-
some of it, at least- my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my
collection of music and books."
"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."
"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."
"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in
love more than once in their life- your opinion on that point is unchanged, I
presume?"
"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It
is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."
"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is
not at all altered."
"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."
"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You are
not very gay yourself."
"Why should you think so?" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety
never was a part of my character."
"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should
hardly call her a lively girl- she is very earnest, very eager in all she does-
sometimes talks a great deal, and always with animation- but she is not often
really merry."
"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set
her down as a lively girl."
"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other:
fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid, than they
really are, and I can hardly tell why, or in what the deception originated.
Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by
what other people say of them, without giving one's self time to deliberate and
judge."
"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us
merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your
doctrine, I am sure."
"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection
of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to. influence has been the
behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having
often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention;
but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their
judgment in serious matters?"
"You have not been able, then, to bring your sister over to your
plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?"
"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at
Marianne.
"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question;
but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only
kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have
been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease
among strangers of gentility!"
"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.
"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I
could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should
not be shy."
"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is
worse."
Edward started- "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"
"Yes, very."
"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!- how,
in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand
what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk
as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?"
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on
him in their fullest extent- and he sat for some time silent and dull.
CHAPTER XVIII
ELINOR saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.
His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment
in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it
were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which
once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his
preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her
contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding
one.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning
before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their
happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was
half way up stairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was
astonished to see Edward himself come out.
"I am going into the village to see my horses," said be, "as you
are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding
country; in his walk to the village he had seen many parts of the valley to
advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage,
afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This
was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention; and she was beginning to
describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely
on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by
saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne; remember I have no knowledge in
the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we
come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces
strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects
out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a
hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly
give. I call it a very fine country,- the hills are steep, the woods seem full
of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,- with rich meadows
and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my
idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility- and I dare- say
it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to
be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brushwood, but these are all
lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."
"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should
you boast of it?"
"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affection,
Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more
admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted
with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination
in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious, and will have an
affectation of his own."
"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape
scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to
describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque
beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind; and sometimes I have kept my feelings
to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was
worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning."
"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the
delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your
sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but
not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I
admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like
ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath
blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,- and a
troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the
world."
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister. Elinor only laughed.
The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was
sitting by Edward, and, in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so
directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very
conspicuous on one of his fingers.
"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should have
thought her hair had been darker."
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she
saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought
could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and, giving a momentary
glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair. The setting always
casts a different shade on it, you know."
Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the
hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne: the
only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a
free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by some
theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however, to
regard it as an affront; and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by
instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to
catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.
Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence
of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had
given her sister.
Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came
to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir
John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. And
this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which
nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented
from being immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very
significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions,
extended.
Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them
to dine at the Park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the
present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose
amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.
"You must drink tea with us to-night," said he, "for we shall be
quite alone; and to-morrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a
large party."
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may
raise a dance?" said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne."
"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"
"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.
What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be
nameless is gone!"
"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were
among us again."
This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And
who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he was
sitting.
She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more
communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others,
but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their
visitors left them he went immediately round her, and said, in a whisper, "I
have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?"
"What do you mean?"
"Shall I tell you."
"Certainly."
"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling
at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,-
"Oh, Edward! How can you?- But the time will come, I hope- I am
sure you will like him."
"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her
earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of
her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr.
Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.
CHAPTER XIX
EDWARD remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by
Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification,
he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the
height. His spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very
unequal, were greatly improved- he grew more and more partial to the house and
environs- never spoke of going away without a sigh- declared his time to be
wholly disengaged- even doubted to what place he should go when he left them-
but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so quickly- he could hardly
believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other things he said, too, which
marked the turn of his feelings, and gave the lie to his actions. He had no
pleasure at Norland; lie detested being in town; but either to Norland or London
he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest
happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week,
in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character
was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing
strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and
sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well
disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and
generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her,
for Willoughby's service, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and
of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and
his better knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's dispositions and designs. The shortness
of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the
same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporising with his
mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against
child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,- when Mrs. Ferrars
would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain
wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in
Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word
which fell from him while at Barton, and above all, to that flattering proof of
it which he constantly wore round his finger.
"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast
the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to
engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it- you would not be
able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you would be
materially benefited in one particular at least- you would know where to go when
you left them."
"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this
point as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be, a
heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no
profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like independence. But
unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I
am, an idle, helpless being. We never could agree in our choice of a profession.
I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for
my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me.
