 CHAPTER 38 Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Eleanor 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. Eleanor gloried in his integrity, and Marianne forgave him 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 one alone. Eleanor 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 Eleanor'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 when 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 from 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's, though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Eleanor were of the number, but Mary Ann, 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 Eleanor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings' conversation, she was herself left a quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could buy any chance whether grave or gay be interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise accosted by Miss Steel, 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 theirs. Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Eleanor, Get it all out of her, my dear! She will tell you anything if you ask. You see, I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke. It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings' curiosity, and Eleanor's too, that she would tell anything without being asked, for nothing would otherwise have been learned. I am so glad to meet you," said Miss Steel, 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 anything else for me again, so long as she lived. But now she has quite come, too, 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 I not 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 Eleanor 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 choose about Mr. Ferris 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 anything of the kind hinted at before I assure you," said Eleanor. 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. Ferris to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy's steel 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. Ferris 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 all up 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 ridden to the country, somewhere or other, and how he had stayed about it and in, 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 anything 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 dropped a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton or anything like that. 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 would 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 coming 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 upstairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and come off with the Richardson's. I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them, said Eleanor. 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 anybody else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that." Laughing effectively. No, no. They were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door. How, cried Eleanor, have you been repeating to me what you only learned 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's sharp 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. Eleanor tried to talk of something else, but Miss Steel 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 number Palmal, what an ill-natured woman his mother is, ain'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 husse-wife she 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 we 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 to 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 Eleanor, 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 Richardson's. 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 about. Goodbye. I am sorry Miss Mary Ann 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 Eleanor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learned 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. Everything 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 Eleanor 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! Aye, we all know how that will end. They will wait a twelve-month, 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 them 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 the 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 Eleanor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself. And 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 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 prudent's sake, and would have parted forever 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, I 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, to 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, etc. As soon as Eleanor 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! I, 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 showing it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit. CHAPTER XXXVIII The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country, and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Eleanor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less spent on its being affected immediately as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Eleanor altogether much more eligible than any other. The Parmas were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays, and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would not in itself have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood, but it was enforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Parma himself, as joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them, since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure. When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious. "'Cleveland,' she replied with great agitation, "'No, I cannot go to Cleveland!' "'You forget,' said Eleanor gently, that its situation is not—that it is not in the neighborhood of—'But it is in Somersetshire! I cannot go into Somersetshire. There were I looked forward to going. No, Eleanor! You cannot expect me to go there!' Eleanor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings. She only endeavored to counteract them by working on others. Represented it therefore as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother whom she so much wished to see in a more eligible, more comfortable manner than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey, and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down, and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty over the imaginary evil she had started. Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Eleanor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design, and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, everything relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be, and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton. Ah, Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss Dashwoods, was Mrs. Jennings addressed to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled. For they are quite resolved upon going home from the Palmer's, and how forlorn we shall be when I come back. Lord, we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats. Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it, and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained. For on Eleanor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the Lady II could not escape her observation, for though she was too honourable to listen, and had even changed her seat on purpose that she might not hear, to one close by the piano forte on which Mary Anne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that Eleanor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment. Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Mary Anne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She wandered indeed at his thinking it necessary to do so, but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Eleanor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think that any material objection. And Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart, for being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Mary Anne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm voice. I am afraid it cannot take place very soon. Astonished and shocked at so unloverlike a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, Lord, what should hinder it? But checking her desire confined herself to this silent ejaculation. This is very strange, sure he need not wait to be older. This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard Eleanor say, and with a voice which showed her to feel what she said, I shall always think myself very much obliged to you. Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence the Colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang froin, and go away without making her any reply. She had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor. What had really passed between them was to this effect. I have heard, said he with great compassion, of the injustice your friend Mr. Ferris has suffered from his family, for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for preserving in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I been rightly informed, is it so? Eleanor told him that it was. The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty, he replied with great feeling, of dividing or attempting to divide two young people long attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Ferris does not know what she may be doing, what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferris two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance? But that, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstances as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt. I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one. The late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than two hundred pounds per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it will be very great. Pray assure him of it. Ellen's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry, and she, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it. Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause. But whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve, and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at that same time she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from her, she would have been very glad to be spared herself. But Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make further opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in London, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steel. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and then it was that he mentioned with regret that the house was small and indifferent, an evil which Eleanor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size. The smallness of the house, said she, I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income. By which the Colonel was surprised to find that she was considering Mr. Ferris' marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation. For he did not suppose it possible that delivered living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on. And he said so. This little rectory can do no more than make Mr. Ferris comfortable as a bachelor. It cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this, and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him father, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then, as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing, indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principle, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good. At least, I am afraid, it cannot take place very soon. Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings. But after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Eleanor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded, than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage. CHAPTER 40 Well, Miss Dashwood, said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you, for though upon my honour I tried to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business, and I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart. Thank you, ma'am, said Eleanor. It is a matter of great joy to me, and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart. I never was more astonished in my life. Lord, my dear, you are very modest. I am not the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late there was nothing more likely to happen. You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence, but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur. Opportunity! repeated Mrs. Jennings. Who has to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity? Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again, and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them. You mean to go to Delaford after them, I suppose? said Eleanor with a faint smile. I, my dear, that I do indeed, and as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw. He spoke of its being out of repair. Well, and whose fault is that? Why don't he repair it? Who should do it but himself? They were interrupted by the servants coming in to announce the carriage being at the door, and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said, Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out, but, however, we may have it all over in the evening, for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company, and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it. Marianne had left the room before the conversation began. Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it, but I shall not mention it at present to anybody else. Oh, very well! said Mrs. Jennings, rather disappointed. Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day. No, ma'am, not even Lucy, if you please. One day's delay will not be very material, and till I have written to Mr. Ferris, I think it ought not to be mentioned to anybody else. I shall do that directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will, of course, have much to do relative to his ordination. This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why, Mr. Ferris, was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments of reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed, Oh! I understand you, Mr. Ferris is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. I, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness, and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? Sure, he is the proper person. Eleanor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings' speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into, and therefore only replied to its conclusion. Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferris than himself. And so you are forced to do it? Well, that is an odd kind of delicacy. However, I will not disturb you, seeing her preparing to write. You know your own concerns best. So good-bye, my dear. I have not heard of anything to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed. And away she went. But returning again in a moment, I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure. Certainly, ma'am," replied Eleanor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone than to be mistress of the subject. How she should begin, how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world. But she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself. He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card, and she, after apologizing for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business. Eleanor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it, which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed, and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room he could not recollect, but determining to be on the safe side he made his apology in form as soon as he could say anything, after taking a chair. Mrs. Jennings told me, said he, that you wish to speak with me. At least I understood her so, or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner, though at the same time I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister, especially as it will most likely be some time. It is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow. You would not have gone, however, said Eleanor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with the most agreeable office, breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke. Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say that, understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford, now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living, it is about two hundred a year, were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to, as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself, such in short, as might establish all your views of happiness. What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him. He looked all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting, but he said only these two words. Colonel Brandon. Yes! continued Eleanor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over. Colonel Brandon means it is a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed, for the cruel situation in which the undustifiable conduct of your family has placed you, a concern which I am sure Mary Ann, myself and all your friends must share, and likewise, as a proof of his high esteem for your general character and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion. Colonel Brandon, give me a living? Can it be possible? The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship anywhere. No, replied he, with sudden consciousness, not to find it in you, for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. I feel it. I would express it if I could, but, as you well know, I am no orator. You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least mostly entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant, nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps, indeed I know he has, still greater pleasure in bestowing it, but upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation. Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward that she acknowledged it with hesitation, which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Eleanor had ceased to speak. At last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman. Indeed, replied Eleanor, I believe that you will find him on father acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbors, for I understand the Parsonage is almost close to the mansion house, it is particularly important that he should be all this. Edward made no answer, but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so un-cheerful, as seemed to say that he might hereafter wish the distance between the Parsonage and the mansion house much greater. Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street, said he soon afterwards, rising from his chair. Eleanor told him the number of the house. I must hurry away, then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give you, to assure him that he has made me a very un-exceedingly happy man. Eleanor did not offer to detain him, and they parted with a very earnest assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him, on his, with rather an attempt to return the same good will than the power of expressing it. When I see him again, said Eleanor to herself, as the door shut him out, I shall see him the husband of Lucy. And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words, and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward, and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent. When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom, therefore, she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Eleanor appeared. Well, my dear, she cried, I sent you up to the young man, did not I do right, and I suppose you had no great difficulty, you did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal? No, ma'am, that was not very unlikely. Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it all seems to depend upon that. Really, said Eleanor, I know so little of these kind of forms that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary, but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination. Two or three months, cried Mrs. Jennings, Lord my dear, how calmly you talk of it! And can the curdle wait two or three months? Lord bless me, I am sure it would put me quite out of patience, and though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferris, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well, somebody that is in orders already. My dear ma'am, said Eleanor, what can you be thinking of? Why, Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferris. Lord bless you, my dear, sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferris? The deception could not continue after this, and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. Aye, aye, the passing-edge is but a small one, said she, after the first abolition of surprise and satisfaction was over, and very likely may be out of repair. But to hear a man apologizing as I thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting-rooms on the ground floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds, and to you too, that had been used to live at Barton Cottage, it seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Colonel to do something to the passing-edge and make it comfortable for them before Lucy goes to it. But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the livings being enough to allow them to marry. The Colonel is a ninny, my dear, because he has two thousand a year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that if I am alive I shall be paying a visit at Delofford Passage before Mikkelmas, and I am sure I shan't go if Lucy aren't there. Eleanor was quite of her opinion as to the probability of their not waiting for anything more. CHAPTER 41 Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy, and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett's buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, and she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life. Her own happiness and her own spirits were at least very sudden, and she joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delofford Passage before Mikkelmas. So far was she at the same time from any backwardness to give Eleanor that credit which Edward would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing anything in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns, anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost, and scarcely resolved to avail herself at Delofford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry. It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Barkley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition beyond one verbal inquiry, Eleanor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed to her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Mary Ann, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sisters going at all. And Mrs. Jennings, though her carriage was always at Eleanor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was that Eleanor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tet-a-tet with a woman whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike. Mrs. Dashwood was denied. But before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Eleanor, told her that he had been just going to call in Barkley Street, and assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in. They walked upstairs into the drawing-room. Nobody was there. "'Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,' said he. "'I will go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing you. Very far from it, indeed. Now, especially, there cannot be—' But, however, you and Mary Ann were always great favourites. Why would not Mary Ann come?' Eleanor made what excuses she could for her. "'I am not sorry to see you alone,' he replied, for I have a good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Branden's, can it be true? Has he really given it to Edward? I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to inquire father about it. It is perfectly true. Colonel Branden has given the living of Delofford to Edward. Really? Well, this is very astonishing. No relationship, no connection between them, and now that livings fetch such a price, what was the value of this?' "'About two hundred a year.' "'Very well. And for the presentation to a living of that value, supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly and likely to vacate it soon, he might have got, I dare say, fourteen hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death? Now, indeed, it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Branden's sense. I wonder who should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural concern?' "'Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose, however, on recollection, that the case may probably be this. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation is old enough to take it. Ah, that is the fact, depend upon it.'" Eleanor contradicted it, however, very positively, and by relating that she herself had been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Branden to Edward, and therefore must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority. It is truly astonishing. He cried after hearing what she said. What could be the Colonel's motive? A very simple one, to be of use to Mr. Ferris. "'Well, well, whatever Colonel Branden may be, Edward is a very lucky man. You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well, she will not like to hear it much talked of.'" Eleanor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished. "'Mrs. Ferris,' added he, lowering his voice, to the tone becoming so important a subject, knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all. But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Ferris can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon, for that must be quite out of the question, yet why upon her late behavior is she supposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she cast him off forever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence cast him off likewise. Surely after doing so she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account. She cannot be interested in anything that befalls him. She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent." "'Ah, Eleanor,' said John, your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel it as much as if she had never discarded him, and therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferris can never forget that Edward is her son. You surprise me. I should think it must have nearly escaped her memory by this time. You wrong her exceedingly, Mrs. Ferris is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world." Eleanor was silent. "'We think now,' said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, of Robert's marrying Miss Morton. Eleanor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied, "'The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair. Choice? How do you mean?' "'I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Morton, whether she marry Edward or Robert. Certainly there can be no difference, for Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the oldest son, and as to anything else, they are both very agreeable young men. I do not know that one is superior to the other.'" Eleanor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. His reflections ended thus. "'Of one thing, my dear sister, kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper, I may assure you, and I will do it because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think. Indeed, I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say anything about it. But I have it from the very best authority, not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferris say it herself, but her daughter did, and I have it from her, that in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain—a certain connection, you understand me—it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given a half the vexation that this does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferris considered it in that light, a very gratifying circumstance, you know, to us all. It would have been beyond comparison, she said, the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound now for nothing worse. But, however, all that is quite out of the question, not to be thought of or mentioned, as to any attachment, you know, it never could be. All that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Eleanor, there is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well, quite as well or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately? Eleanor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind, and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing anything more from her brother by the entrance of Mr. Robert Ferris. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her, and Eleanor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner, while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality to the prejudice of his banished brother, and only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavorable opinion of his head and heart. They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves before he began to speak of Edward, for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Eleanor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John, and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on him. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure, and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplus, and publishing the bands of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous. Eleanor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility. We may treat it as a joke, said he at last, recovering from the affected laugh, which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment. But upon my soul, it is the most serious business. Poor Edward! He is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it, for I know him to be a very good- hearted creature, as well-meaning a fellow, perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge him, Miss Statward, from your slight acquaintance. Poor Edward! His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature, but we are not all born, you know, with the same powers, the same address. Poor fellow! To see him in a circle of strangers, to be sure it was pitiable enough, but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom. And I declare and protest to you, I never was so shocked in my life as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told me of it, and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say that if Edward does marry this young woman, I will never see him again. That was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed. Poor Edward! He has done for himself completely, shot himself out for ever from old decent society. But as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it. From his style of education it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic. Have you ever seen the lady? Yes, once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes, and I saw quite enough of her—the merest awkward country girl without style or elegance, and almost without beauty. I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose lightly to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself and dissuade him from the match. But it was too late then I found to do anything. For unluckily, I was not in the way at first. I knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier, I think it is most probable that something might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. My dear fellow, I should have said, consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving. I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know. That is certain, absolutely starved. He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though she never spoke of it out of her own family, Eleanor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Eleanor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them, an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accent, seemed to distinguish everything that was most affectionate and graceful. CHAPTER 42 One other short call in Harley Street, in which Eleanor received her brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town. And a faint invitation from Fanny to come to Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public assurance from John to Eleanor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country. It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to Delaford, a place in which of all others she would now least choose to visit, or wish to reside, for not only was it considered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there. Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from Hanover Square and Barkley Street set out from their respective homes to meet by appointment on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join the McLeaveland soon after their arrival. Mary Ann, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as she had long been to quitted, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes and that confidence in Willoughby which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain. Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained busy in new engagements and new schemes in which she could have no share without shedding many tears. Eleanor's satisfaction at the moment of removal was more positive. She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on. She left no creature behind, from whom it would give for a moment's regret to be divided forever. She was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's friendship. She was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might do towards restoring Mary Ann's peace of mind and confirming her own. Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Mary Ann's imagination, and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to Cleveland. Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house situated on a sloping lawn. It had no park, but the pleasure grounds were tolerably extensive, and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery and closer woodwalk. A road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation led to the end, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fur, the mountain ash and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall, lombardy poplars, shut out the offices. Mary Ann entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from Coom Magna, and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence, where from its Grecian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the southeast, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits Coom Magna might be seen. In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland, and as she returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained with the Parmas in the indulgence of such solitary rambles. She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises, and the rest of the morning was easily wild away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights. Indaudling through the greenhouse, where the loss of her favorite plants, unwarily exposed and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte, and in visiting her poultry-yard, wherein the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment. The morning was fine and dry, and Mary Anne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at Cleveland. With great surprise, therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp, would not have deterred her from it, but a heavy and settled rain, even she could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking. Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet work. They talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading that night. Eleanor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse, and Mary Anne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book. Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her manner, more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness. Her kindness, recommended by so prettier face, was engaging. Her folly, though evident, was not disgusting, because it was not conceited, and Eleanor could have forgiven everything but her laugh. The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low. Eleanor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother. She found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits they were marked, as far as Eleanor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours, fond of his child, though affecting to slighted, and idled away the mornings at billiards which ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him, however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she could like him no more, not sorry to be driven by the observation of his epicurism, his selfishness and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings. Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into dorseture lately, and who treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferris, and the kind of confidant of himself, talked to her a great deal of the pasternage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well justify Mrs. Jennings' persuasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Eleanor still, as from the first, believed Mary Ann his real favourite, to make her suspected herself. But as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs. Jennings' suggestion, and she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two. She watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour, and while his looks of anxious solicitude, on Mary Ann's feeling in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words entirely escaped the latter lady's observation, she could discover in them the quick feelings and needless alarm of a lover. Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest and the grass was the longest and wettest, had assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings, given Mary Ann a cold so violent, as though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of everybody, and the notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and feverish with a pain in her limbs, and a cough and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely, and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies. CHAPTER 43 Mary Ann got up the next morning at her usual time. To every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomed re-employments. But a day spent in shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying weary and languid on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment. And when at last she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, who though attending and nursing her the whole day, against Mary Ann's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like Mary Ann, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm. A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both. And when Mary Ann, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings' advice of sending for the Palmer's apothecary. He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word infection to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think Mary Ann's complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's fears and caution urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant. And Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure therefore was fixed on, and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near-relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath, with her husband promised at her earnest entreaty to join her in a day or two, and with her she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with the kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as Mary Ann remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from. And Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often, by her better experience in nursing, of material use. Elinor Mary Ann, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that to-morrow would find her recovered, and the idea of what to-morrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe. For on that day they were to have begun their journey home, and attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay, though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she then really believed herself, that it would be a very short one. The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient. She certainly was not better, and except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now father reduced. For Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his promise of following her, and while he was preparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise. Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most acceptably, for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort, and therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play P.K. of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, etc., she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even effect to demur. Especially as Mrs. Jennings and Treaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence. Mary Ann was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer, and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name. Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her situation continued with little variation the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine. But the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that Mary Ann would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was cheerfully of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings for boldings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd, but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone were about too favorable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Mary Ann no more. On the morning of the third day, however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away, for when Mr. Harris arrived he declared his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favorable than on the preceding visit. Eleanor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness, rejoicing that in her letters to her mother she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friends in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland, and almost fixing on the time when Mary Ann would be able to travel. But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the evening Mary Ann became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed-made, and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Eleanor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time, and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed. Her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and Eleanor remained alone with Mary Ann. The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed, and her sister, who watched with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Mary Ann, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and with feverish wildness cried out, Is mama coming? Not yet, cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Mary Ann to lie down again, but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton. But she must not go round by London, cried Mary Ann in the same hurried manner, I shall never see her if she goes by London. Eleanor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever. And Mary Ann still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly as to determine her on-sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and dispatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of affecting the latter was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance, and as soon as she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present. It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. Her fears he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of. He listened to them in silent despondence, but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service prearranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Eleanor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother. The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon, or such a companion for her mother—how gratefully was it felt—a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her. As far as the shock of such a summons could be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it. He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which he might look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Mary Ann's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Eleanor's before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security, and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more by hints of what her mistress had always thought. Mary Ann's ideas were still at intervals fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Eleanor, who reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that everything had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother, arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational. She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if he could not come, for some other advice, when the former, but not till after five o'clock, arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay. For though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with the confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Eleanor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them. With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event, and though trying to speak comfort to Eleanor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Mary Ann, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings' compassion, she had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured and long unhappy. The distress of her sister, too, particularly a favourite, was before her, and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Mary Ann might probably be to her what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was very sincere. Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit, but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had failed, the fever was unabated, and Mary Ann only more quiet, not more herself, remained in a heavy stupor. Eleanor catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice, but he judged it unnecessary. He had still something more to try, some more fresh application of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother, but she was almost hopeless, and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirit suppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Mary Ann's disappointment had brought on. Eleanor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections. About noon, however, she began, but with a caution, a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend, to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse. She watched, waited, and examined it again and again, and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced on examination to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance, and Eleanor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered, and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch she hardly knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips all flattered Eleanor with signs of amendment, and Mary Ann fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock, when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in his sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy. Mary Ann was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their later alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery. Eleanor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to anything rather than to gaiety. Mary Ann restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude. But it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Eleanor's breast was satisfaction, silent, and strong. She continued by the side of her sister with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every sucker, and watching almost every look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course in some moments occur to reminder of what anxiety was, but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Mary Ann at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable sleep, she silenced every doubt. The time was now drawing on when Colonel Brandon might be expected back. At ten o'clock she trusted, or at least not much later, her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too, perhaps scarcely less an object of pity. Oh, how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance! At seven o'clock, leaving Mary Ann still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs. Jennings in a drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse from eating much, and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her at its conclusion to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow her to take her place by Mary Ann, but Eleanor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attended her upstairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep. The night was cold and stormy, the wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows, but Eleanor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Mary Ann slept through every blast, and the travellers, they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience. The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Eleanor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house, and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet, and opened a window-shutter to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses, and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity. Never in her life had Eleanor found it so difficult to be calm as at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopped at the door, of her doubt, her dread, perhaps her despair, and of what she had to tell, with such knowledge it was impossible to become. All that remained to be done was to be speedy, and therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings made with her sister, she hurried downstairs. The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room. She entered it, and saw only Willoughby. CHAPTER 44 Eleanor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication, Mr. Ashwood, for half an hour, for ten minutes, I entreat you to stay. No, sir, she replied with firmness, I shall not stay, your business cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house. Had they told me, he cried with vehemence, that Mr. Palmer and all his relations were at that devil, it would not have turned me from the door, my business is with you, and only you. With me? in the utmost amazement. Well, sir, be quick, and if you can, less violent. Sit down, and I will be both. She hesitated. She knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding her there came across her, but she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honour was engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, including that Prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute, not a word was said by either. Pray be quick, sir, said Eleanor impatiently, I have no time to spare. He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her. Your sister, said he with abruptness a moment afterwards, is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised. But is it true? Is it really true? Eleanor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. For God's sake, tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not? We hope she is. He rose up and walked across the room. Had I known as much half an hour ago? But since I am here, speaking with a force of my vassity as he returned to his seat, what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood, it