VOLUME III
CHAPTER XXXV
ELINOR'S curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars, was satisfied. She had
found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between
the families undesirable. She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and
her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties
that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage of Edward and
herself, had he been otherwise free; and she had seen almost enough to be
thankful, for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from
suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all
dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her opinion. Or at least, if
she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy,
she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.
She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by
the civility of Mrs. Ferrars; that her interest and her vanity should so very
much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she
was not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself,- or to allow her to derive
encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was
unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the
time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly; for at her
particular desire Lady Middleton set her down in Perkeley Street, on the chance
of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.
The chance proved a lucky one; for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon
after she arrived carried Mrs. Jennings away.
"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves,
"I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs.
Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was! You
know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment I was
introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem
to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so?- You saw it all;
and was not you quite struck with it?"
"She was certainly very civil to you."
"Civil!- Did you see nothing but only civility?- I saw a vast deal
more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! No pride, no hauteur,
and your sister just the same- all sweetness and affability!"
Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her
to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on.
"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she,
"nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;- but as that was
not the case-"
"I guessed you would say so," replied Lucy, quickly;- "but there
was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did
not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction.
I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to
what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister.
They are both delightful women, indeed!- I wonder I should never hear you say
how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!"
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?- you seem low- you don't speak;- sure
you an't well."
"I never was in better health."
"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it.
I should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to
me in the world!- Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship."
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own
success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,-
"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and, next
to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward! But now there
is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady
Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley
Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister- besides,
Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;- and Mrs. Ferrars and your
sister were both so good to say, more than once, they should always be glad to
see me. They are such charming women!- I am sure if ever you tell your sister
what I think of her, you cannot speak too high."
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she
should tell her sister. Lucy continued,-
"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had
took dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance,
without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never
looked at me in a pleasant way- you know what I mean- if I had been treated in
that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could
not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent."
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph,
by the doors being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward's immediately walking in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed
that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have
as great an inclination to walk out of the room again as to advance farther into
it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have
been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only all three
together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies
recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,
and the appearance of secresy must still be kept up. She could therefore only
look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and
her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection,
to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open;
and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow
the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself,
to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very
much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She
would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and
almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon
perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage
enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a
proportion which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare;
for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have
quite the ease of Elinor's.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost
every thing that was said proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer
all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c., which
Edward ought to have enquired about, but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt
herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in
the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-
place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When
that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures to Edward to cease;
for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure
in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and
strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that
expressed the affection of a sister.
"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!
This would almost make amends for every thing?"
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down,
and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the
most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor,
regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's
unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice
Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree
with her.
"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness,
though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my health.
Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy,
nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very
benignant expression.
"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that
might introduce another subject.
"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.
The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and, thank Heaven!
you are what you always were!"
She paused- no one spoke.
"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to
take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall
be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge."
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not
even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to
whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of
something else.
"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull,
so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be
said now."
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of
her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being
particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
"But why were you not there, Edward? Why did you not come?"
"I was engaged elsewhere."
"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"
"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to
keep them, little as well as great."
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of
the sting; for she calmly replied,-
"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that
conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he has the
most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every
engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or
pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and
the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so,
and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised?- Then you must
be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem must
submit to my open commendation."
The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however,
happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her
auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to
go away.
"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be."
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that
Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he
would go; and Lucy, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted two hours,
soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving
them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone?- how teazing to Edward!"
"Why so? We were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest
known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as
ourselves."
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that
this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your
assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect
that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked
out of assurances that are not really wanted."
She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,
for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no
information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her
still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that
she could hope was, that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the
distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any
other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting- and this she had
every reason to expect.
CHAPTER XXXVI
WITHIN a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to
the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son
and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those
intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced
a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like
degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as
possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was
dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Misses Dashwood,
at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day, in
every day, in Conduit Street. For their own comfort, they would much rather have
remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a
thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore
made over to Lady Middleton and the two Misses Steele, by whom their company, in
fact, was as little valued as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former;
and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on their
ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolise. Though nothing
could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she
did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her
children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of
reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was
to be satirical; but that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and
easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked
the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed
of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of,
and administer at other times she feared they would despise her for offering.
Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three by their presence; and it was
in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have
given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.
