VOLUME III

CHAPTER I

rs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that

her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the

whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with

visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her

own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss

Dashwoods very ready to reassume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus

resettled in Berkeley-street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her

ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where

Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying

importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and

giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it,

by saying,

"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"

"No, ma'am. What is it?"

"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.―When I got to

Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She

was sure it was very ill―it cried, and fretted, and was all over

pimples. So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is

nothing in the world, but the red gum―' and nurse said just the

same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan

was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley-

street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the

child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but

the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was

going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know

how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him

if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered,

and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at

last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should

reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's

indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no

great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.'"

"What! is Fanny ill?"

"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.

Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short

of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward

Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but

however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any

thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above

this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy!―There's for you, my dear!―

And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except

Nancy!―Could you have believed such a thing possible?―There

is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters

should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect

it! That is strange!―I never happened to see them together, or I

am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was

kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor

your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;―till this

very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning

creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to

herself, 'they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no

difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was

sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to

come―for she had just been saying to your brother, only five

minutes before, that she thought to make a match between

Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you

may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell

into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached

your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room

down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the

country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for

Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was

going on. Poor soul! I pity her. And I must say, I think she was

used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon

drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and

cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and

said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they

should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother

was forced to go down upon his knees too, to persuade her to let

them stay till they had packed up their clothes. Then she fell into

hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for

Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar.

The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away,

and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a

condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was

almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I

hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord!

what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To

have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond

of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the

greatest passion!―and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and

I had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is

gone back again to Harley-street, that he may be within call when

Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my

cousins left the house, for your sister was sure she would be in

hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no pity for

either of them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do

about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr.

Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars

may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to

nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the

most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow

him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance

with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they

might live in such another cottage as yours―or a little bigger―

with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a

housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit

them exactly."

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough

to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and

make such observations, as the subject might naturally be

supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of

any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of

late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at

all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the

absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair

without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she

believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned

in it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its

event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the

notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the

marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and

do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was

anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward

would conduct himself. For him she felt much compassion;―for

Lucy very little―and it cost her some pains to procure that little;―

for the rest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon

saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No

time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted

with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it

talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness

for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one.―She was going to remove

what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,―to

give such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for

ever in her good opinion,―and to make Marianne, by a

resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem

strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But

unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done,

and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or

to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the

self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of

Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was

practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and

though it could not be given without emotion, it was not

accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.―That

belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror,

and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in

her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that

could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a

very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of

imprudence, was readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither.

Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as

Elinor did, that she had loved him most sincerely, could she feel

less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally

unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man,

that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards

to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not

even admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be

convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a

better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state

the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.―

Marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all

regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to

soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her

resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther

particulars, was,

"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written

to you?"

"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to

Barton Park last November, she told me in confidence of her

engagement."

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment

which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she

exclaimed―

"Four months!―Have you known of this four months?"

Elinor confirmed it.

"What!―while attending me in all my misery, has this been on

your heart?―And I have reproached you for being happy!"―

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the

reverse!"

"Four months!"―cried Marianne again.―"So calm!―so

cheerful!―how have you been supported?"―

"By feeling that I was doing my duty.―My promise to Lucy,

obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving

any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to

create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my

power to satisfy."

Marianne seemed much struck.

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my

mother," added Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;―

but without betraying my trust, I never could have convinced

you."

"Four months!―and yet you loved him!"―

"Yes. But I did not love only him;―and while the comfort of

others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how

much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I

would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no

longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me.

I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any

imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible

without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential

misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always

doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in

the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is

the foundation on which every thing good may be built.―And

after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a

single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's

happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not

meant―it is not fit―it is not possible that it should be so.―

Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in

person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will

teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to

her."―

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of

what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else,

your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be

wondered at.―They are brought more within my

comprehension."

"I understand you.―You do not suppose that I have ever felt

much.―For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on

my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single