The law was allowed to be genteel enough: many young men, who had chambers in
the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about
town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this
less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had
fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to
enter it; and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession
at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as
with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and
honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on
being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was
therefore entered at Oxford, and have been properly idle ever since."
"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,
"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be
brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as
Columella's."
"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as
unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in every
thing."
"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself
must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt
by every body at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own
happiness. You want nothing but patience- or give it a more fascinating name,
call it hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are
so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her
happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much
may not a few months do?"
"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce
any good to me."
This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated
to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly
took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's feelings especially,
which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was her determination
to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all
her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so
judiciously employed by Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her
sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude, and idleness. Their means were as
different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.
Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the
house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the
mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the
general concerns of the family; and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her
own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother
and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account.
Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared
no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The
business of self-command she settled very easily:- with strong affections it was
impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister's affections
were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the
strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and
respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.
Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house
in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge
meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of
Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different
state of her spirits at different times could produce,- with tenderness, pity,
approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not
by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least, by the nature of their
employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude
was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be
chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting,
must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her
reflection, and her fancy.
From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she
was roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of
company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at the
entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window,
and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir John and
Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and
lady, who were quite unknown to her. She was sitting near the window; and as
soon as Sir John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the
casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the
window as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the
other.
"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you
like them?"
"Hush! they will hear you."
"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very
pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."
As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open."
"She is walking, I believe."
They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough
to wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She came hallooing
to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are
your sisters? What! all alone! you will be glad of a little company to sit with
you. I have brought my other son and daughter to see you. Only think of their
coming so suddenly! I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were
drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought
of nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I
said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon
come back again-"
Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
receive the rest of the party: Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers; Mrs.
Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down
to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she walked
through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir John.
Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and
totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty
face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her
manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more
prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit,
except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave
looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and
sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered
the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without
speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up
a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he stayed.
Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature
with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
admiration of the parlour and everything in it burst forth.
"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so
charming! Only think, mamma, how it is improved since I was here last! I always
thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you have
made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful everything is! How I
should like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from
the newspaper.
"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used
to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their
friends, without ceasing till everything was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily
at the recollection of their astonishment, and everybody agreed, two or three
times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.
"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice, as if she
meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of
the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so
fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by London upon
account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to
her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and
rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you
all?"
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.
Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the paper.
"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.
"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see
a monstrous pretty girl."
He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she
had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the question,
as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her entering the room,
stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's
eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to
examine them.
"Oh dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how delightful! Do but
look, mamma, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them
for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any
such things in the room.
When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid
down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.
"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.
He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then
made his bow, and departed with the rest.
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day
at the Park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not choose to dine with them oftener than
they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters
might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs.
Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other
way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was
uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be satisfied,- the
carriage should be sent for them, and they must come. Lady Middleton, too,
though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs.
Palmer joined their entreaties,- all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family
party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
"The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms,
if we are to dine at the Park whenever any one is staying either with them or
with us."
"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor,
"by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few
weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and
dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."
CHAPTER XX
AS the Misses Dashwood entered the drawing room of the Park the
next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good
humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand,
and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor
and Marianne; "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which
would be a shocking thing, as we go away again to-morrow. We must go, for the
Westons come to us next week, you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming
at all; and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and
then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He
never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall
meet again in town very soon, I hope."
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh; "I shall be
quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for you,
next door to ours, in Hanover Square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall
be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood
should not like to go into public."
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then
entered the room, "you must help me to persuade the Misses Dashwood to go to
town this winter."
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,
began complaining of the weather.
"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes everything
and everybody disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without,
by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir
John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what
comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather."
The rest of the company soon dropped in.
"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been
able to take your usual walk to Allenham to-day."
Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.
"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is
extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know.
Not above ten miles, I dare say."
"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.
"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house;
but they say it is a sweet, pretty place."
"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed
her interest in what was said.
"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer;- "then it must be some
other place that is so pretty, I suppose."
When they were seated in the dining-room, Sir John observed with
regret that they were only eight all together.
"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we
should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us to-day?"
"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done? They dined with us last."
"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon
such ceremony."
"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.
"My love you contradict everybody," said his wife with her usual
laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"
"I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-
bred."
"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old
lady; "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So
there I have the whip hand of you."
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get
rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as
they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly
good-natured, or more determined to be happy, than Mrs. Palmer. The studied
indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and
when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.
"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is
always out of humour."