Willoughby she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of
the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But
this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of
pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the
inconstancy of beaux before Marianne; no effect was produced, but a look of
indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet
lighter might have made her their friend;- would they only have laughed at her
about the doctor! But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined to
oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day
without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough
to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the
girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night
on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them
sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she
always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing
Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a
detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One
thing did disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer
maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants
being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most
striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both
sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe
that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even
be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child
in the world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs.
Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance
had dropt in- a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to
her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form
wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's
happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far out-run truth and
probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Misses Dashwood, and
understanding them to be Mrs. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them
to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced, within a day
or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them, as well as for their brother
and sister, to a small musical party at her house; the consequence of which was,
that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit, not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Misses Dashwood, but, what was
still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat
them with attention, and who could tell that they might not expect to go out
with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must
always be hers. But that was not enough: for when people are determined on a
mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the
expectation of anything better from them.
Marianne had now been brought, by degrees, so much into the habit
of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her
whether she went or not; and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every
evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any,
and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent
as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet,
which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being
together when it was finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation and
general curiosity; she saw everything, and asked everything; was never easy till
she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the
number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself; and
was not without hopes of finding out, before they parted, how much her washing
cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The
impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with
a compliment, which, though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as
the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the
value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her
hair, she was almost sure of being told, that "upon her word she looked vastly
smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests."
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed, on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes
after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-
in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there
hoping for some delay on their part, that might inconvenience either herself or
her coachman.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party,
like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste
for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the
performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their
immediate friends, the first private performers in England.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand piano-forte whenever it suited her,
and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violincello, would fix them
at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances
she perceived, among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a
lecture on toothpick-cases, at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking
at herself, and speaking familiary to her brother; and had just determined to
find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a
bow, which assured her, as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly
the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her,
if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit
of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the
finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have
begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did
not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one put her out of all charity
with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they were different, Robert
explained to her himself, in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation;
for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really
believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously
attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a
private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any
material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I
often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear madam,' I always
say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it
has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir
Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the
most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well
as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been
prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother
is perfectly convinced of her error."
Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her
general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of
Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
"You reside in Devonshire, I think," was his next observation, "in
a cottage near Dawlish?"
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather
surprising to him, that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near
Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation, however, on their species of house.
"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage;
there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if
I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself,
within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time,
and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise everybody who is
going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the
other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans
of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland.' said I,
immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but
by all means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space
in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's,
near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But how can it be done?'
said she: 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a
room in this cottage that will hold ten couple; and where can the supper be?' I
immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear
Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining-parlour will admit eighteen couple
with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be
open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the
saloon.' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-
room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple,- and the affair was
arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but
know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as
in the most spacious dwelling." Elinor agreed to it; she did not think he
deserved the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest
sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on anything else; and a thought
struck him, during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her
approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake,
in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their
being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jenning's engagements kept her
from home. The expense would be nothing; the inconvenience not more; and it was
altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be
requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny
was startled at the proposal.
"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting
Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be
exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention
in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But they are Lady
Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?"
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection. They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and
Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days
to such near relations.
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,-
"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Misses Steele to spend a few
days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the
attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask
your sisters some other year, you know; but the Misses Steele may not be in town
any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very
much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the
Misses Steele immediately; and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of
inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slily suspecting
that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town
as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as their visitor.
Fanny rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her
sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare
them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood
seemed actually working for herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all
her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above
all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most
gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully
acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton,
which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have
been always meant to end in two days' time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes
after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so
short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose
from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by
time and address, to do everything that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already
subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of
Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.
The Misses Steele removed to Harley Street; and all that reached
Elinor of their influence there strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir
John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the
favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never
been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had
given each of them a needle-book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her
Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with
them.
CHAPTER XXXVII
MRS. PALMER was so well at the end of a fortnight that her mother
felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,
contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that
period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Misses
Dashwood very ready to re-assume their former share.
About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled
in Berkley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs.
Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an
air of such hurrying importance, as prepared her to hear something wonderful;
and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by
saying,-
"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"
"No, ma'am. What is it?"
"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was
very ill- it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it
directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red
gum;' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied,
so Mr. Donovan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley
Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, be
said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world, but the red gum, and then
Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my
head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my
head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered,
and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in
a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under
your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that
I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very
well.'"
"What! is Fanny ill?"
"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.
Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter,
by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I
used to joke with you about (but, however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad
there was never anything in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged
above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! There's for you, my dear! And not a
creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed
such a thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but
that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!
That is strange! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should
have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear
of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of
the matter; till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning
creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they
are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it' and
so away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work,
little suspecting what was to come- for she had just been saying to your brother,
only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and
some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was
to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with
such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own
dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the
country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was
come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity
her. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded
like fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her
knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said
he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute
longer in the house; and your brother was forced to down upon his knees, to
persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. Then she
fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr.
Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at
the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as
he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and
Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister;
and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a
taking poor Edward will be in, when he hears of it! To have his love used so
scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should
not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!- and Mr. Donavan thinks
just the same. He and I, had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all
is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when
Mrs. Ferrars is told of it; for she was sent for, as soon as ever my cousins
left the house, for your sister was sure she would be in hysterics too; and so
she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of
people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on
earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may
afford to do very well by her son; and though Lucy has next to nothing herself,
she knows better than any body how to make the most of everything; I dare say,
if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a year, she would make as good
an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they
might live in such another cottage as yours- or a little bigger- with two maids,
and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a
sister out of place, that would fit them exactly."
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased; and as Elinor had had time enough to
collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such
observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to
find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs.
Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to
imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the
absence of Marianne she felt very well able to speak of the affair without
embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on
the conduct of every one concerned in it.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event
really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being
possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What
Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature,
she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct
himself. For him she felt much compassion;- for Lucy very little- and it cost
her some pains to procure that little;- for the rest of the party none at all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw
the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost
in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth and in
endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that
she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.
Elinor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she
really believed to be her sister's chief consolation, to give such particulars
of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion- and to make
Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem
strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task
must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform
it.
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feeling or to
represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she
had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagements might suggest a
hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple;
and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by
violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. That belonged rather to the hearer, for
Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the
comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the
comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a
very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was
readily offered.
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward
seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she had loved
him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she
considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a
sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and
afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even
admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was
so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the
fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's
feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for
some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms,
and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther
particulars, was-
"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to
you?"
"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton
Park, last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."
At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which
her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-
"Four months! Have you known of this four months?"
Elinor confirmed it.
"What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
heart? And I have reproached you for being happy!"
"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the
reverse."
"Four months!" cried Marianne again. "So calm! so cheerful! How
have you been supported?"
"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy obliged me
to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth;
and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about
me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy."
Marianne seemed much struck.
"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,"
added Elinor, "and once or twice I have attempted it; but without betraying my
trust, I never could have convinced you."
"Four months! and yet you loved him!"
"Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others
was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I
can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my
account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many
things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment
by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without
spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very
happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though he may harbour
some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense; and that is
the foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all, Marianne,
after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment,
and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular
person, it is not meant- it is not fit- it is not possible that it should be so.
Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and
understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that
he ever thought another superior to her."
"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of
what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.
They are brought more within my comprehension."
"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.
For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being
at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you
and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you yet unable to
prepare you for it in the least. It was told me- it was in a manner forced on me
by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and
told me, as I thought, with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have
had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most
deeply interested; and it has not been only once; I have had her hopes and
exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself to be divided from
Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire
the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him
indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister,
and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an
attachment, without enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a
time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you
can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I have
suffered now. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present,
to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have
been the effect of constant and painful exertion; they did not spring up of
themselves; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne.
Then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me
entirely not even what I owed to my dearest friends- from openly showing that I
was very unhappy."
Marianne was quite subdued.
"Oh, Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.
How barbarous have I been to you!- you, who have been my only comfort, who have
borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me! Is
this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you? Because your merit
cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away."
The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of
mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever
promise she required; and, at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of
the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness; to meet Lucy
without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; and even to see
Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of
her usual cordiality. These were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that
she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. She
attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an
unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times
to say, "Yes, ma'am." She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from
one chair to another; and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it
cost her only a spasm in her throat. Such advances towards heroism in her sister,
made Elinor feel equal to anything herself.
The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from
their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful
affair, and bring them news of his wife.
"You have heard, I suppose," said he, with great solemnity, as soon
as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof
yesterday."
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for
speech.
"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars
too- in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress- but I will hope
that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor
Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much.
Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is
a good one, and her resolution equal to anything. She has borne it all with the
fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of any body again;
and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!- meeting with such
ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been
placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked
these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some
attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions;
for other