 CHAPTER 45 Eleanor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister. Willoughby, he whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated forever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself, to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight, by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate and lively manner which it was no merit to possess, and by that still ardent love for Marianne which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just-awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet asleep to the extent of her hopes. Eleanor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called downstairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it. Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Eleanor. But she, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief, and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend, and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Eleanor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand with a look which spoke at once her gratitude and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire, and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence unhappiness and danger. Eleanor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of father's sleep. But Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could even be prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood would sit up with her all night, and Eleanor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, poor Willoughby, as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts. She would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be, doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another, and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then remembering Colonel Brandon reproved herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rivals the reward of her sister was due, and wished anything rather than Mrs. Willoughby's death. The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm, for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival that the carries were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Eleanor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Eleanor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistake and judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby had contributed to place her, and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Eleanor. It was thus imparted to her as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. But last we are alone. My Eleanor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself. Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention. You are never like me, dear Eleanor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable, and I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two. Eleanor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters or feelings could be given, but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore, instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile. He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child. He could not conceal his distress. I saw that it equaled my own, and he, perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy, or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose, giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Eleanor, ever since the first moment of seeing her. Here, however, Eleanor perceived not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned everything delightful to her as it chose. His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant, whichever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy pre-possession for that worthless young man, and without selfishness, without encouraging a hope. Could he have seen her happy with another, such a noble mind, such openness, such sincerity, no one can be deceived in him? Colonel Brandon's character, said Eleanor, as an excellent man, is well established. I know it is, replied her mother seriously, or after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me, as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men. His character, however, answered Eleanor, does not rest on one act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long and intimately known. They equally love and respect him. And even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable, and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him? Did you allow him to hope? Oh, my love! I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. And might at that moment be dying? But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend, not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I did say, for at first I was quite overcome, that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage. And since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time—a very little time, I tell him—will do everything. Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it. To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine. No! He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free is too diffident of himself to believe that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed, and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me. He certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby, but at the same time there is something much more pleasing in his countenance. There was always a something, if you remember, in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like. Eleanor could not remember it, but her mother, without waiting for her ascent, continued, and his manners—the Colonel's manners—are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly, unstudied simplicity, is much more accordant with her real disposition than the liveliness, often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with him as she will be with Colonel Brandon. She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her descent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. At Delofford she will be within an easy distance of me, added Mrs. Dashwood, even if I remain at Barton, and in all probability, for I hear it is a large village, indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage close by that would suit us quite as well as our present situation. Here was a new scheme forgetting her to Delofford, but her spirit was stubborn. He's fortunate too, for at my time of life you know everybody cares about that, and though I neither know nor desire to know what it really is, I am sure it must be a good one. Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Eleanor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby. End of Chapter 45 CHAPTER 46 Mary Ann's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow, and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove within four days after the arrival of the latter into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her. His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such as, in Eleanor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for Mary Ann, or the consciousness of its being known to others. And she soon discovered in his melancholy eye, and very in complexion, as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between Mary Ann and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgement of peculiar obligation. Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Mary Ann, she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned. At the end of another day or two, Mary Ann growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing Tabarton. On her measures depended those of her two friends. Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwood's stay, and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings' united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child. And the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage in the course of a few weeks. The day of separation and departure arrived, and Mary Ann, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes, as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Eleanor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her shays, to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions. And Colonel Brandon, immediately afterwards, took his solitary way to Delaford. The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Mary Ann bore her journey on both without essential fatigue. Everything that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Eleanor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart, which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which in being the result she trusted, of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness. As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here Eleanor could neither wonder nor blame, and when she saw, as she assisted Mary Ann from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise anything less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion. For no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Mary Ann turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano forte. She went to it, but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favorite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his handwriting. That would not do. She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again, declaring, however, with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much. The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish. When the weather is settled and I have recovered my strength, said she, we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on. We will walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland, and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in writing than six, and from that time till dinner, I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amusement, but there are many works well worth reading at the park, and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month, a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want. Eleanor honored her for a plan which originated so nobly as this, though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile, however, changed to a sigh, when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate, which might again unsettle the mind of Mary Ann, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken. Mary Ann had been two or three days at home before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared, such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence, and Mary Ann, leaning on Eleanor's arm, was authorized to walk as long as she could without fatigue in the lane before the house. The sister set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Mary Ann, in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required, and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind. When pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Mary Ann calmly said, There, exactly there, pointing with one hand, on that projecting mound, there I fell, and there I first saw Willoughby. Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added, I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot. Shall we ever talk on that subject, Eleanor? Hesitatingly it was said, or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do. Eleanor tenderly invited her to be open. As for regret, said Mary Ann, I have done with that as far as he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not always acting apart, not always deceiving me, but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl, she stopped. Eleanor joyfully treasured her words, as she answered, if you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy. Yes, my peace of mind is doubly involved in it, for not only is it horrible to suspect a person who has been what he has been to me, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection, could expose me to—how, then, asked her sister, would you account for his behaviour? I would suppose him—oh, how gladly would I suppose him only fickle! Very, very fickle! Eleanor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health, and they crept on for a few minutes in silence. I am not wishing him too much good, said Marianne at last with a sigh, when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them. Do you compare your conduct with his? No. I compare it with what it ought to have been. I compare it with yours. Our situations have borne little resemblance. They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Eleanor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past. I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself, by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed, but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wondered my recovery. Wondered that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister—you who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days, who had known all the murmurings of my heart? How should I have lived in your remembrance? My mother, too. How could you have consoled her? I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Everybody seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Parmas, the Steals, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust. With a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I and only I knew your heart and its sorrows. Yet to what did it influence me? Not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me, but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints by taking any part in those offices of general complacence or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No. Not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship. Scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an unbounded affection to be miserable for my sake. Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit, and Eleanor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Mary Ann pressed her hand and replied, You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it, my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me. You will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move. And if I do mix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby, to say that I shall soon, or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions, but it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment. She paused, and added in a low voice, if I could but know his heart, everything would become easy. Eleanor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this, and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact. She managed the recital as she hoped, with a dress, prepared her anxious listener with caution, related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology, did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. Mary Ann said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprang up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness. Her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sisters, and tears covered her cheeks. Eleanor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home, and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be, though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together, and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Mary Ann, with a kiss of gratitude, and these two words just articulate through her tears, told Mama, withdrew from her sister, and walked slowly upstairs. Eleanor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought, and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again should Mary Ann fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfil her parting injunction. CHAPTER 47 Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt. She was sorry for him. She wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken, a character unblemished to Mary Ann. Nothing could do away with the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon. But Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself, had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it was neither in Eleanor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another by her retailed explanation as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's desserts. She wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fanciest ray. In the evening, when they were all three together, Mary Ann began voluntarily to speak of him again. But that it was not without an effort the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting, her rising colour as she spoke, and her unsteady voice plainly shewed. I wish to assure you both, said she, that I see everything, as you can desire me to do. Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Eleanor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion by an eager sign, engage her silence. Mary Ann slowly continued, It is a great relief to me, what Eleanor told me this morning. I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear. For some moments her voice was lost. But recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before. I am now perfectly satisfied. I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings. I know it, I know it, cried her mother, happy with a man of liberty and practices, with one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men. No, my Mary Ann has not a heart to be made happy with such a man. Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt. Mary Ann sighed and repeated, I wish for no change. You consider the matter, said Eleanor, exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it, and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands, and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. Your sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible, and perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it. But beyond that, and how little could the utmost of your single management do, to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? Beyond that, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be feared that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties? Mary Ann's lips quivered, and she repeated the word, selfish, in a tone that implied, Do you really think him selfish? The whole of his behaviour, replied Eleanor, from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections, which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was in every particular his ruling principle. It is very true, my happiness was never his object. At present, continued Eleanor, he regrets what he has done, and why does he regret it? Because he finds it is not answered towards himself, it has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed, he suffers from no evil of that kind, and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy? The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous, always poor, and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife. I have not a doubt of it, said Marianne, and I have nothing to regret, nothing but my own folly. Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child, said Mrs. Dashwood, she must be answerable. Marianne would not let her proceed, and Eleanor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits. She therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued, One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story, that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents. Marianne scented most feelingly to the remark, and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her. Eleanor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done. But while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust her the effective time upon her health. Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage, and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future. Eleanor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother in consequence of Marianne's illness, and in the first of Johns there had been this sentence. We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no inquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford, which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures. The man's servant had been sent one morning to exit her on business, and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication. I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferris is married. Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Eleanor, and saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Eleanor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention. The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Eleanor, who though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice, as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself, and Eleanor had the benefit of the information, without the exertion of seeking it. Who told you that Mr. Ferris was married, Thomas? I see Mr. Ferris myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steel, as was. They were stopping in a shay's at the door of the new London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the park to her brother, who was one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the shay's, and so I see directly that it was the youngest Miss Steel. So I took off my hat, and she knew me, and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferris their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you. But they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while. But however when they come back they'd make sure to come and see you." But did she tell you she was married, Thomas? Yes, ma'am. She smiled and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil-behaved, so I made free to wish her joy. Was Mr. Ferris in the carriage with her? Yes, ma'am. I'd just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up. He never was a gentleman much for talking. Eleanor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward, and Mrs. Nash would probably found the same explanation. Was there no one else in the carriage? No, ma'am. Only they two. Do you know where they came from? They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy, Mrs. Ferris told me. And are they going farther westward? Yes, ma'am, but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here. Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter. But Eleanor knew better than to expect them. She recognized the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low voice to her mother that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's near Plymouth. Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Eleanor looked as if she wished to hear more. Did you see them off before you came away? No, ma'am. The horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer. I was afraid of being late. Did Mrs. Ferris look well? Yes, ma'am. She said how she was very well, and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady, and she seemed vastly contented. Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. And had already sent to say that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Eleanor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before. When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Eleanor were left by themselves, they remained long together, in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying on Eleanor's representation of herself, and justly concluded that everything had been expressly softened at the time to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered from Marianne. She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much sleighter in reality, than she had been want to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay almost unkind to her Eleanor, that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Eleanor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation and greater fortitude. CHAPTER 48 Eleanor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy, that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married, and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence. That he should be married soon, before, as she imagined, he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-providant care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook everything but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncles. What had Edward felt on being within four miles of Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message? They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Dulliford—Dulliford, that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest, which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their Parsonage house, saw in Lucy the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half a economical practises, pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see, happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her. She turned away her head from every sketch of him. Eleanor flattered herself that some of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give further particulars. But day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found thought with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent. When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am? was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on. I wrote to him my love last week, and rather expect to see than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in to-day, or to-morrow, or any day. This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to give. Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It was a gentleman. It was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more, and she trembled in expectation of it. But it was not Colonel Brandon, neither his air nor his height. Were it possible she must say it must be Edward? She looked again. He had just dismounted. She could not be mistaken. It was Edward. She moved away and sat down. He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I will become. I will be mistress of myself. In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Mary Ann change colour, saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the world to be able to speak, and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him, but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion. Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path. In a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them. His countenance as he entered the room was not too happy, even for Eleanor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming as she trusted to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in everything, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy. He coloured and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Mary Anne's lips had moved with her mother's, and when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him, too. But then it was too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again, and talked of the weather. Mary Anne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress, and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence. When Eleanor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferris very well. In a hurried manner he replied in the affirmative. Another pause. Eleanor, resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said, Is Mrs. Ferris at Longstable? At Longstable, he replied, with an air of surprise, No, my mother is in town. I meant, said Eleanor, taking up some work from the table, to inquire for Mrs. Edward Ferris. She dared not look up. But her mother and Mary Anne both turned their eyes on him. He colored, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and after some hesitation said, Perhaps you mean my brother. You mean Mrs.—Mrs. Robert Ferris. Mrs. Robert Ferris was repeated by Mary Anne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement, and though Eleanor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do, took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice, Perhaps you do not know, you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele. His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Eleanor, who sat with her head leaning over her work in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was. Yes, said he, they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish. Eleanor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked anywhere rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or even heard, her emotion. For immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden, a perplexity which they had no means of lessening, but by their own conjectures. CHAPTER 49 Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free, and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily predetermined by all. For after experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of that than the immediate contraction of another. His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Eleanor to marry him, and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air. How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said. That when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation, indeed, was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love, and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness, and the chain was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness as his friends had never witnessed in him before. His heart was now open to Eleanor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy, treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four. It was foolish, idle inclination on my side, said he, the consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had my brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never have happened, for though I left longstable with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece. Yet, had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time, and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such a case I must have done. But instead of having anything to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose any myself, I returned home to be completely idle, and for the first twelve months afterwards, I had not even the nominal employment which belonging to the university would have given me, for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do but to fancy myself in love, and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at longstable, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome, and accordingly, I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen. Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too, at least I thought so then, and I had seen so little of other women that I could make no comparisons and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not, at the time, an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly. The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods was such, so great, as promised them all the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward nor praise Eleanor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both. Mary Ann could speak her happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur, regrets would arise, and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language. But Eleanor, how are her feelings to be described? From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was everything by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been, saw him honourably released from his bomber engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be, she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity, and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarised with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart. Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week, for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Eleanor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future. For though a very few hours spent in the hard labour of incessant talking, will dispatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between them no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over. Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and unreasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers, and Eleanor's particular knowledge of each party, made it appear to her in every view as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl of whose beauty she had herself hurt him speak without any admiration, a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family, it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair. To her imagination it was even a ridiculous one. But to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle. Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing that, perhaps at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Eleanor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward. That was exactly like Robert, was his immediate observation, and that, he presently added, might perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance between them first began, and Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favor, other designs might afterward arise. How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out. For at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed. And when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half-stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Eleanor's hands. Dear sir, being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you, but I scorned to accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill will, and I am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill-offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dallish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain your sincere well-wisher, friend and sister, Lucy Ferris. I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Pleased to destroy my scrolls, but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep." Eleanor read and returned it without any comment. "'I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,' said Edward, for worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by you and former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife. How I have blushed over the pages of her writing, and I believe I may say that since the first half-year of our foolish business, this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style." "'However it may have come about,' said Eleanor after a pause, they are certainly married, and your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice, and she has actually been bribing one's son with a thousand a year to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her. She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner." In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood, and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own desserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not upon the whole expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he did, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelve-month after must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives. That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with the flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Eleanor, and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had long been opened, even before his acquaintance with Eleanor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally imputed by him, to her want of education. Until her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him. I thought it my duty, said he, independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that anything but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living. No, but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour, that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends. And if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry you than be single. It was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it. Eleanor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which complements themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy. Your behaviour was certainly very wrong, said she, because to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect what, as you were then situated, could never be. He could only plead in ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement. I was simple enough to think, that because my faith was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you, and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship. Until I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I was wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these. The danger is my own. I am doing no injury to anybody but myself. Eleanor smiled and shook her head. Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford, which at present, said he, after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering. Now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. But so little interest had to be taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glee, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Eleanor herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention as to be entirely mistress of the subject. One question after this only remained undecided between them. One difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual affection with the warmest approbation of their real friends. Their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain, and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thousand pounds, and Eleanor won, which, with Delaford living, was all that they could call their own, for it was impossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything, and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a year would supply them with the comforts of life. Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favorable change in his mother towards him, and on that he rested for the residue of their income. But Eleanor had no such dependence, for since Edward would still be unable to marry Miss Norton, and his choosing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrer's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny. About four days after Edward's arrival, Colonel Brandon appeared to complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first-comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the park, from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lover's first tether-tet before breakfast. A three-weeks residence at Delofford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Mary Ann's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him. He knew nothing of what had passed, and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Everything was explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferris, since eventually it promoted the interest of Eleanor. It would be needless to say that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship without any other attraction. But their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment. The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in Eleanor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who she was sure had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now by all accounts almost broken-hearted at Oxford. I do think, she continued, nothing was ever carried on so sly, for it was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who poor soul came crying to me the day after in a great fright, for fear of Mrs. Ferris as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth. For Lucy, it seems, borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose, we supposed, to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world, so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the Shays is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward, I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Mary Ann must try to comfort him. Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferris was the most unfortunate of women. Poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility, and he considered the existence of each under such a blow with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferris, and even if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because had any suspicion of it occur to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage. And he called on Eleanor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family. He thus continued, Mrs. Ferris has never yet mentioned Edward's name which does not surprise us, but to our great astonishment not a line has been received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I shall therefore give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss. For we all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferris hard, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children. This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister. A letter of proper submission, repeated he, would they have me beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of honour to me. I can make no submission. I am grown neither humble nor penitent by what is past. I am grown very happy. But that would not interest. I know of no submission that is proper for me to make. You may certainly ask to be forgiven, said Eleanor, because you have offended, and I should think you might now venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on your mother's anger. He agreed that he might. And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement almost as imprudent in her eyes as the first. He had nothing to work against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission, and therefore to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally entreat her good offices in his favour. And if they really do interest themselves, said Mary Ann, in her new character of candour, in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely without merit. After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton together. They were to go immediately to Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it, and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town. CHAPTER 50 After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferris, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which he always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son. Her family had, of late, been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of her life she had had two sons, but the crime and annihilation of Edward a few weeks ago had robbed her of one. The similar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any, and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again. In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present engagement. For the publication of that circumstance he feared might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution, therefore, it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferris at first reasonably endeavored to dissuade him from marrying Miss Dashwood by every argument in her power. Told him that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune, and enforced the assertion by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman, with no more than three. But when she found out that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit, and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Eleanor. What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to be considered, and here it plainly appeared that though Edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest, for while Robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a year, not the smallest objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost, nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds which had been given with fanny. It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected by Edward and Eleanor, and Mrs. Ferris herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more. With an income quite sufficient to her once, thus secure to them, they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodation of Eleanor, was making considerable improvements. And after waiting some time for their completion, after experiencing as usual a thousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Eleanor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying till everything was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton Church early in the autumn. The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the mansion-house, from whence they could superintend the progress of the parsonage and direct everything as they liked on the spot, could choose papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Ms. Jennings' prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled, for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their parsonage by Mickelmas, and she found in Eleanor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact nothing to wish for but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Mary Ann, and rather better pastureage for their cows. They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and friends. Mrs. Ferris came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised, and even the dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour. I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister, said John, as they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford House. That would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young women in the world as it is. But I confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, his place, his house, everything is in such respectable and excellent condition, and his woods, I have not seen such timber anywhere in Dorseture, as there is now standing in Delaford Hangar. And though perhaps Mary Ann may not seem exactly the person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen, for when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else, it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance. You understand me. But though Mrs. Ferris did come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference. That was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife, and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it. For her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferris to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour. The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest and unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement, and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred. For though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in time, another visit, another conversation was always wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another half-hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert, a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own, and in short it became speedily evident to both that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What immediately followed is known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish, for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut, and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages, and from thence returning to town procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferris by the simple expedient of asking it, which at Lucy's instigation was adopted. The forgiveness at first, indeed as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert, and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty, and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer un-pardoned. But perseverance and humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards by rapid degrees to the highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferris as either Robert or Fanny, and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Eleanor, though superior to her infortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, she was in everything considered, and always openly acknowledged to be a favourite child. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferris, were on the best terms imaginable with the dashboards, and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took apart, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together. What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out, and what Robert had done to succeed it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause, for nothing ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much. And if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange. Eleanor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sister spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delafon, for her wish of bringing Mary Ann and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her darling object. Pressure, says, was the company of her daughter to her. She desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend, and to see Mary Ann settled at the mansion house was equally the wish of Edward and Eleanor. They each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Mary Ann by general consent was to be the reward of all. With such a confederacy against her, with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness, with the conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which had last, though long after it was observable to everybody else, burst on her, what could she do? Mary Ann Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract by her conduct her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another. And that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself, under the event of a former attachment, whom two years before she had considered too old to be married, and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat. But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, instead of remaining even forever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on, she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village. Colonel Brandon was now as happy as all those who best loved him believed he deserved to be. In Mary Ann he was consoled for every past affliction. Her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness, and that Mary Ann found her own happiness in forming his was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. Mary Ann could never love by halves, and her whole heart became in time as much devoted to her husband as it had once been to Willoughby. Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang, and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards Mary Ann he might at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted. Nor that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Mary Ann with regret. But that he was forever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on, for he did neither. He lived to exert and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable, and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity. For Mary Ann, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in everything that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman, and many a rising beauty would be snited by him in after days, as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon. Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to Delaford, and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Mary Ann was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover. Between Barton and Delaford there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate, and among the merits and the happiness of Eleanor and Mary Ann, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that those sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.