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him
credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he
wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like
many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty,
he was the husband of a very silly woman,- but she knew that this kind of
blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was
rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous
treatment of everybody, and his general abuse of everything before him. It was
the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to
be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his
superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his
wife.
"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I
have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend
some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,- and come while the Westons
are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite
delightful!- My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the
Misses Dashwood come to Cleveland?"
"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer; "I came into Devonshire with
no other view."
"There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of
all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You
cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr.
Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so
many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming!
But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him, for he is forced to make every
body like him."
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
hardship of such an obligation.
"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament!- won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all
his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he says, he will never
frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer?"
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued; "he says it is
quite shocking."
"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm
all your abuses of languages upon me."
"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with
him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes
out with something so droll- all about any thing in the world."
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-
room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."
"Well, I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters, I can tell you;
and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland.
I can't imagine why you should object to it."
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and, by
changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that
as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more
particular account of Willoughby's general character than could be gathered from
the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from
any one such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of
fear from Marianne. She began by enquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at
Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.
"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;-
"not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town.
Some how or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at
Allenham. Mamma saw him here once before; but I was with my uncle at Weymouth.
However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if
it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country
together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much
there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition,
you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you enquire about him,
very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I
shall have her for a neighbour you know."
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter
than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."
"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body
talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."
"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"
"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond
Street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."
"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely
you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be
interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel
Brandon to do."
"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you
how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we
began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to
him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and
mamma sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be
married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you
must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.'"
"And what did the Colonel say?"
"Oh, he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,
so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I
declare. When is it to take place?"
"Mr. Brandon was very well, I hope?"
"Oh, yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing
but say fine things of you."
"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and
I think him uncommonly pleasing."
"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he
should be so grave and so dull. Mamma says he was in love with your sister too.
I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in
love with any body."
"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.
"Oh, yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him
extremely agreeable, I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby
wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl
to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her,
because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough
for her. However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure
you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too, I am
sure, though we could not get him to own it last night."
Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very
material; but any testimony in his favour, however small was pleasing to her.
"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.
"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I
longed to see you. It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage.
Nothing can be like it, to be sure. And I am so glad your sister is going to be
well married. I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet
place, by all accounts."
"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"
"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a
particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added, in a low voice, "he
would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady
Middleton wished it very much. But mamma did not think the match good enough for
me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should
have been married immediately."
"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"
"Oh, no; but if mamma had not objected to it, I dare say he would
have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was
before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind
of man I like."
CHAPTER XXI
THE Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two
families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not
last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head,- had
hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr.
Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange
unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife,- before Sir John's
and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society procured her some other
new acquaintance to see and observe.
In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young
ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her
relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the Park,
as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at
Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation; and Lady Middleton was
thrown into no little alarm, on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was
very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life,
and of whose elegance whose tolerable gentility even- she could have no proof;
for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at
all. Their being her relation too, made it so much the worse; and Mrs.
Jennings's attempts at consolation were, therefore, unfortunately founded, when
she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because
they were all cousins, and must put up with one another. As it was impossible,
however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the
idea of it with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with
merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times
every day.
The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means
ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil:
they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture; and they
happened to be so doatingly fond of children, that Lady Middleton's good opinion
was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the Park. She
declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which, for her ladyship, was
enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with
this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage, to tell the
Misses Dashwood of the Misses Steele's arrival, and to assure them of their
being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however,
there was not much to be learned: Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in
the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible
variation of form, face, temper, and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole
family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent,
philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
"Do come now," said he- "pray come- you must come- I declare you
shall come. You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty,
and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about her
already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all
things; for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures
in the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more.
You will be delighted with them, I am sure. They have brought the whole coach
full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why
they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they
are my wife's; so you must be related."
But Sir John could not prevail: he could only obtain a promise of
their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement
at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the
Misses Steele, as he had been already boasting of the Misses Steele to them.
When their promised visit to the Park, and consequent introduction
to these young ladies, took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest,
who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to
admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they
acknowledged considerable beauty: her features were pretty, and she had a sharp
quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual elegance
or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly civil,
and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with
what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to
Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling
their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of
their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness
made on it was spent in admiration of whatever her Ladyship was doing, if she
happened to be doing anything, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress,
in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.
Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother,
though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human
beings, is likewise the most credulous: her demands are exorbitant; but she will
swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Misses
Steele towards her offspring were viewed, therefore, by Lady Middleton without
the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the
impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags
searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its
being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor
and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was
passing.
"John is in such spirits to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss
Steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window- "he is full of
monkey tricks."
And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of
the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"
"And here is my sweet little Anna-Maria," she added, tenderly
caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the
last two minutes; "and she is always so gentle and quiet. Never was there such a
quiet little thing!"
But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her
ladyship's head-dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this
pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any
creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it
could not surpass the alarm of the Misses Steele, and every thing was done by
all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest, as likely
to assauge the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's
lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the
Misses Steele, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with
sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too
wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two
brothers for offering to touch her: and all their united soothings were
ineffectual, till Lady Middleton, luckily remembering that in a scene of similar
distress last week some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a
bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate
scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it,
gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected. She was carried out of
the room, therefore, in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine; and as the
two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay
behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not
known for many hours.
"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were
gone; "it might have been a very sad accident."
"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under
totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm,
where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."
"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.
Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did
not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor, therefore, the whole
task of telling lies, when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best
when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she
felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
"And Sir John, too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man
he is!"
Here, too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,
came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good
humoured and friendly.
"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine
children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am
always distractedly fond of children."
"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have
witnessed this morning."
"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons
rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is
so natural in Lady Middleton; and, for my part, I love to see children full of
life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park I
never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said, rather
abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were
very sorry to leave Sussex."
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least
of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss
Steele.
"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who
seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
"I think every one must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw
the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its
beauties as we do."
"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not
so many in this part of the world. For my part, I think they are a vast addition
always."
"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her
sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"
"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't protend to say that there ain't.
I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I
tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the
Misses Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they
used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had
as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly
agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see
them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young
man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet
him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your brother was quite a
beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not
perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he
ever was a beau before he married, he is one still, for there is not the
smallest alteration in him."
"Oh, dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux- they have
something else to do."
"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;
you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And then, to
turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Misses Steele was enough. The vulgar freedom
and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation; and as Elinor was not
blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real
elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them
better.
Not so the Misses Steele. They came from Exeter well provided with
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations;
and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they
declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls
they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better
acquainted. And to be better acquainted, therefore, Elinor soon found was their
inevitable lot; for as Sir Jack was entirely on the side of the Misses Steele,
their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must
be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same
room almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any
more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate; and while
his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of
their being established friends.
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Misses Steele acquainted with whatever he knew or
supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars; and Elinor
had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on
her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau
since she came to Barton.
"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young, to be sure,"
said she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I hope
you may have as good luck yourself soon; but, perhaps, you may have a friend in
the corner already."
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in
proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with
respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as
being somewhat newer and more conjectual; and since Edward's visit, they had
never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much
significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The
letter F had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of
such countless jokes, that its character, as the wittiest letter in the alphabet,
had been long established with Elinor.
The Misses Steele, as she expected, had now all the benefit of
these jokes; and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name
of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was
perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their
family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to
raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele
had in hearing it.
"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but
pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret."
"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is
he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable young
man to be sure; I know him very well."
"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an
amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him once or twice
at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was
this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?" She wished very much
to have the subject continued, though she did not choose to join in it herself;
but nothing more of it was said, and, for the first time in her life she thought
Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a
disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of
Edward increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured,
and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know,
something to his disadvantage. But her curiosity was unavailing; for no farther
notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even
openly mentioned by Sir John.
CHAPTER XXII
MARIANNE, who had never much toleration for any thing like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from
herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her
spirits, to be pleased with the Misses Steele, or to encourage their advances;
and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked
every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that
preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but
especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation,
or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication
of her sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;
and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but
her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate;
and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the
most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of
her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for
the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but
she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her
flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in
the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of
instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and
whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards
herself perfectly valueless.
"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to
her one day, as they were walking together from the Park to the cottage; "but,
pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs.
Ferrars?"
Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must
have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort
of a woman she is?"
"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of
Edward's mother, and not very desirious of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity; "I know nothing of her."
"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in
such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps
there may be reasons- I wish I might venture; but, however, I hope you will do
me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes
in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with
some hesitation,-
"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am
sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not
have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be very glad of your
advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however,
there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs.
Ferrars."
"I am sorry I do not," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it
could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never
understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a
little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."
"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it.
But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is
certainly nothing to me at present; but the time may come- how soon it will come
must depend upon herself- when we may be very intimately connected."
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one
side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with
the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Robert Ferrars- I never saw him in
my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been
as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion
attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the
reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she
stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit or a swoon.
"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you
could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to
be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour.
Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have
mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon
your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions
about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not
think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I
know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon
yourself and the other Misses Dashwood quite as his own sisters." She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what
she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to
speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner which
tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude,- "May I ask if your
engagement is of long standing?"
