Sense and Sensibility, by Jane Austen

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Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked
as if she wished to hear more.

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I
could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late."

"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well;
and to my mind she was always a very handsome young
lady--and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question,
and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless,
were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent
to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's
and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
might think herself very well off, that with so much
uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced,
so much reason as they had often had to be careless
of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without
her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged,
and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves,
they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness
and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark,
and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found
that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation
of herself; and justly concluded that every thing
had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her
from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then
had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been
misled by the careful, the considerate attention of
her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she
had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than
she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved
to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had
been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;--
that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,
more immediately before her, had too much engrossed
her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor
she might have a daughter suffering almost as much,
certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.

CHAPTER 48

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation
of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told
to consider it, and certainty itself. She now found, that
in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope,
while Edward remained single, that something would occur
to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of
his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible
opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise
to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married;
and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery,
which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined)
he could be in orders, and consequently before he could
be in possession of the living, surprised her a little
at first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy,
in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him,
should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.
They were married, married in town, and now hastening
down to her uncle's. What had Edward felt on being within
four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother's servant,
on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at
Delaford.--Delaford,--that place in which so much
conspired to give her an interest; which she wished
to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.
She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw
in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once
a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality,
and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;--
pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the
favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend. In Edward--she knew not what she saw,
nor what she wished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing
pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their
connections in London would write to them to announce
the event, and give farther particulars,--but day after
day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings.
Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found
fault with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless
or indolent.

"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?"
was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience
of her mind to have something going on.

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather
expect to see, than to hear from him again. I earnestly
pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised
to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, something to look forward to.
Colonel Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure
of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window.
He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman, it
was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more;
and she trembled in expectation of it. But--it was
NOT Colonel Brandon--neither his air--nor his height.
Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward.
She looked again. He had just dismounted;--she could not be
mistaken,--it WAS Edward. She moved away and sat down.
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I WILL be
calm; I WILL be mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise
aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne
change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper
a few sentences to each other. She would have given
the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand
that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear
in their behaviour to him;--but she had no utterance,
and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited
in silence for the appearance of their visitor.
His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment
he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not
too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion was white
with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his
reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted,
to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant
in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing,
met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand,
and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.
Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the
moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken
hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a
countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again
and talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible
out of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret,
understanding some part, but not the whole of the case,
thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore
took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained
a strict silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness
of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put
an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he
had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner,
he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing
the sound of her own voice, now said,

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise.--
"No, my mother is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from
the table, "to inquire for Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars."

She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both
turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed,
looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,--

"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs.
ROBERT Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"--was repeated by Marianne and her
mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;--and though
Elinor could not speak, even HER eyes were fixed on him
with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat,
and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing
what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there,
and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting
the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard
that my brother is lately married to--to the youngest--to
Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment
by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over
her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly
know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week,
and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran
out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed,
burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would
never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where,
rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw--
or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards
he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries,
no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate,
and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room,
and walked out towards the village--leaving the others
in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change
in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity
which they had no means of lessening but by their
own conjectures.

CHAPTER 49

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 brother 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."

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