will be the last time, perhaps. Let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly. A deeper glow overspreading his cheeks. Do you think me most a nave or a fool? Eleanor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor, the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible, and with this impression she immediately rose, saying, Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Coombe. I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better recollected and explained to Morrow." I understand you, he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm. Yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to overset me. At Marlborough? cried Eleanor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at. Yes, I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough. The steadiness of his manner and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Eleanor that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said after a moment's recollection, Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do, that after what is past, your coming here in this manner and forcing yourself upon my notice requires a very particular excuse. What is it that you mean by it? I mean, said he, with serious energy, if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology for the past, to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from—from your sister. Is this the real reason of your coming? Upon my soul it is, was his answer, with a warmth that brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself, made her think him sincere. If that is all you may be satisfied already, for Mary Ann does, she has long forgiven you. Has she, he cried, in the same eager tone, then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. Now will you listen to me?" Eleanor bowed her assent. "'I do not know,' said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own. How you may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me. It is worth the trial, however, and you shall hear everything." "'When I first became intimate with your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance, than to pass my time pleasantly, while I was obliged to remain in Devontre, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me, and her behaviour to me almost from the first was of a kind—it is astonishing when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible. But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured by every means in my power to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection." Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him by saying, "'It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by anything. Do not let me be pained by hearing any more on the subject.' "'I insist on you hearing the whole of it,' he replied. My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts. And though the death of my old cousin Mrs. Smith was to set me free, yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of. And with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty, which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much, I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me. Even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? Well, it may be doubted, for had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? Or what is more, could I have sacrificed hers? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost everything that could make it a blessing. You did then, said Elinor, a little softened, believe yourself at one time attached to her. To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness, is there a man on earth who could have done it? Yes, I found myself by insensible degrees sincerely fond of her, and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honorable, and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off from day to day the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here, nor will I stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched forever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pain to display. But in the interim—in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private—a circumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort—a discovery took place. Here he hesitated and looked down. Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed. I imagined by some distant relation whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair—a relation—but I need not explain myself farther, he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an inquiring eye. Your particular intimacy—you have probably heard the whole story long ago. I have, returned Eleanor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him. I have heard it all. And how will you explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business I confess is beyond my comprehension? Remember, cried Willoughby, from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge, that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding, I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self- reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish—I heartily wish—it had never been, but I have injured more than herself, and I have injured one whose affection for me—may I say it—was scarcely less warm than hers, and whose mind—oh, how infinitely superior! Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl, I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be. Your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremist indigence. But upon my soul I did not know it, he warmly replied. I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction, and common sense might have told her how to find it out. Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith? She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world, everything was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was, moreover, discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman, she offered to forgive the past if I would marry Eliza. That could not be, and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this affair, I was to go the next morning, was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great, but it ended too soon. My affection for Mary Ann, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me, it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches that I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A heavy scene, however, awaited me before I could leave Devonshire. I was engaged to dine with you on that very day. Some apology was therefore necessary for breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To see Mary Ann, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared, for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable, and left her hoping never to see her again. Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby? said Eleanor reproachfully. A note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call? It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighborhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself, and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, on my way to Hunniton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful, and to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not know where. I had left her only the evening before so fully, so firmly resolved within myself on doing right. A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever, and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with everybody. But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret when I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately, I shall never forget it, united, too, with such reliance, such confidence in me. Oh, God, what a hard-hearted rascal I was! They were both silent for a few moments. Eleanor first spoke. Did you tell her that you should soon return? I do not know what I told her, he replied impatiently. Less than was due to the past be under doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. It won't do. Then came your dear mother to torture me father, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank heaven it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exaltation to me now. Well, I went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom at best I was only indifferent. My journey to town, travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously, no creature to speak to, my own reflection so cheerful, when I looked forward everything so inviting, when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing. Oh, it was a blessed journey. He stopped. Well, sir, said Eleanor, who though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure. And is this