"We have been engaged these four years."
"Four years!"
"Yes."
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."
"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years' date. He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."
"Your uncle!"
"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"
"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits,
which increased with her increase of emotion.
"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often
staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not
till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us
afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without
the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him
too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him
so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he
is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."
"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but
after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's honour
and love, and her companion's falsehood, "Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars!- I
confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really- I beg your
pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean
the same Mr. Ferrars."
"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-
law, Mrs. John Dashwood is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not
likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on whom all my happiness
depends."
"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity,
"that I should never have heard him even mention your name."
"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care
has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and,
therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and,
as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, that
was reason enough for his not mentioning it."
She was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did
not sink with it.
"Four years you have been engaged," said she, with a firm voice.
"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature from her
pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look
at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot
be deceived as to the person it was drew for. I have had it above these three
years."
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of
detecting falsehood, might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of
its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the
likeness.
"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture
in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to
get it! But I am determined to sit for it the very first opportunity."
"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor, calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your
faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is
to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I
dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."
"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you
do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret
is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a
communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it
could not add to its safety."
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what
she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with
you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long, to be sure,
personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a
great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old
acquaintance. Besides, in the present case, I really thought some explanation
was due to you, after my making such particular enquiries about Edward's mother;
and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne
is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she
does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her
betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive;
and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world the other day, when
Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You
can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder
that I am alive, after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four
years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom-
we can hardly meet above twice a year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.
"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think
whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then, at other times,
I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so
miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own
account too- so dear as he is to me- I don't think I could be equal to it. What
would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do
yourself?"
"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can
give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you."
"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes' silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him some time or other; but poor Edward is
so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at
Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I
was afraid you would think him quite ill."
"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"
"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he
came directly from town?"
"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had
been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered, too,
her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends,
at his total silence with respect even to their names.
"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.
"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."
"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was
the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a
fortnight with us, but it with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow!
I am afraid it is just the same with him how; for he writes in wretched spirits.
I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket,
and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say,-
a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I
dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."
Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer.
This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally
obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence between
them by letter could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be
authorised by nothing else: for a few moments she was almost overcome- her heart
sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably
necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her
feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one
other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even that. If he had but
my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a
ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said,
but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"
"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She
was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few
minutes, the Misses Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty
to think and be wretched.
CHAPTER XXIII
HOWEVER small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might
be, it was impossible for her, on serious reflection, to suspect it in the
present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing
a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore,
Elinor could not, dared not, longer doubt; supported as it was, too, on every
side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own
wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a
foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit
near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own
prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of
the Misses Steele as to Norland and their family connections, which had often
surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body
of evidence as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established
as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.
Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a
short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations,
soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard
for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the
heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at
present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her
mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland;
it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a
softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to
forgive! He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he
first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he
could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured
himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made
her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance
of ever being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but he, what had
he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele? Could
he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his
delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her- illiterate,
artful, and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to
everything but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years- years
which, if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding- must
have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time,
spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps
robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting
character to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his
difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now
likely to be when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in
connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These difficulties,
indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his
patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of
family opposition and unkindness could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she
wept for him more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having done
nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward
had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under
the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every
suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to
answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner, only two hours
after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one
would have supposed, from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was
mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object
of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a
man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected
to see in every carriage which drove near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne what had
been intrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing
exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the contrary, it was a
relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction
to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward,
which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself,
and which was more than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could
receive no assistance; their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example
nor from their praise. She was stronger alone; and her own good sense so well
supported her, that her firmness was unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as
invariable, as, with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them
to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on
the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more
reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement
repeated again; she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for
Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for
him; and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on
the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no
otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her
involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it
was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from
Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal
acquaintance with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir
John's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But, indeed, while Elinor
remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it
required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy
should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What
other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor
might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to
avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her
rival's intentions; and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every
principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward,
and to see him as little as possible, she could not deny herself the comfort of
endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now
have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she
did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars
with composure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any
that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their
joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the
others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the Park or
cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the
sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady
Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general
chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating,
drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other
game that was sufficiently noisy.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the
cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine
with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter,
and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Misses
Steele. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in
such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under
the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton, than when her husband
united them together in one noisy purpose immediately accepted the invitation;
Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant; and Marianne,
though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her
mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of
amusement, to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved
from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the
meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of
thought or expression; and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of
their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the
children accompanied them; and while they remained there, she was too well
convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They
omitted it only with the removal of the tea things. The card-table was then
placed; and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope
of finding time for conversation at the Park. They all rose up in preparation
for a round game.
