CHAPTER XIII

naccountable, however, as the circumstances of his

release might appear to the whole family, it was certain

that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom

would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;―for after

experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement,

contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done

for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in

the failure of that, than the immediate contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to

ask Elinor to marry him;―and considering that he was not

altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange

that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he

really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution,

however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in

what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received,

need not be particularly told. This only need be said;―that when

they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after

his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent,

and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in

the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His

situation indeed was more than commonlyjoyful. He had more

than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and

raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself,

from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a

woman whom he had long ceased to love;―and elevated at once to

that security with another, which he must have thought of almost

with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire.

He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to

happiness;―and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,

flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed

in him before.

His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its

errors confessed, and his first boyishattachment to Lucy treated

with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.

"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the

consequence of ignorance of the world―and want of employment.

Had my brother given me some active profession when I was

removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think―nay, I am

sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple

with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference

for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage

my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I

should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment,

especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must

have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having

any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any

myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first

twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment,

which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was

not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing

in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother

did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no

friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new

acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at

Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always

sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my

time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything

that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too―at least I

thought so then; and I had seen so little of other women, that I

could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering

everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was,

foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the

time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly."

The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and

the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such―so great―as promised

them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too

happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise

Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without

wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for

unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished,

the sight and society of both.

Marianne could speak her happiness only by tears.

Comparisons would occur―regrets would arise;―and her joy,

though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her

neither spirits nor language.

But Elinor―how are her feelings to be described?―From the

moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that

Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which

had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but

tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she

found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her

situation with what so lately it had been,―saw him honourably

released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting

by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as

tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,―she was

oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;―and happily

disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any

change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness

to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;―for

whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible

that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of

Elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the

past, the present, and the future;―for though a very few hours

spent in the hard 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 reasonable wonder among

them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the

lovers;―and Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it

appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and

unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could

be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn

on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him

speak without any admiration,―a girl too already engaged to his

brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off

by his family―it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To

her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was

even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was

completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that

perhaps at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had

been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by

degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told

her in Harley-street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in

his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She

repeated it to Edward.

"That was exactly like Robert,"―was his immediate

observation.―"And that," he presently added, "might perhaps be

in his head when the acquaintance between them first began. And

Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good

offices in my favour. Other designs might afterwards arise."

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he

was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where

he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had

had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to

the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than

usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to

prepare him for what followed;―and when at last it burst on him

in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he

believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the

joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor's hands.

Dear Sir,

Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought

myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt

of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with

you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's.

Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my

fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship

now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am

sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother

has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without

one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on

our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother

has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you

with these few lines, and shall always remain,

Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,

LUCY FERRARS.

I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the

first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls―but the ring with

my hair you are very welcome to keep.

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said

Edward.―"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen

by you in former days.―In a sister it is bad enough, but in a

wife!―how I have blushed over the pages of her writing!―and I

believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish―

business―this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which

the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."

"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a

pause,―"they are certainly married. And your mother has

brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The

independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against

you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has

actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the

very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do.

She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy,

than she would have been by your marrying her."

"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her

favourite.―She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle

will forgive him much sooner."

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward

knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet

been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and

twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object

before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form

any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most

intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of

his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking that

fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had

once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with

which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he

talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very

cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he did,

and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a

twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of

husbands and wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a

flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was

perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly

enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her

capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his

eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with

Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of

her opinions―they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want

of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always

believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and

thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion

could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which,

long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger,

had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.

"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to

give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I

was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without

a friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that,

where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of

any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so

warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any

thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement?