The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been

convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the

house; and so strong was the persuasion that she _did_, in spite of

the _almost_ impossibility of their being already come, that she moved

into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be

satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not

deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in

view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be

drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor

mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at

that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the

carriage stopped the door,--of her doubt--her dread,--perhaps her

despair!--and of what _she_ had to tell! with such knowledge it was

impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy;

and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid

with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,

assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the

drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.

[Illustration: _Opened a window-shutter._]

CHAPTER XLIV

Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him,

obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the

room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was

suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of

command than supplication--

"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes--I entreat you to

stay."

"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall _not_ stay. Your

business cannot be with _me._ The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell

you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all

his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the

door. My business is with you, and only you."

"With me!"--in the utmost amazement;--"well, sir--be quick--and if you

can--less violent."

"Sit down, and I will be both."

She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel

Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had

promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was

engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that

prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best

promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He

took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by

either.

"Pray be quick, sir," said Elinor, impatiently; "I have no time to

spare."

He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to

hear her.

"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out

of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!--But is it

true? is it really true?"

Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater

eagerness.

"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"

[Illustration: "_I entreat you to stay._"]

"We hope she is."

He rose up, and walked across the room.

"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I _am_

here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his

seat,--"what does it signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the

last time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood

for gaiety. Tell me honestly,"--a deeper glow overspreading his

cheeks, "do you think me most a knave or a fool?"

Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to

think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and

of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this

impression she immediately rose, saying--

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not

at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be

with me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow."

"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice

perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold

beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."

"At Marlborough!"--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand

what he would be at.

"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten

minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a

nuncheon at Marlborough."

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he

spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might

bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she

said, after a moment's recollection--

"Mr. Willoughby, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_, that after

what has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself

upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that

you mean by it?"--

"I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hate

me one degree less than you do _now._ I mean to offer some kind of

explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole

heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a

blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like

forgiveness from Ma----, from your sister."

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all

the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made

her think him sincere.

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne _does_,

she has _long_ forgiven you."

"Has she?" he cried, in the same eager tone. "Then she has forgiven me

before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and

on more reasonable grounds. _Now_ will you listen to me?"

Elinor bowed her assent.

"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side,

and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my

behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have

imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is

worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first

became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other

view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was

obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done

before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not

but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a

kind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _she_

was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must

confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness,

thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had

always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by

every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any

design of returning her affection."

Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most

angry contempt, stopped him, by saying--

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for

me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed

by any thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the

subject."

"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was

never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of

associating with people of better income than myself. Every year

since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my

debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set

me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it

had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances

by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister,

therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness,

selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even

of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much,--I was acting in

this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of

returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid

state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I

meditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. But have

I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved,

could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? or, what is

more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a

comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have

deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence,

lost every thing that could make it a blessing."

"You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at

one time attached to her?"

"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!

Is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself,

by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours

of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were

strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even _then_, however,

when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself

most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it,

from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my

circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here--nor

will I stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse

than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was

already bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool,

providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of

making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my

resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage

her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and

openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains

to display. But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours

that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with

her in private--a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance--to

ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took

place,"--here he hesitated and looked down. "Mrs. Smith had somehow or

other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose

interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a

connection--but I need not explain myself farther," he added, looking

at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye,--"your

particular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long

ago."

"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart

anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all. And how you

will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I

confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account.

Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her

character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify

myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have

nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable,

and because _I_ was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the

violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not

mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better

treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the

tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any

return. I wish--I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured

more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for

me--(may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose

mind--Oh! how infinitely superior!"

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say

it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well

be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do

not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of

understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.

You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in

Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was

reduced to the extremest indigence."

"But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it," he warmly replied; "I did

not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common

sense might have told her how to find it out."

"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?"

"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be

guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her

ignorance of the world,--every thing was against me. The matter itself

I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was

previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in

general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention,

the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my

present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I

might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman!

she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could

not be; and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.

The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning--was

spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The

struggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne,

my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all

insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of

those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally

inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to

believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her,

and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence

remained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before I

could leave Devonshire: I was engaged to dine with you on that very

day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this

engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in

person, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be

dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep

to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own

magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her

miserable, and left her miserable;--and left her hoping never to see

her again."

"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?" said Elinor, reproachfully; "a

note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to

call?"

[Illustration: "_I was formally dismissed._"]

"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the

country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the

neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between

Mrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at the

cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however,

was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone.

You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening

before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A

few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how

happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to

Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in

this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense

of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her

sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I

was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget

it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me! Oh, God!

what a hard-hearted rascal I was!"

They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.

"Did you tell her that you should soon return?"

"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than

was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more

than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do.

Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her

kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it _did_ torture me. I was

miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it

gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself

for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past

sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I

went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was

only indifferent. My journey to town--travelling with my own horses,

and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own

reflections so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so

inviting!--when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh,

it was a blessed journey!"

He stopped.

"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for

his departure, "and this is all?"

"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter?

Did she show it you?"

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was

in town the whole time,) what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to

be expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any

emotion, my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word

was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,

would forbid--a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town

was, in the same language, a thunderbolt. Thunderbolts and daggers!

what a reproof would she have given me! her taste, her opinions--I

believe they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they

are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this

extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it

her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.

"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married.

Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to

hear."

"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in

former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been

separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of

faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say

awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in

some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened

villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy

that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of

our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my

shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach,

overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be

heartily glad to hear she is well married.' But this note made me know

myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any

other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But

every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat

was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no

answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her

farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call

in Berkeley Street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of

a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all

safely out of the house one morning, and left my name."

"Watched us out of the house!"

"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how

often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a

shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did

in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a

glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant

watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep

out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the

Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was

likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in

town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of

his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He

asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he _not_

told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I

should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The

next morning brought another short note from Marianne--still

affectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make

_my_ conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but could

not frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of

the day. If you _can_ pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it

was _then._ With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced

to play the happy lover to another woman! Those three or four weeks

were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were

forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening of agony

it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me

Willoughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking

me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such

speaking solicitude on my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on

the other hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is

over now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could;

but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death.

_That_ was the last, last look I ever had of her; the last manner in

which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet when I thought

of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to

imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her

last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I

travelled, in the same look and hue."

[Illustration: "_I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight._"]

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first

rousing himself, broke it thus:

"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,

certainly out of danger?"

"We are assured of it."

"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne."

"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing

to say about that?"

"Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you

know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting

at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to me

there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it

caught mine;--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing

altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had

reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire,

and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had

marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.

Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a

woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.

She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched.

Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion--her malice--at all

events it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my

wife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender--truly feminine--was

it not?"

"Your wife! The letter was in your own hand-writing."

"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as

I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own--her own

happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! we were

engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--but I am

talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was

necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be

done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my

character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what

language my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My

business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with

a bow or a bluster was of little importance. 'I am ruined for ever in

their opinion,' said I to myself; 'I am shut out for ever from their

society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter

will only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my

reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my

wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three

notes--unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have

denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put

them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that too

I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now

searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear

lock--all, every memento was torn from me."

"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor,

while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate

emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs.

Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not

forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your

respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have

married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly

is no atonement to Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own

conscience."

"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh. "She does

not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we

married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be

happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity

me, Miss Dashwood? or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,--be

it only one degree,--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was

before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any

part of my guilt?"

"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little. You have proved

yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have

proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly

know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could

have made it worse."

"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have

been telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as

well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me

be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my

present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural,

more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my

penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if

you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."

"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be

called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the

particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her

illness."

"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton,

and when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months--he

spoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen

without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured,

honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for

your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he

knew ought to, though probably he did not think it _would_, vex me

horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that

Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter

that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most

imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much

shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the

undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer;

and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he

almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise

about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was

dying, and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth,

scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what

horrid projects might not have been imputed? _One_ person I was sure

would represent me as capable of any thing. What I felt was dreadful!

My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was

in my carriage. Now you know all."

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the

irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent

habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the

character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person

and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a

feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and

vain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.

Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of

another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or

at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each

faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to

punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against

feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself,

now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the

connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left

her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to

himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind

she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who,

rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in

preparation for going, and said--

"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."

"Are you going back to town?"

"No--to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a

day or two. Good bye."

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;--he

pressed it with affection.

"And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?"--said he,

letting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece as if forgetting

he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him

well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle

counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was

not very encouraging.

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can.

Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed

to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions,

it may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be

something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.

Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--"

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

"Well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live

in dread of one event."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister's marriage."

"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is

now."

"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should

be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not

stay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that

where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,--God bless

you!"

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.

CHAPTER XLV

Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the

sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a

crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness

was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the

most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited

a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which

made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with

a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged

within herself--to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his

influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought

not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction,

that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to

possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not

even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long

before she could feel his influence less.

When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her

just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of

her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future,

Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected

arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept

off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of

betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which

that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's

leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of

another carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary

moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and

reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as

she entered it.

Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced

almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to

inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but _she_, waiting

neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;

and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment

as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her

fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter

and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable

to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at

intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at

once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in

the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even

greater than her own.

As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was

her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child,

rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.

Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only

checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther

sleep;--but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when

the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing

her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for

conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by

every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood _would_ sit up with her all

night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to

bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours

of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by

irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now

allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would

not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now

acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her

promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She

dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne

might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be

happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower.

Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to

_his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy far more than to his rival's, the

reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.

Willoughby's death.

The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened

to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her

uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out

for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further

intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival,

that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret

away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be

infection.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness

of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she

repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.

Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without

sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But

Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own

disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the

exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.

Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began

to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate

attachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her; and in her

recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It

was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private

conference between them occurred.

"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my

happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself."

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and

not surprised, was all silent attention.

"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your

composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my

family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you

as the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most

happy with him of the two."

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because

satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their

age, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must

always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject,

and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came

out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could

talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I

saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere

friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a

sympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to

irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender,

constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever

since the first moment of seeing her."

Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the

professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her

mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her

as it chose.

"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby

ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant,

which ever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge

of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!

and without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have

seen her happy with another. Such a noble mind! such openness, such

sincerity! No one can be deceived in _him._"

"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is

well established."

"I know it is," replied her mother seriously, "or after such a

warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to

be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active,

such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of

men."

"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on _one_ act

of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of

the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the

Middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love

and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately

acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem

him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as

yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the

world. What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope?"

"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.

Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or

encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible

effusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet

after a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if

she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in

promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful

security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every

encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will

do everything; Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a

man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it."

"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made

him equally sanguine."

"No. He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change

in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again

free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a

difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There,

however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as

to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles

fixed;--and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very

one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are

all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is

not so handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is

something much more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a

something,--if you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I

did not like."

Elinor could _not_ remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for

her assent, continued--

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to

me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to

be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their

genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied

simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the

liveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am

very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as

he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been

so happy with _him_ as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her

dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.

"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs.

Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I

hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly _must_ be some

small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as

our present situation."

Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but

her spirit was stubborn.

"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares

about _that_;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it

really is, I am sure it must be a good one."

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and

Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to

her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.

CHAPTER XLVI

Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long

enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength,

and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to

enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the

latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own

particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to

him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in

receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was

such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than

his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to

others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying

complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many

past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance

between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened

by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,

and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but

with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to

very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what

arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the

actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that

something more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger

every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her

daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_

measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not

quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was

soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there

as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.

Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to

accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better

accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint

invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active

good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well

as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the

cottage, in the course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after

taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so

earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due

to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and

bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was

carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed

anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and

Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk

of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings

was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid

for the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon

immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey

on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous

affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her

comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found

their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To

Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She,

who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by

anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor

fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally

share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as

she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to

contentment and cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which

every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful

recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her

face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But

here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she

assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw

only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender

than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole

of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened

to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common

sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of

resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the

sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could

be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at

cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed

away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her

piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first

rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some

of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name

in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the

music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained

of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again;

declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in

future practice much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the

contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked

and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of

Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would

then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as

the only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said

she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the

farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will

walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;

and we will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its

foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall

be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be

later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall

divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,

and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own

library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing

beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at

the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know

I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I

shall gain in the course of a twelvemonth a great deal of instruction

which I now feel myself to want."

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;

though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her

to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work

in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and

virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she

remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared

she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of

Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy

tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved

to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she

appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.

[Illustration: "_And see how the children go on._"]

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was

fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a

soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's

wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's

arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in

the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in

an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had

advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the

hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned

towards it, Marianne calmly said--

"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting

mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the

spot! shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?" hesitatingly it was

said. "Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought

to do."

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as _he_

is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have

been for him, but what they are _now._ At present, if I could be

satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not

_always_ acting a part, not _always_ deceiving me; but above all, if I

could be assured that he never was so _very_ wicked as my fears have

sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl--"

She stopped. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered--

"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it

horrible to suspect a person, who has been what _he_ has been to _me_,

of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a

situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could

expose me to--"

"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him!--only

fickle, very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the

eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till

Marianne were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes

in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a

sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant

than my own. He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with

yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let

your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness

has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious

recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was

perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own

behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn,

nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness

to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and

that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My

illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such

negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong.

Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my

danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these

reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very

eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God,

and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar

misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister! You, who

had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known

all the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in _your_

remembrance! My mother too! How could you have consoled her! I cannot

express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past,

I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed

injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I

had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers,

the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and

unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper

irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them,

little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you

above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew

your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any

compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me;

but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I

imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part

in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which

you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew

you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away

from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to

exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had deserted and

wronged me, and leaving you, for I professed an unbounded affection, to

be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,

impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly

that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well

deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied--

"You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my

plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be

governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others,

nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my

mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will

share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I

shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do

mix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is

humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the

lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for

Willoughby--to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him,

would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of

circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be

checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment."

She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know _his_

heart, everything would become easy."

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or

impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at

all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as

reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself

leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her

anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief

points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his

repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.

Marianne said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the

ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A

thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge

one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,

unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears

covered her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they

reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her

curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked

of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was

carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where

minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the

house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just

articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister

and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a

solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind

anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the

subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the

parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.

CHAPTER XLVII

Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former

favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his

imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the

feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him

with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing

could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through

his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing

could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the

interests of Colonel Brandon.

Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from

himself,--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence

of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion

would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in

her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed

explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection

had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of

Willoughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the

simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his

character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy

astray.

In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began

voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an

effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for

some time previously sitting, her rising colour, as she spoke, and her

unsteady voice, plainly showed.

"I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you

can desire me to do."

Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing

tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's

unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne

slowly continued--

"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have

now heard exactly what I wished to hear."--For some moments her voice

was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness

than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I

never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or

later I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no

esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings."

"I know it--I know it," cried her mother. "Happy with a man of

libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest

of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart

to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive

conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband

ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a

sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as

well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,

reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved

you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would

have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less

certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His

expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct

declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His

demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income,

must have brought on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous

to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.

_Your_ sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when

aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear

to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched

only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it,

but beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single

management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?

beyond _that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge

_his_ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing

on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your

own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which

had involved him in such difficulties?"

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a

tone that implied, "do you really think him selfish?"

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to

the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was

selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which

afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession

of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment,

or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."

"It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object."

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And why

does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards

himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now

unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks

only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than

yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have

been happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would

then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they

are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of

whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always

necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank

the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far

more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a

wife."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to

regret--nothing but my own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood;

"_she_ must be answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each

felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that

might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first

subject, immediately continued--

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the

story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first

offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime

has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present

discontents."

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led

by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm

as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not

look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three

following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she

had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried

to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the

effect of time upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each

other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their

usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to

Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard

nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,

nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed

between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and

in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:--"We know

nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so

prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford"; which

was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,

for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.

She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and

when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his

mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary

communication--

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her

turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,

whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively

taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's

countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,

alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to

bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense

enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,

supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather

better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the

maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so

far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just

beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.

Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor

had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

[Illustration: "_I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is

married._"]

"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"

"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady

too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of

the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the

Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look

up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest

Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me,

and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss

Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's,

their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had

not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go

forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but

however, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."

"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since

she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken

young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy."

"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look

up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself

forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"Do you know where they came from?"

"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me."

"And are they going farther westward?"

"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and

then they'd be sure and call here."

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than

to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and

was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She

observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going

down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to

hear more.

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any

longer; I was afraid of being late."

"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was

always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the

tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.

Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.

Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret

might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as

both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had

often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to

go without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and

Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a

similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to

hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now

found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of

herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly

softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,

suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she

had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her

daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well

understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to

believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this

persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to

her Elinor; that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,

more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness,

and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter

suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and

greater fortitude.

CHAPTER XLVIII

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an

unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,

and certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had

always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something

would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his

own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of

establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of

all. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the

lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the

intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be

in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the

living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely

it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure

him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were

married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. What

had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her

mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at

Delaford;--Delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give

her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet

desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house;

saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire

of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be

suspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest

in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs.

Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward, she knew not what

she saw, nor what she wished to see. Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased

her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London

would write to them to announce the event, and give farther

particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no

tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault

with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.

"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which

sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to

hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should

not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel

Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on

horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It

was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear

more; and she trembled in expectation of it. But--it was _not_ Colonel

Brandon--neither his air--nor his height. Were it possible, she must

say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;--she

could not be mistaken,--it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down.

"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm, I

_will_ be mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the

mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look

at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have

given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that

she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to

him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their

own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the

appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel

path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before

them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for

Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if

fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.

Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of

that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be

guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him

her hand, and wished him joy.

[Illustration: _It was Edward._]

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips

had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,

she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too

late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again

and talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal

her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole

of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and

therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a

strict silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very

awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who

felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a

hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own

voice, now said--

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise. "No, my mother

is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to

inquire for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars."

She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their

eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,

after some hesitation, said,--

"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an

accent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,

even _her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He

rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not

knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and

while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to

pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice--

"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is

lately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but

Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of

such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as

soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first

she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any

where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or

even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a

reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of

Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word,

quitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the

others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his

situation, so wonderful and so sudden,--a perplexity which they had no

means of lessening but by their own conjectures.

CHAPTER XLIX

Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might

appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and

to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily

pre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of _one_

imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he

had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be

expected of him in the failure of _that_, than the immediate

contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask

Elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether

inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should

feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in

need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however,

how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he

expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly

told. This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at

four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his

lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous

profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one

of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly

joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to

swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any

reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his

misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at

once to that security with another, which he must have thought of

almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with

desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to

happiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,

flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in

him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors

confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all

the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.

"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the

consequence of ignorance of the world and want of employment. Had my

brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen

from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never

have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at

the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I

then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a

distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown

the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as

in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do,

instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to

choose any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the

first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment,

which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not

entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the

world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not

make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no

companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not

unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt

myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I

spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen:

Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty

too--at least I thought so _then_; and I had seen so little of other

women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects.

Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement

was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at

the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly."

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the

happiness of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all,

the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be

comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough,

how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his

delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained

conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and

society of both.

Marianne could speak _her_ happiness only by tears. Comparisons would

occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love

for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor

language.

But Elinor--how are _her_ feelings to be described? From the moment of

learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to

the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly

followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the

second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude

removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw

him honourably released from his former engagement,--saw him instantly

profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection

as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was

oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed

as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the

better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits,

or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever

other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a

week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or

suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and

the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of

incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in

common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is

different. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is

even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,

formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and

Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in

every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable

circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,

and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of

whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any

admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose

account that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond

her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful

affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her

reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,

at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so

worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all

the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street,

of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs

might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.

"_That_ was exactly like Robert," was his immediate observation. "And

_that_," he presently added, "might perhaps be in _his_ head when the

acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might

think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs

might afterward arise."

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally

at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had

remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no

means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very

last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not

the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him

for what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from

Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified

between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He

put the letter into Elinor's hands.

"DEAR SIR,

"Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have

thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and

have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to

think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand

while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in

your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not

always good friends, as our near relationship now makes

proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure

you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your

brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could

not live without one another, we are just returned from the

altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks,

which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,

but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines,

and shall always remain--

"Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,

"LUCY FERRARS."

"I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture

the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls--but the

ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep."

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.

"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in

former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have

blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that

since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only

letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any

amends for the defect of the style."

"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they

are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most

appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert,

through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his

own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand

a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for

intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's

marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her."

"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She

will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him

much sooner."

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew

not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been

attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours

after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the

nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of

conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate

connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with

Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be

supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of

Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own

deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did

not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his

business, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily.

What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred

to the imagination of husbands and wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of

malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to

Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her

character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost

meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,

even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a

want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally

imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter

reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,

good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but

such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an

engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to

his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret

to him.

"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give

her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was

renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend

in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there

seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living

creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly

insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but

the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I

cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage

it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the

smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.

She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living."

"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;

that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost

nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it

fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was

certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration

among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it

would be better for her to marry _you_ than be single."

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have

been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the

motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence

which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them

at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say

nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to

fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be."

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken

confidence in the force of his engagement.

"I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to

another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the

consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred

as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only

friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and

Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_

wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I

reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than

these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but

myself."

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the

Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with

him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer

resented his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present,"

said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the

occasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."

_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the

place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed

all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the

parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor

herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard

it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one

difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by

mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;

their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness

certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two

thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all

that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.

Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite

enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year

would supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his

mother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their

income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would

still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had

been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser

evil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence

would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.

