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 every thing, and

asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every

part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns

altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not

without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing

cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.

The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally

concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was

considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after

undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the

colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost

sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and

she dared to say 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 pianoforte, whenever it

suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and

violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the

room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of

young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on

toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking

at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just

determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came

towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert

Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow

which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was

exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy

had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his

own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his

brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the

ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she

wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that

the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with

the modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert

exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's

conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme

_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper

society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any

natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;

while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material

superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,

was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I

often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,'

I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now

irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you

be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to

place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his

life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,

instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been

prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and

my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her

general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not

think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.

"You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a

cottage near Dawlish."

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather

surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without

living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on

their species of house.

"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there

is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest,

if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one

myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself

down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I

advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend

Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice,

and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide

on the best of them. 'My 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 all, for she did not think he deserved the

compliment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,

his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a

thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his

wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of

Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had

suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such,

while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The expense

would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an

attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be

requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his

father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.

"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady

Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be

exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any

attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening 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 Miss Steeles to spend

a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls;

and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very

well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but

the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like

them; indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so

does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss

Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution

of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly

suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by

bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as

_their_ visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had

procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company

and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady

Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and

reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,

herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such

an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all

things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the

most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not

be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the

visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,

was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'

time.

When the note was 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 every thing

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 Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor

of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.

Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such

accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.

Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in

her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book

made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not

know whether she should ever be able to part with them.

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 Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former

share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in

Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit

to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by

herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to

hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,

began directly to justify it, by saying--

"Lord! my 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. Donavan 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, he said

just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and

then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it

came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of

it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon

that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know

something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any

unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to

their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I

believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will

do very well.'"

"What! is Fanny ill?"

[Illustration: _In a whisper._]

"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 any thing in it), Mr.

Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to

my cousin Lucy! There's for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a

syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a

thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;

but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody

suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,

or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this

was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor

your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very

morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no

conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are

all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about

it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone

at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had

just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she

thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or

other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her

vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with

such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his

own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his

steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene

took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming

what was going on. Poor soul! I pity _her._ And I must say, I think

she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and

soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees,

and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and

said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should

not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to

go down upon _his_ knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till

they had packed up their clothes. _Then_ she fell into hysterics

again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan,

and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was

at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just

stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says,

she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I

have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it

will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward

will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully!

for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not

wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan

thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and

the best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that

he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was

sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister

was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I

care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's

making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on

earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs.

Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has

next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make

the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow

him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it

as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in

such another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and

two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty

has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly."

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to

collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make

such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to

produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary

interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped

might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to

Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she

felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and

to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the

conduct of every one concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event

really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its

being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of

Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there

could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still

more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she

felt much compassion;--for Lucy very little--and it cost her some

pains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the

necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be

lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,

and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others,

without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any

resentment against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one. She was going to remove what she

really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such

particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her

good opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their

situations, which to _her_ fancy would seem strong, feel all her own

disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it

was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to

represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the

self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's

engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne.

Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given

without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor

impetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne

listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the

comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and

all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure

of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge

but of imprudence, was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed

a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she _had_

loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for

Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely

incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded

at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of

Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and

Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only

could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact

of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Marianne's

feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of

detail; and for some time all that could be done was to 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 now

he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does

not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good

may be built. And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in

the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said

of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is

not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.

Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and

understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to

forget that he ever thought another superior to _her._"

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what

is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your

resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be

wondered at. They are brought more within my comprehension."

"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For

four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without

being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it

would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained

to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told

me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose

prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,

with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to

oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most

deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her

hopes and exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself

to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance

that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him

unworthy; nor has 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

any thing herself.

The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their

brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful

affair, and bring them news of his wife.

"You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as

he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under

our roof yesterday."

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.

[Illustration: "_You have heard, I suppose._"]

"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars

too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but

I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of

us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But

I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing

materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her

resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the

fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody

again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!--meeting

with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been 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 otherwise we

both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us,

while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to

be so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her

affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'"

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is

not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been

planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed

that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another

person!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she

suspected _any_ prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_

quarter. '_There_ to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself

safe.' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as

to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward.

He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars

could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as

you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of

no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never

thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained

to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told

him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of

land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters

grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this,

if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the

certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds

she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so

far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if

he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support,

she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands

together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!"

"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the

obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation

is very natural."

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and

forbore.

"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said

very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.

Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would

stand to it, cost him what it might."

"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be

silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.

Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a

rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as

yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a

better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good

husband."

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not

open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially

anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any

resentment--

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,

madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,

but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.

And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under

her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large

fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little

extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour

of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish

her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole,

has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like

circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward

has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one."

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung

for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a

woman who could not reward him.

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?"

"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:--Edward is

dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house

yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do

not know; for _we_ of course can make no inquiry."

"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him?"

"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the

prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more

deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on

it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but

for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two

thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand

pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must

all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our

power to assist him."

"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very

welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I

could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own

charge now, at lodgings and taverns."

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though

she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood,

"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been

in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it

is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one

thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his

mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle

_that_ estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's,

on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer,

talking over the business."

[Illustration: _Talking over the business._]

"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a

way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son

independent, because another had plagued me."

Marianne got up and walked about the room.

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John,

"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which

might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely."

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his

visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really

believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and

that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;

leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present

occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the

Dashwoods', and Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and

as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in

Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the

party.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but

only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. _They_ only knew

how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small

was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that

could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried

in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion

for his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this

public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject

on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor

avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her

thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that

belief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she rather

wished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying

to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with

herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between

Elinor's conduct and her own.

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had

hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of

continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never

exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence,

without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she

still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only

dispirited her more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs

in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the

matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had

enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking

after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort

and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the

hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them

within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so

fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,

though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor

were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were

again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather

to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they

entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing

with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was

herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys,

nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by

any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last

she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who,

though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting

them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of

Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.

Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor--

"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you

ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,

that she would tell any thing _without_ being asked; for nothing would

otherwise have been learnt.

"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by

the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And

then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about

it. Is she angry?"

"Not at all, I believe, with you."

"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is _she_ angry?"

"I cannot suppose it possible that she should."

"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of

it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she

would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me

again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are

as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put

in the feather last night. There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me

too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_

the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never

have known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had

not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare

sometimes I do not know which way to look before them."

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say,

and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to

the first.

"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what

they choose about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for

it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such

ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think

about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set

it down for certain."

"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"

said Elinor.

[Illustration: "_She put in the feather last night._"]

"Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more

than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses

could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with

thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had

nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides

that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point

he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come

near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I

believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away

from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of

him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose

against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from

church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday

to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them,

and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy,

and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by

what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house,

he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or

other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday,

on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and

over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune,

and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the

engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but

two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to

go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a

curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to

think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least

mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift

for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.

And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he

said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath

he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to

marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would

not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a

great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one

can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she

had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with

him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be

very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then

he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should

do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait

to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any

more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was

come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so

I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if

she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just

run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with

the Richardsons."

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor;

"you were all in the same room together, were not you?"

"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love

when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know

better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in

the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at

the door."

"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only

learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it

before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me

particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known

yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"

"Oh, la! there is nothing in _that._ I only stood at the door, and

heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same

by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many

secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or

behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be

kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

[Illustration: _Listening at the door._]

"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is

lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,

an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I

shan't say anything against them to _you_; and to be sure they did

send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.

And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask

us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,

nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of

sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go

there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a

Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good

gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my

cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should

write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I

know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the

world. 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of

such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'"

"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the

worst. You have got your answer ready."

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach

of her own party made another more necessary.

"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to

you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you

they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and

they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings

about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not

in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything

should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings

should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay

with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton

won't ask us any more this bout. Good-bye; I am sorry Miss Marianne was

not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your

spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay

her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was

claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of

knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though

she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen

and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as

firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as

absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing

depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that

preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest

chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for

information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible

intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained,

she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple

particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own

consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their

engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its

end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings

the following natural remark:--

"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how _that_ will

end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,

will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest

of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.

Pratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord

help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them

towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I

talked of t'other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all

works. Betty's sister would never do for them _now._"

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from

Lucy herself. It was as follows:

"Bartlett's Building, March.

"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take

of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will

make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and

my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through

lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed

to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully,

we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always

be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and

great persecutions, but however, at the same time,

gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least

among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully

remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am

sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.

Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday

afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though

earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to

it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the

spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never

be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could

have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be

sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be

ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to

recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am

very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings

too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or

Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.

Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it

for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't

think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come

this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my

cousins would be proud to know her. My paper reminds me to

conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully

remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and

the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to

Miss Marianne,

"I am, etc., etc."

As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to

be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs.

Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and

praise.

"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite

proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor

soul! I wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls

me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever

lived. Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned.

Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to

think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as

pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great

credit."

CHAPTER XXXIX

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town,

and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed

for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that

if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly

less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less

bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of

the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be

brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her

thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their

wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence

of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining

them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether

much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to

Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs.

Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from

Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been

sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;--but it was enforced

with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the

very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had

been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.

When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was

not very auspicious.

"Cleveland!"--she cried, with great agitation. "No, I cannot go to

Cleveland."--

"You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not--that it

is not in the neighbourhood of--"

"But it is in Somersetshire. I cannot go into Somersetshire. There,

where I looked forward to going;--no, Elinor, you cannot expect me to

go there."

Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such

feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on

others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the

time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to

see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan

could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which

was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not

beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's

servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there

could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they

might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As

Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with

little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she

pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.

Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her

design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every

thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could

be;--and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the

hours that were yet to divide her from Barton.

"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss

Dashwoods;"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called

on her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite

resolved upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall

be, when I come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as

dull as two cats."

Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their

future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give

himself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good

reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the

window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she

was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of

particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.

The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her

observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even

changed her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close

by the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep

herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with

agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her

employment. Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the

interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words

of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be

apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a

doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so;

but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply

she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips,

that she did not think _that_ any material objection;--and Mrs.

Jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then

talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable,

when another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these

words in the Colonel's calm voice,--

"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost

ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it?"--but checking her

desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.

"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older."

This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or

mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the

conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings

very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which showed her to

feel what she said--

"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you."

Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that

after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take

leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and

go away without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old

friend could have made so indifferent a suitor.

What had really passed between them was to this effect.

"I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your

friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand

the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for

persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have

I been rightly informed?--Is it so?--"

Elinor told him that it was.

"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great

feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people

long attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferrars does not know

what she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr.

Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with

him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted

in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for

his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I

understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to

tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am

informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his

acceptance--but _that_, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he

is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were

more valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I

believe, did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is

certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to

afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my

pleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great. Pray assure him

of it."

Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been

greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.

The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as

hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;--and

_she_, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her

emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different

cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might

have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence,

and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together

prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly

expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of

Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew

them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with

pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office

to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no

one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short,

from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an

obligation from _her_, she would have been very glad to be spared

herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining

it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her

means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.

Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard

his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform

him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled,

Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so

respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he

mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an

evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very

light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

"The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any

inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family

and income."

By which the Colonel was surprised to find that _she_ was considering

Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation;

for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply

such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to

settle on, and he said so.

"This little rectory _can_ do no more than make Mr. Ferrars

comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry

to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly

more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in

my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him

from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I

sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed,

seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what

must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must

still be a distant good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place

very soon."

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended

the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of

what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they

stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their

parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited,

nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of

marriage.

CHAPTER XL

"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as

soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the

Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_

to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand

his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life,

and I wish you joy of it with all my heart."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor. "It is a matter of great joy to me;

and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are

not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so

compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life."

"Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at it

in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more

likely to happen."

"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence;

but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very

soon occur."

"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Jennings--"Oh! as to that, when a man has

once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon

find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and

again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I

shall soon know where to look for them."

"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a

faint smile.

"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one,

I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as

ever I saw."

"He spoke of its being out of repair."

"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it? who should do

it but himself?"

They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the

carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to

go, said--

"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out.

But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be

quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind

is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must

long to tell your sister all about it."

Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.

"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not

mention it at present to any body else."

"Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you

would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as

Holborn to-day."

"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be

very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it

ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do _that_

directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him,

for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination."

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr.

Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she

could not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however,

produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed--

"Oh, ho! I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much

the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness;

and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my

dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel

write himself? Sure, he is the proper person."

Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's

speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore

only replied to its conclusion.

"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one

to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself."

"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of

delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to

write.) You know your own concerns best. So good-bye, my dear. I have

not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was

brought to bed."

And away she went; but returning again in a moment--

"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be

very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for

a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid,

and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that

at your leisure."

"Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said,

and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.

How she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to

Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between

them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have

been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too

much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen

in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he

came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not

returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss

Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular

business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her

perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself

properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the

information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her

upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion

were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him

before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his

knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of

what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her

feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much

distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of

embarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on

first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to

be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could

say any thing, after taking a chair.

"Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me,

at least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded

on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been

extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister;

especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable

that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to

Oxford tomorrow."

"You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering herself,

and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as

possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been

able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she

said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on

the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most

agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)

Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to

say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure

in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only

wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having

so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that

the living--it is about two hundred a-year--were much more

considerable, and such as might better enable you to--as might be more

than a temporary accommodation to yourself--such, in short, as might

establish all your views of happiness."

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be

expected that any one else should say for him. He _looked_ all the

astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information

could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words--

"Colonel Brandon!"

"Yes," continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the

worst was over, "Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his

concern for what has lately passed--for the cruel situation in which

the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you--a concern

which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share;

and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character,

and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present

occasion."

"Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living!--Can it be possible?"

"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find

friendship any where."

"No," replied be, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in _you_;

for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.

I feel it--I would express it if I could--but, as you well know, I am

no orator."

"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely,

at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's

discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till

I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever

occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a

friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps--indeed I know he _has_,

still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe

nothing to my solicitation."

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but

she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of

Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably

contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently

entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had

ceased to speak;--at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he

said--

"Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have

always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems

him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners

perfectly the gentleman."

"Indeed," replied Elinor, "I believe that you will find him, on

farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you

will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is

almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that

he _should_ be all this."

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her

a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that

he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the

mansion-house much greater.

"Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said he, soon

afterwards, rising from his chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not

allow me to give _you_; to assure him that he has made me a very--an

exceedingly happy man."

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very

earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his

happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on

_his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the

power of expressing it.

"When I see him again," said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him

out, "I shall see him the husband of Lucy."

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the

past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of

Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.

When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people

whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a

great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important

secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to

it again as soon as Elinor appeared.

"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do

right?--And I suppose you had no great difficulty--You did not find

him very unwilling to accept your proposal?"

"No, ma'am; _that_ was not very likely."

"Well, and how soon will he be ready?--For it seems all to depend upon

that."

"Really," said Elinor, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that

I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation

necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his

ordination."

"Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "Lord! my dear, how calmly

you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord

bless me!--I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!--And

though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I

do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.

Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that

is in orders already."

"My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why,

Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the

Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.

Ferrars!"

[Illustration: _Both gained considerable amusement_]

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation

immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement

for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for

Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and

still without forfeiting her expectation of the first.

"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the

first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very

likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I

thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on

the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up

fifteen beds! and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton

cottage! It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the

Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for

them, before Lucy goes to it."

"But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's

being enough to allow them to marry."

"The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year

himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word

for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford

Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy an't

there."

Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not

waiting for any thing more.

CHAPTER XLI

Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with

his happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he

reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs.

Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her

congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in

her life.

Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain;

and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their

being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before

Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to

give Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her, that she spoke

of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was

ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no

exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or

future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing

any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel

Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was

moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly

concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and

scarcely resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she

possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his

poultry.

It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley

Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his

wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel

it necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however,

which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the

assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne, not

contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to

prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though her

carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs.

John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after

the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking

Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company

again. The consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a

visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run

the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had

so much reason to dislike.

Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the

house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure

in meeting Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in

Berkeley Street, and, assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to

see her, invited her to come in.

They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room. Nobody was there.

"Fanny is in her own room, I suppose," said he:--"I will go to her

presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the

world to seeing _you._ Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially

there cannot be--but however, you and Marianne were always great

favourites. Why would not Marianne come?"--

Elinor made what excuse she could for her.

"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal

to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's--can it be true?--has

he really given it to Edward?--I heard it yesterday by chance, and was

coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it."

"It is perfectly true. Colonel Brandon has given the living of

Delaford to Edward."

"Really!--Well, this is very astonishing!--no relationship!--no

connection between them!--and now that livings fetch such a

price!--what was the value of this?"

"About two hundred a year."

"Very well--and for the next presentation to a living of that

value--supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and

likely to vacate it soon--he might have got I dare say--fourteen

hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before

this person's death? _Now_ indeed it would be too late to sell it, but

a man of Colonel Brandon's sense!--I wonder he should be so

improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!--Well, I

am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost

every human character. I suppose, however--on recollection--that the

case may probably be _this._ Edward is only to hold the living till

the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation, is

old enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it."

Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that

she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel

Brandon to Edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which

it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.

"It is truly astonishing!"--he cried, after hearing what she

said--"what could be the Colonel's motive?"

"A very simple one--to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

"Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky

man. You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I

have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,--she will not like

to hear it much talked of."

Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she

thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of

wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be

possibly impoverished.

"Mrs. Ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so

important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe

it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may

be. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all."

"But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be

supposed that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in

knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,--for _that_ must

be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she

supposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she cast him off

for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast

him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined

liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account--she

cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. She would not be

so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the

anxiety of a parent!"

"Ah! Elinor," said John, "your reasoning is very good, but it is

founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match

takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had

never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may

accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as

possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son."

"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her

memory by _this_ time."

"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most

affectionate mothers in the world."

Elinor was silent.

"We think _now_,"--said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, "of

_Robert's_ marrying Miss Morton."

Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's

tone, calmly replied--

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."

"Choice!--how do you mean?"

"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be

the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert."

"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all

intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;--and as to any

thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that

one is superior to the other."

Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His

reflections ended thus.

"Of _one_ thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking

in an awful whisper,--"I may assure you; and I _will_ do it, because I

know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think--indeed I have

it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise

it would be very wrong to say any thing about it,--but I have it from

the very best authority,--not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars

say it herself--but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her,--that

in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain--a

certain connection, you understand me,--it would have been far

preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that

_this_ does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars

considered it in that light; a very gratifying circumstance you know

to us all. 'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the

least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound _now_ for

nothing worse.' But however, all that is quite out of the

question,--not to be thought of or mentioned. As to any attachment you

know, it never could be; all that is gone by. But I thought I would

just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not

that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt

of your doing exceedingly well,--quite as well, or better, perhaps,

all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?"

Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her

self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;--and she was

therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply

herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her

brother, by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferrars. After a few moments'

chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her

sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was

left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the gay

unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so

unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the

prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated

course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most

unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.

[Illustration: "_Of one thing I may assure you._"]

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to

speak of Edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very

inquisitive on the subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as

she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert, though very

different, was not less striking than it had been on _him._ He laughed

most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living

in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;--and when to

that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a

white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John

Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.

Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the

conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed

on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a

look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,

and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom,

not by any reproof of her's, but by his own sensibility.

"We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the

affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine

gaiety of the moment; "but, upon my soul, it is a most serious

business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for

it; for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature,--as

well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge

of him, Miss Dashwood, from _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward!

His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we are not

all born, you know, with the same powers,--the same address. Poor

fellow! to see him in a circle of strangers! to be sure it was

pitiable enough; but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as

any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so

shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe

it. My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling

myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her,--'My

dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion,

but as for myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young

woman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately.

I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! Poor Edward! he has done for

himself completely,--shut himself out for ever from all decent

society! but, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least

surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be

expected. My poor mother was half frantic."

"Have you ever seen the lady?"

"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in

for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward

country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I

remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely

to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother

related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from

the match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing, for

unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till

after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to

interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think

it is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly

should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. 'My dear

fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are

making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family

are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that

means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be

starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved."

He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance

of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_

never spoke of it out of her own family, Elinor could see its

influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance

with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour

to herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that

Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to

see more of them;--an exertion in which her husband, who attended her

into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to

distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.

CHAPTER XLII

One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her

brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton

without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to

Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother

and sisters in town;--and a faint invitation from Fanny, to come to

Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all

things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less

public, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which

he should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any

meeting in the country.

It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to

send her to Delaford;--a place, in which, of all others, she would now

least choose to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it

considered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but

even Lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit

her there.

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties

from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective

homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of

Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their

journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel

Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as

she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point,

bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed

those hopes, and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now

extinguished for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the

place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new

schemes, in which _she_ could have no share, without shedding many

tears.

Elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.

She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left

no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to

be divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the

persecution of Lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her

sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked

forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might

do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.

Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into

the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was

it dwelt on by turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of

the third they drove up to Cleveland.

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping

lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably

extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of

importance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of

smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn

was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the

guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick

screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars,

shut out the offices.

Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the

consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty

from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its

walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her

child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through

the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a

distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering

over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on

the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their

summits Combe Magna might be seen.

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears

of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different

circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country

liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious

solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while

she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary

rambles.

[Illustration: _Showing her child to the housekeeper._]

She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the

house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the

rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the

kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to

the gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the

green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,

and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of

Charlotte,--and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the

disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests,

or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising

young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.

The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment

abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay

at Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself

prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had

depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all

over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have

deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could

not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer

had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the

friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements,

and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther

than Reading that night. Elinor, however little concerned in it,

joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who had the knack of finding

her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by

the family in general, soon procured herself a book.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly

good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The

openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want

of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the

forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face,

was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it

was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her

laugh.

[Illustration: _The gardener's lamentations._]

The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner,

affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome

variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same

continued rain had reduced very low.

Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen

so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she

knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him,

however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors,

and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him

very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from

being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much

superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs.

Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits, they

were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all

unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating,

uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight

it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been

devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much

better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she

could like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation of

his epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with

complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple

taste, and diffident feelings.

Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received

intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire

lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of

Mr. Ferrars, and the kind of confidant of himself, talked to her a

great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies,

and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His

behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his

open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his

readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion,

might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment,

and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the

first, believed Marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it

herself. But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her

head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and she could not help

believing herself the nicest observer of the two: she watched his

eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his

looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and

throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words,

entirely escaped the latter lady's observation,--_she_ could discover

in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her

being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all

over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them,

where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the

trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest,

had--assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet

shoes and stockings--given Marianne a cold so violent as, though for a

day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing

ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.

Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all

declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a

cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her

entirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her,

when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the

remedies.

CHAPTER XLIII

Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry

replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by

engaging in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting

shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable

to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much

in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed,

more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her

sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole

day, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on

her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of

sleep, and felt no real alarm.

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the

expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising,

confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her

bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending

for the Palmers' apothecary.

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to

expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet,

by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing

the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs.

Palmer, on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined

from the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor,

now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming

Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate

removal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their

apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife

too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and

within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her

little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr.

Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her

husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or

two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to

accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which

made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring

from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring,

by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother

she had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most

willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues,

and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.

Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and

feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow

would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have

produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for

on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended

the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their

mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was

all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to

raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she _then_ really believed

herself, that it would be a very short one.

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the

patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no

amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced;

for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity

and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away

by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his

promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel

Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going

likewise. Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most

acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much

uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she

thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his

stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him

to play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with

her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was

gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not

long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was

warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself,

in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss

Dashwood in any emergence.

Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.

She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of

Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It

gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it

gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her

situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who

attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and

Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others

was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early

in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel

Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's

forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He

tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of

the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day

in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the

admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his

mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.

On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of

both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared

his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every

symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed

in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her

letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than

her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed

them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would

be able to travel.

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the

evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and

uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was

willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of

having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the

cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a

slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her

sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a

considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself,

she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings,

knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to

bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating

herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with

Marianne.

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her

sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change

of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of

complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from

so painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some

accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish

wildness, cried out,--

"Is mama coming?--"

"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting

Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it

is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton."

"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same

hurried manner. "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while

attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and

quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her

alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly

for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother.

To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the

latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its

performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by

her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he

was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were

immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to

attempt the removal of; he listened to them in silent despondence; but

her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that

seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his

mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs.

Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She

thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to

hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for

post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or

such a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a

companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve,

and whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a

summons _could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his

assistance, would lessen it.

_He_, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness

of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost

despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might

look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The

horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon

only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words

spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was

then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment

to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the

rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both.

Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on

Marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr.

Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess

for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for

she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her

more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.

Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her

mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the

heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with

so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief,

fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had

been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother

arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.

She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could

not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after

five o'clock--arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends

for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and

unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to

be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment

must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was

communicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of

three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious

attendant more composed than he had found them.

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to

their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.

Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her

no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor,

her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the

comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the

early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have

struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's

compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her

companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been

greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too,

particularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother,

when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to _her_

what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was

very sincere.

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be

disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His

medicines had failed; the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more

quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching

all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in

further advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something

more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as

confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging

assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of

Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother;

but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till

noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering

from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her

spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings,

who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack

to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's

disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of

the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.

About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of

disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her

friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her

sister's pulse; she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;

and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior

calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her

hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a

temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a

thought of its continuance; and Elinor, conning over every injunction

of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late.

Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she

bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. Half an hour

passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even

arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered

Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her

with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed

her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the

arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock; when his assurances, his

felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his

expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her

entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the

partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their

late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted,

with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the

probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led

to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,

friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with

sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent

gratitude;--but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words,

no smiles. All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and

strong.

She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the

whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her

enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every

look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course,

in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was; but when she

saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of

recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet,

steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every

doubt.

The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected

back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her

mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must

now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely

less an object of pity! Oh! how slow was the progress of time which

yet kept them in ignorance!

At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined

Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been

kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating

much; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of

content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings

would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before

her mother's arrival, and allow _her_ to take her place by Marianne;

but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that

moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an

unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs

into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right,

left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to

her own room to write letters and sleep.

The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and

the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within,

regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the

travellers, they had a rich reward in store, for every present

inconvenience.