"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to
finish poor little Anna-Maria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt
your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love
some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much
mind it."
This hint was enough; Lucy recollected herself instantly, and
replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting
to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my
filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and
if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after
supper."
"You are very good,- I hope it won't hurt your eyes:- will you ring
the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly
disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished to-morrow; for though I
told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done."
Lucy directly drew her work-table near her, and reseated herself
with an alacrity and cheerfulness, which seemed to infer, that she could taste
no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Cassino to the others. No one
made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of
general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me-
you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it
since it was tuned." And, without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked
to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked Heaven that she had never
made so rude a speech.
"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument, you know,
ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much
wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard."
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may
be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is
so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible, I think, for
her labour, singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work
exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."
"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried
Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and
it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Anna-Maria after all."
"Oh, that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear
little soul, how I do love her!"
"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you
really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till
another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus,
by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise,
gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room
for her with ready attention; and the two fair rivals were thus seated, side by
side, at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the
same work. The piano-forte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and
her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that anybody was in the room
besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she
might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject,
without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began:
"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me
with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its
subject. I will not apologise, therefore, for bringing it forward again."
"Thank you," cried Lucy, warmly, "for breaking the ice: you have
set my heart at ease by it; for I was, somehow or other, afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday."
"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor
spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention
than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust that was
not honourable and flattering to me?"
"And yet, I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes
full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me,
and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty
as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own
fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it
was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of
every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook everything else,
I am sure."
"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to
you to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never
have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to
be surrounded with difficulties; and you will have need of all your mutual
affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely
dependent on his mother."
"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
marry upon that; though, for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more
without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could
struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish
means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him, if he
married to please her. We must wait; it may be for many years. With almost every
other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection
and constancy nothing can deprive me of, I know."
"That conviction must be everything to you; and he is, undoubtedly,
supported by the same trust in yours. If the strength of your reciprocal
attachment had failed, as between many people, and, under many circumstances, it
naturally would, during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been
pitiable, indeed."
Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her
countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious
tendency.
"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the
test, by our long, very long absence, since we were first engaged, and it has
stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can
safely say that he has never given me one moment's alarm on that account from
the first."
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper, too, by nature; and
from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world
than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to
have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest
alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I
could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or
seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean
to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such
a case I am sure I could not be deceived."
"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us."
"But what," said she, after a short silence, "are your views? or
have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and
to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you,
rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?"
"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.
Ferrars is a very headstrong, proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon
hearing it would very likely secure every thing to Robert; and the idea of that,
for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures."
"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your
disinterestedness beyond reason."
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.
"Not at all- I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother- silly, and a great coxcomb."
"A great coxcomb?" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.
"Oh, they are talking of their favorite beaux, I dare say."
"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there- our favorite
beaux are not great coxcombs."
"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs.
Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modest, prettiest behaved
young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there
is no finding out who she likes."
"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I
dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's."
Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked
angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put
an end to it by saying, in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them
the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto.
"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into
my head for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the
secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward
to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan
is, that he should take orders as soon as he can; and then, through your
interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for
him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to
give him Norland living, which I understand is a very good one, and the present
incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry
upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."
"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest
on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John
Dashwood- that must be recommendation enough to her husband."
"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going
into orders."
"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."
They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed
with a deep sigh,
"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business
at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on
every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be
happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss
Dashwood?"
"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings; "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my
opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your
wishes."
"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know
nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really
believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put an end
to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of
both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately."
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and
replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion
on the subject, had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high: the
power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent
person."
"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might
justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any
respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having."
Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even
partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause, therefore,
of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first
to end it.
"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she, with
all her accustomary complacency.
"Certainly not."
"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes
brightened at the information; "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your brother and
sister will ask you to come to them."
"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."
"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Ann and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been
wanting us to visit them these several years. But I only go for the sake of
seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no
charms for me; I have not spirits for it."
Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the
first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at
an end; to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had
been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done
before; and Elinor sat down to the card-table with the melancholy persuasion
that Edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife,
but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which
sincere affection on her side would have given: for self-interest alone could
induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly
aware that he was weary.
From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor; and when
entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was
particularly careful to inform her confidant of her happiness whenever she
received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and
caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such
conversations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were
dangerous to herself.