About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to

complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of

having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company

with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the

privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every

night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned

in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first

tete-a-tete before breakfast.

A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at

least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between

thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind

which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness

of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to

make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he

did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew

nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were

consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was

explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to

rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it

promoted the interest of Elinor.

It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good

opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance,

for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles

and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably

have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other

attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters

fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate,

which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.

The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every

nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read

with less emotion that mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the

wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting

girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she

was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by

all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. "I do think," she

continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two

days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul

suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came

crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs.

Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it

seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on

purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven

shillings in the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas

to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four

weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the

Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them

along with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I

cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton,

and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him."

Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most

unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of

sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a

blow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but

Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be

mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced

to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her

daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with

which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally

treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any

suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have

been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join

with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not

rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of

spreading misery farther in the family. He thus continued:--

"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not

surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been

received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent

by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by

a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper

submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to

her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness

of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to

be on good terms with her children."

This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of

Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not

exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.

"A letter of proper submission!" repeated he; "would they have me beg

my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to _her_, and breach of

honour to _me_? I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble

nor penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy; but that would

not interest. I know of no submission that _is_ proper for me to

make."

"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have

offended;--and I should think you might _now_ venture so far as to

profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew

on you your mother's anger."

He agreed that he might.

"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be

convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as

imprudent in _her_ eyes as the first."

He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a

letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him,

as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by

word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing

to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally entreat her good

offices in his favour. "And if they really _do_ interest themselves,"

said Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a

reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not

entirely without merit."

After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days,

the two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately

to Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his

future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what

improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a

couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.

CHAPTER L

After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent

and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always

seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward

was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of

her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of

Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar

annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and

now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not

feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his

present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he

feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him

off as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was

revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs.

Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying

Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in Miss

Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and

enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter

of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was

only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three_;

but when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her

representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she

judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit; and

therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own

dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she

issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next

to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was

now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was

inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest

objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two

hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for

the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had

been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected,

by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling

excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,

they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the

living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with

an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making

considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their

completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments

and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,

as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying

till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton

church early in the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at

the Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of

the Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the

spot;--could choose papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.

Mrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were

chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in

their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her

husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the

world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of

Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their

cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their

relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness

which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the

Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them

honour.

"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as

they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford

House, "_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been

one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I

confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon

brother. His property here, his place, his house,--every thing is in

such respectable and excellent condition! And his woods,--I have not

seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in

Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly

the person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be

advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as

Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may

happen; for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of

anybody else,--and it will always be in your power to set her off to

advantage, and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance;

You understand me."

But though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated

them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never

insulted by her real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the

folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by

them before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the

latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the

principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful

humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the

smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars

to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.

[Illustration: _Everything in such respectable condition_]

The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which

crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging

instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest,

however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing

every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time

and conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and

privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the

view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to

give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but

the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two

interviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that

only, he erred; for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence

would convince her in _time_, another visit, another conversation, was

always wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered

in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another

half hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means

secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of

Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on

which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she

soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it

became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his

brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and

very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What

immediately followed is known. They passed some months in great

happiness at Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances

to cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and from

thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by

the simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was

adopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,

comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty

and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks

longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and

messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for

the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty

notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon

afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and

influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert

or Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having

once intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in

fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, _she_ was in every

thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite

child. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from

Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods;

and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting

between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part,

as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy

themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived

together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have

puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed

to it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement,

however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing

ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a

suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either

leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if

Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every

particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home,

and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed

no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an

exchange.

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well

be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely

useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their

time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well

as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish

of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less

earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It

was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her

daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its

constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled

at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They

each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by

general consent, was to be the reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of

his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,

which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody

else--burst on her--what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to

discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her

conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an

affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no

sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily

to give her hand to another!--and _that_ other, a man who had suffered

no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two

years before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still

sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible

passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,

instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her

only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm

and sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at

nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties,

placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the

patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,

believed he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every

past affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to

animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found

her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and

delight of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves;

and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband,

as it had once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his

punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness

of Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character,

as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had

he behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been

happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought

its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he

long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with

regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from

society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a

broken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. He lived to

exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of

humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses

and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable

degree of domestic felicity.

For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her

loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in

every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of

perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him

in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without

attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and

Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had

reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible

for being supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication

which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the

merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked

as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost

within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement

between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.

THE END