Sense and Sensibility
the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful
cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
“It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,” said he, “the
consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my
mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the
time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had
any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance
from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied
attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I
must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of
having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any
myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first
twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which
belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered
at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to
do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home
in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my
brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to
be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and
was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part
of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything
that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too—at least I thought so
_then;_ and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no
comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I
hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every
way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
piece of folly.”
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness
of the Dashwoods, was such—so great—as promised them all, the
satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be
comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how
to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy,
nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation
together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would
occur—regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for
her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor—how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the
moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she
was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had
passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared
her situation with what so lately it had been,—saw him honourably
released from his former engagement,—saw him instantly profiting by the
release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as
constant as she had ever supposed it to be,—she was oppressed, she was
overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind
to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required
several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of
tranquillity to her heart.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;—for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor’s company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future;—for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
Lucy’s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;—and
Elinor’s particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,—a
girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that
brother had been thrown off by his family—it was beyond her
comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair,
to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her
judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked
on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his
opinion of what his own mediation in his brother’s affairs might have
done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
“_That_ was exactly like Robert,” was his immediate observation. “And
_that_,” he presently added, “might perhaps be in _his_ head when the
acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs
might afterward arise.”
How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means
of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last
were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the
smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for
what followed;—and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy
herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between
the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the
letter into Elinor’s hands.
“DEAR SIR,
“Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought
myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of
being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with
you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another’s.
Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my
fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship
now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am
sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your
brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live
without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are
now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear
brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first
trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,
“Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
“LUCY FERRARS.
“I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first
opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls—but the ring with my hair you
are very welcome to keep.”
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
“I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,” said Edward.—“For
worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in former
days.—In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!—how I have blushed
over the pages of her writing!—and I believe I may say that since the
first half year of our foolish—business—this is the only letter I ever
received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the
defect of the style.”
“However it may have come about,” said Elinor, after a pause,—“they are
certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through
resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice;
and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do
the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She
will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert’s marrying Lucy, than
she would have been by your marrying her.”
“She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.—She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner.”
In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted
by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy’s
letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road
to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which
that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do
nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his
rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the
jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of
the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect
a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he
_did_, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a
twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and
wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions—they had been equally
imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such
a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement,
which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother’s
anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
“I thought it my duty,” said he, “independent of my feelings, to give
her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in
the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed
nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how
could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing
my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most
disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could
be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest
regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could
not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.”
“No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was