all? Ah, no. Have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter. Did she show it to you? Yes, I saw every note that passed. When the first of hers reached me, as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time, what I felt is, in the common phrase, not to be expressed, in a more simple one, perhaps too simple to raise any emotion. My feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word was, in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, where she here, would forbid, a dagger to my heart. To know that Mary Ann was in town, in the same language, a thunderbolt—thunderbolts and daggers—what a reproof she would have given me. Her taste, her opinions—I believe they are better known to me than my own, and I am sure they are dearer. Eleanor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again. Yet she felt at her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last. This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear. Mary Ann's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened because time and London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine, hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me. Talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married. But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But everything was then just settled between Miss Gray and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Mary Ann, intending by that to preserve myself from her father's notice. And for some time I was even determined not to call in Barkley Street. But at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name. Watched us out of the house? Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you. And nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing to trust myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne, still affectionate, open, artless, confiding, everything that could make my conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried, but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman. Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me, and what a sweet figure I cut! What an evening of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone. Oh God, holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face. And Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was—well, it does not signify. It is over now. Such an evening. I ran away from you all as soon as I could, but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death. That was the last, last look I ever had of her—the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight. Yet when I thought of her today as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me as I travelled, in the same look and hue. A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself broke it thus. Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger. We are assured of it. Your poor mother too, doting on Marianne. But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter, have you anything to say about that? Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellison's, and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine, and its size, the elegance of the paper, the handwriting altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening, had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness therefore which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion, her malice—at all events it must be appeased. And, in short, what do you think of my wife's style of letter writing? Delicate, tender, truly feminine, was it not? Your wife? The letter was in your own handwriting. Yes, but I had only the credit of surveyly copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own—her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged, everything in preparation, the day almost fixed. But I am talking like a fool. Preparation, day. In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, anything was to be done to prevent a rupture. And, after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends in what language my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. I am ruined forever in their opinion, said I to myself. I am shut out forever from their society. They already think me an unprincipled fellow. This letter will only make them think me a blaggard one. Such were my reasonings, as in a sort of desperate carelessness I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes—unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever—I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair—that, too, I had always carried about with me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by a madam with the most ingratiating virulence. The dear lock, all, every memento was torn from me. You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby. Very blamable, said Eleanor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion. You ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly, is no atonement to Marianne. Nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience. Do not talk to me of my wife, said he with a heavy sigh. She does not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Coombe Magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I—be at only one degree—am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt? Yes. You have certainly removed something—a little. You have proved yourself on the whole less faulty than I believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked—much less wicked. But I hardly know—the misery that you have inflicted—I hardly know what could have made it worse. Will you repeat to your sister when she has recovered what I have been telling you? Let me be a little lightened, too, in her opinion, as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart and of my present feelings will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence. Tell her that my heart was never in constant to her. And, if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever. I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness. Last night in Drury Lane Lobby I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months he spoke to me, that he had cut me ever since my marriage I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think it would, vex me horribly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Mary Ann Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland. A letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent, the Parmas are all gone off in a fright, et cetera. I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible, even to the undersernings of John. His heart was softened at seeing mine suffer, and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand, while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying too believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments, for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? One person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything. What I felt was dreadful, my resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all. Eleanor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury had made in the mind, the character, the happiness of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain. Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now when no longer allowable, governed every thought, and the connection, for the sake of which he had with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said, There is no use in staying here. I must be off. Are you going back to town? No, to Coombe Magna. I have business there, from thence to town in a day or two. Goodbye. He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers. He pressed it with affection. And do you think something better of me than you did? Said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantle piece as if forgetting he was to go. Eleanor assured him that she did, that she forgave, pitied, wished him well, was even interested in his happiness, and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. As to that, said he, I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means, it may put me on my guard, at least it may be something to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me forever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again, Eleanor stopped him with a reproof. Well, he replied, once more goodbye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event. What do you mean? Your sister's marriage. You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now. But she will be gained by someone else. And if that someone should be the very he whom of all others I could least bear. But I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Goodbye. God bless you. And with these words he almost ran out of the room.