CHAPTER II

rs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward’s

conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its

true merit. They only knew how little he had had to

tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation,

beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him

in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity;

and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his

punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this

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

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

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

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

that belief of Edward’s continued affection for herself which she

rather wished to do away; and Marianne’s courage soon failed her,

in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more

dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it

necessarily produced between Elinor’s conduct and her own.

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

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

of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had

never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of

penitence, without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so

much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible,

and therefore it only dispirited her more.

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

affairs in Harley-street, or Bartlett’s Buildings. But though so

much of the matter was known to them already, that Mrs.

Jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that

knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved

from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as

soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors

than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars,

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

Gardens, though it was only the second week in March. Mrs.

Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne, who knew

that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant

dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture

into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon

after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by

her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings’s

conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. She saw

nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time

nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or

gay, be interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some

surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy,

expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving

encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings, left

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

immediately whispered to Elinor,

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

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

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

too, that she would tell any thing without being asked; for nothing

would otherwise have been learnt.

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

familiarly by the arm―“for I wanted to see you of all things in the

world.” And then lowering her voice, “I suppose Mrs. Jennings

has heard all about it. Is she angry?”

“Not at all, I believe, with you.”

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

“I cannot suppose it possible that she should.”

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

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

first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing

else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come

to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this

bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There now, you

are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink

ribbons? I do not care if it is the Doctor’s favourite colour. I am

sure, for my part, I should never have known he did like it better

than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My

cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not

know which way to look before them.”

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had

nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her

way back again to the first.

“Well, but Miss Dashwood,” speaking triumphantly, “people

may say what they 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 to 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-bye; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here.

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

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

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

to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her

company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in

possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection

some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had

been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward’s

marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of

its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had

concluded it would be;―every thing depended, exactly after her

expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present,

there seemed not the smallest chance.

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

eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as

possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly

obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such

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

her own consequence, would choose to have known. The

continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to

be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and

this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark.

“Wait for his having a living!―ay, we all know how that will

end;―they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of

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

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

Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her.―Then they will have a child

every year! and Lord help ’em! how poor they will be!―I must see

what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids

and two men, indeed!―as I talked of t’other day.―No, no, they

must get a stout girl of all works.―Betty’s sister would never do

for them now.”

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

from Lucy herself. It was as follows:

Bartlett’s Building, March.

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

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

pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear

Edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately,

therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that,

thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite

well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another’s

love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but

however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends,

yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall

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

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

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

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

thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and

would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but

he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother’s anger,

while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very

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

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

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

sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she

will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any

friend that may be able to assist us.―Poor Anne was much to

blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing;

hope Mrs. Jennings won’t think it too much trouble to give us a

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

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

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

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

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

and love to Miss Marianne,

I am, &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 shewing it me. It is as pretty a letter as

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

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