第 三十七 章 · Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt

. Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt

it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,

contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from

that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the

Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.

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

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

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

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

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

began directly to justify it, by saying,

“Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?”

“No, ma’am. What is it?”

“Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.

Palmer’s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was

sure it was very ill—it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.

So I looked at it directly, and, ‘Lord! my dear,’ says I, ‘it is

nothing in the world, but the red gum;’ and nurse said just the same.

But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for;

and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he

stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

do very well.’”

“What! is Fanny ill?”

“That is exactly what I said, my dear. ‘Lord!’ says I, ‘is Mrs.

Dashwood ill?’ So then it all came out; and the long and the short of

the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,

the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it

turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;’ and

so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her

carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come—for she had just been

saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to

make a match between Edward and some Lord’s daughter or other, I forget

who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.

She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as

reached your brother’s ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room

down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the

country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for

Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.

Poor soul! I pity _her_. And I must say, I think she was used very

hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into

a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and

your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what

to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in

the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon _his_ knees too,

to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes.

_Then_ she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he

would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this

uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins

away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such

a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost

as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope,

with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a

taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love

used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well

he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest

passion!—and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great

deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back

again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is

told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the

house, for your sister was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so

she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no

notion of people’s making such a to-do about money and greatness. There

is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I

am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though

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

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

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

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

live in such another cottage as yours—or a little bigger—with two

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

my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly.”

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

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

observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.

Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest

in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the

case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy

above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able

to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment,

as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one

concerned in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really

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

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

Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a

doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to

know how Edward would conduct himself. For _him_ she felt much

compassion;—for Lucy very little—and it cost her some pains to procure

that little;—for the rest of the party none at all.

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

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

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

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

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

resentment against Edward.

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

really believed to be her sister’s chief consolation,—to give such

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

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

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

over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to

be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

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

represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

of imprudence, was readily offered.

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

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

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

Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely

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

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

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

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

could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.

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

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

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

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

distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first

question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,—

“How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?”

“I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park

last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.”

At these words, Marianne’s eyes expressed the astonishment which her

lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed—

“Four months!—Have you known of this four months?”

Elinor confirmed it.

“What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your

heart? And I have reproached you for being happy!”

“It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!”

“Four months!” cried Marianne again. “So calm! so cheerful! How have

you been supported?”

“By feeling that I was doing my duty.—My promise to Lucy, obliged me to

be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the

truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a

solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy.”

Marianne seemed much struck.

“I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,” added

Elinor; “and once or twice I have attempted it;—but without betraying

my trust, I never could have convinced you.”

“Four months! and yet you loved him!”

“Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was

dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now,

I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you

suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially

myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having

provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne

it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of

essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his

always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in

the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the

foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after all,

Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and

constant attachment, and all that can be said of one’s happiness

depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant—it is not

fit—it is not possible that it should be so. Edward will marry Lucy; he

will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her

sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought

another superior to _her_.”

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

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

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

wondered at.—They are brought more within my comprehension.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

triumph. This person’s suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by

endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply

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

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

divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that

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

unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had

to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of

his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without

enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,

when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you

can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that I

have suffered _now_. The composure of mind with which I have brought

myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have

been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful

exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to

relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been

bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even

what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly showing that I was _very_

unhappy.”

Marianne was quite subdued.

“Oh! Elinor,” she cried, “you have made me hate myself for ever.—How

barbarous have I been to you!—you, who have been my only comfort, who

have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only

suffering for me!—Is this my gratitude?—Is this the only return I can

make you?—Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying

to do it away.”

The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of

mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her

whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged

never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of

bitterness; to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of

dislike to her; and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring

them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality. These

were great concessions; but where Marianne felt that she had injured,

no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.—She

attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an

unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard

three times to say, “Yes, ma’am.”—She listened to her praise of Lucy

with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings

talked of Edward’s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her

throat.—Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel

equal to any thing herself.

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

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

affair, and bring them news of his wife.

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

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

our roof yesterday.”

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

“Your sister,” he continued, “has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars

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

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

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

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

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

equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an

angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one

cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!—meeting with such

ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence

had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that

she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she

thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved

girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished

very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your

kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so

rewarded! ‘I wish, with all my heart,’ says poor Fanny in her

affectionate way, ‘that we had asked your sisters instead of them.’”

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

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

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

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

he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!—such a

suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected _any_

prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter. ‘_There_,

to be sure,’ said she, ‘I might have thought myself safe.’ She was

quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be

done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am

sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make

him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose

by my arguments, and Fanny’s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty,

affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so

stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal

designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle

on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good

thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it

twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in

this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must

attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be

his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from

affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into

any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her

power to prevent him advancing in it.”

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

together, and cried, “Gracious God! can this be possible!”

“Well may you wonder, Marianne,” replied her brother, “at the obstinacy

which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very

natural.”

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

forbore.

“All this, however,” he continued, “was urged in vain. Edward said very

little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing

should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it,

cost him what it might.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

husband.”

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

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

anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,

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

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

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

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

uncle’s care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune

as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In

short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom

you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy;

and Mrs. Ferrars’s conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every

conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has

been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it

will be a bad one.”

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

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

woman who could not reward him.

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

“I am sorry to say, ma’am, in a most unhappy rupture:—Edward is

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

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

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

“Poor young man!—and what is to become of him?”

“What, indeed, ma’am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the

prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more

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

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

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

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

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

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

power to assist him.”

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

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

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

charge now, at lodgings and taverns.”

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

could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

over the business.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Jennings, “that is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a way

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

independent, because another had plagued me.”

Marianne got up and walked about the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present

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

Dashwoods’, and Edward’s.

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

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

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

party.