The visit of the Misses Steele at Barton Park was lengthened far
beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could not
be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and, in spite of their
numerous and long-arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute
necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at
the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the
Park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a
more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its
importance.
CHAPTER XXV
THOUGH Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion
of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a
settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded
with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in
a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began,
on the approach of January, to turn her thoughts; and thither she one day
abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to
accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister,
and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave
a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be
speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined
resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings
received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I do
beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it.
Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at
all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I
hope I can afford that. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and,
when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you
may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to
it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that
she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't
get one of you, at least, well married before I have done with you, it shall not
be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may
depend upon it."
"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not
object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard,
indeed, that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does
not wish it. So I would advise you two to set off for town, when you are tired
of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it."
"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the
merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be
together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and
laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them,
I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself; I who
have been always used, till this winter, to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss
Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change
her mind by-and-by, why so much the better."
"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with
warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude forever; and it would give me
such happiness- yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of- to be able
to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother- I feel the justice of
what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable
by our absence- oh, no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not,
must not be a struggle."
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what
indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be
with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely
referred it to her mother's decision, from whom, however, she scarcely expected
to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which, on her own account, she had particular
reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager
to promote:- she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of
conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her
with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination
for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted
with Mrs. Jennings's manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most
wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a
proof, so strong, so full of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in
spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.
On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that
such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters,
and perceiving, through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the
heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon
her account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to
forsee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue
to them all from this separation.
"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I
could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When
you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together
with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved when you come
back again! I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may
now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you
should go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care
of a motherly, good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt.
And in all probability you will see your brother; and whatever may be his faults,
or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to
have you so wholly estranged from each other."
"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor,
"you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred
to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily
removed."
Marianne's countenance sunk.
"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear, prudent Elinor going
to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear
a word about the expense of it."
"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose
protection will give us consequence."
"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all,
and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton."
"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,"
said Marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I have
no such scruples; and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that
kind with very little effort."
Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference
towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within
herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she
did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her
own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne,
for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the
more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account,
was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any
unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
"I will have you both go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections
are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially
in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment,
she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect
some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken
her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock
might be less when the whole truth were revealed; and now, on this attack,
though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design, by
saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall
always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of
perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not."
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes
in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her
tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that
the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information
with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a
matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose
prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the
number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the
trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and
as for the Misses Steele, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their
lives as this intelligence made them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes
with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it
was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not; and when she saw
her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it
in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to
more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and
would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.
Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was
the perturbation of her spirits, and her impatience to be gone. Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at
the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's
affliction was hardly less; and Elinor was the only one of the three who seemed
to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January. The
Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Misses Steele kept their station
at the Park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
CHAPTER XXVI
ELINOR could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings,
and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with
that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many
had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before! But these
objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her
mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of
every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture
of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own
state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the
solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view,
the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time, however, must now
decide what Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in
town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him
there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his
character which her own observation, or the intelligence of others could give
her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous
attention, as to ascertain what he was, and what he meant, before many meetings
had taken place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was
determined, at all events, to open the eyes of her sister; should it be
otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature;- she must then learn to
avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her
satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour, as
they travelled, was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence
almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily
speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew
from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone
for this conduct, therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of
civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to
Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever
she could; and Mrs. Jennings, on her side, treated them both with all possible
kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and
only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn,
nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to
veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be
released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to
enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up; and the young
ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It
had formerly been Charlotte's; and over the mantel piece still hung a landscape
in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years
at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and
sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same. "I am writing
home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or
two?"
"I am not going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily,
and as if wishing to avoid any farther enquiry. Elinor said no more; it
immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and the
conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they
might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though
not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with
greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it
could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the direction;
and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the
footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny
post. This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in
them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner;
and when they afterwards returned to the drawing-room, seemed anxiously
listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being
much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea-
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more than
once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which
could not be mistaken for one at any other house. Elinor felt secure of its
announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the
door. Every thing was silent: this could not be borne many seconds; she opened
the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a
minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having
heard him would naturally produce: in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it
is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel
Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness; and she
immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she
experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly
saw that it was not unnoticed by him; that he even observed Marianne, as she
quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the
recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.
"Is your sister ill?" said he.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was; and then talked of
headaches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of everything to which she could
decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention; but seeming to
recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual enquiries about their
journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk; both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both
engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then
in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival;
and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London
ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment,
"almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it
has never been in my power to return to Barton."
This, and the ma