Sense and Sensibility
certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would
be better for her to marry _you_ than be single.”
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy’s conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at
Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
“Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,” said she; “because—to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be.”
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.
“I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
these:—The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself.”
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon’s being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him,
but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented
his giving him the living of Delaford—“Which, at present,” said he,
“after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion,
he must think I have never forgiven him for offering.”
_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the
place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed
all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the
parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor
herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it
with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain—and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their
income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still
be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken
of in Mrs. Ferrars’s flattering language as only a lesser evil than his
chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert’s offence would serve no
other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
About four days after Edward’s arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood’s satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company
with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the
privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every
night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned
in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers’ first tête-à-tête
before breakfast.
A three weeks’ residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at
least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between
thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind
which needed all the improvement in Marianne’s looks, all the kindness
of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother’s language, to
make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he
did revive. No rumour of Lucy’s marriage had yet reached him:—he knew
nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were
consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice
in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the
interest of Elinor.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good
opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other’s acquaintance,
for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and
good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have
been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other
attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters
fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,
which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every
nerve in Elinor’s body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read
with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful
tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour
forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had
quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts,
almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. “I do think,” she continued, “nothing
was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called
and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the
matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day
after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not
knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her
money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make
a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world; so I
was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter,
where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in
hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say
that Lucy’s crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is
worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but
you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort
him.”
Mr. Dashwood’s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women—poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility—and
he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful
wonder. Robert’s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy’s was infinitely
worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars;
and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his
wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to
appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been
carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously
heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the
others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage;
and he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy’s
engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she
should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family. He
thus continued:—
“Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward’s name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a
line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to
her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of
Mrs. Ferrars’s heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be
on good terms with her children.”
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not
exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
“A letter of proper submission!” repeated he; “would they have me beg
my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude to _her_, and breach of
honour to _me?_ I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble nor
penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would not
interest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to make.”
“You may certainly ask to be forgiven,” said Elinor, “because you have
offended;—and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to
profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew
on you your mother’s anger.”
He agreed that he might.
“And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent
in _her_ eyes as the first.”
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a
letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,
as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by
word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing
to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good
offices in his favour. “And if they really _do_ interest themselves,”
said Marianne, in her new character of candour, “in bringing about a
reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely
without merit.”
After a visit on Colonel Brandon’s side of only three or four days, the
two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to
Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future
home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements
were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of
nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.
CHAPTER L.
After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of
her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward
a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of
Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.
In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off
as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was
revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars
at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying Miss
Dashwood, by every argument in her power;—told him, that in Miss Morton
he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;—and enforced
the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a
nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the
daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three;_ but when she
found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation,