VOLUME III

CHAPTER I

rs. 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 reassume 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 shewing 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 shewn, 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 he r 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.

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