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

mother 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 chuse 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 chusing herself had been spoken

of in Mrs. Ferrars’s flattering language as only a lesser evil than his

chusing 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 tête-à-tête

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 than 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 intreat 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.