Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen

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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 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.

CHAPTER 38

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."

"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."

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