Chương Chương 38 · Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward’s conduct, but only

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

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

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

consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain

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

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

punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public

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

either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon

principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too

warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward’s

continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and

Marianne’s courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic

which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the

comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor’s conduct and her

own.

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

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

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

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

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

still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only

dispirited her more.

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

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

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

enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after

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

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

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

within that time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and

on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs.

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

Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,

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

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

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

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

otherwise have been learnt.

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

the arm—“for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.” And then

lowering her voice, “I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is

she angry?”

“Not at all, I believe, with you.”

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

“I cannot suppose it possible that she should be.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

have known he _did_ like it better than any other colour, if he had not

happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare

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

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

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

the first.

“Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly, “people may say what

they chuse about Mr. Ferrars’s declaring he would not have Lucy, for it

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

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

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

it down for certain.”

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

said Elinor.

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

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

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

thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing

at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my

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

afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us

for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in

my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your

brother’s Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday,

Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once

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

However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then

it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street,

and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had

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

Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that

as soon as he had went away from his mother’s house, he had got upon

his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he

had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get

the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he

said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at

all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because

it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds,

and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he

had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they

to live upon that?—He could not bear to think of her doing no better,

and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to

the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say

all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_

sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and

not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of

being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing

like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of

talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and

love, you know, and all that—Oh, la! one can’t repeat such kind of

things you know)—she told him directly, she had not the least mind in

the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how

little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all,

you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and

talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he

should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he

got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin

called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and

would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into

the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but

she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a

pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.”

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

“you were all in the same room together, were not you?”

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

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

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

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

door.”

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

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

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

particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known

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

“Oh, la! there is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

shan’t say anything against them to _you;_ and to be sure they did send

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

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

the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing

was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward

have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a

time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will

be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good gracious! (giggling

as she spoke) I’d lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when

they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get

Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I

would not do such a thing for all the world. ‘La!’ I shall say

directly, ‘I wonder how you could think of such a thing? _I_ write to

the Doctor, indeed!’”

“Well,” said Elinor, “it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.

You have got your answer ready.”

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

her own party made another more necessary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

spotted muslin on!—I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.”

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

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

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

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

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

foreplanned in her own mind. Edward’s marriage with Lucy was as firmly

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

uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;—every thing depended,

exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of

which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

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

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

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

confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as

she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would

choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the

means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her

communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following

natural remark.

“Wait for his having a living!—ay, we all know how _that_ will

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

works. Betty’s sister would never do for them _now_.”

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

Lucy herself. It was as follows:

“Bartlett’s Building, March.

“I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing

to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear

such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the

troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more

apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered

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

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

persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge

many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I

shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told

of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.

Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he

would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my

duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted

for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should

never be, he did not regard his mother’s anger, while he could have my

affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must

wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it

ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to

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

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

Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much

to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say

nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won’t think it too much trouble to give us

a call, should she come this way any morning, ’twould be a great

kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.—My paper reminds

me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully

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

children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,

“I am, &c.”

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

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

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

praise.

“Very well indeed!—how prettily she writes!—aye, that was quite proper

to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul! I

wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dear

Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Very

well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I

will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of

every body!—Thank you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as pretty a

letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy’s head and heart great credit.”