“You would not have gone, however,” said Elinor, recovering herself,and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible,“without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs.Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of,which I was on the point of communicating by paper.I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.) Colonel Brandon,who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say,that understanding you mean to take orders,he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant,and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend,and to join in his wish that the living—it is about two hundred a-year—were much more considerable,and such as might better enable you to—as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself—such,in short, as might establish all your views of happiness.”
What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself,it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him.He _looked_ all the astonishment which such unexpected,such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words,—
“Colonel Brandon!”
“Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over,“Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed—for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you—a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion.”
“Colonel Brandon give _me_ a living!—Can it be possible?”
“The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where.”
“No,” replied he, with sudden consciousness, “not to find it in _you;_ for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness,I owe it all.—I feel it—I would express it if I could—but, as you well know, I am no orator.”
“You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely,to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon’s discernment of it. I have had no hand in it.I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant;nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps—indeed I know he _has_,still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation.”
Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action,but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward,that she acknowledged it with hesitation;which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it.For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak;—at last,and as if it were rather an effort, he said,
“Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly.He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman.”
“Indeed,” replied Elinor, “I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance,all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this.”
Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious,so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say,that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.
“Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,” said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair.
Elinor told him the number of the house.
“I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you;_ to assure him that he has made me a very—an exceedingly happy man.”
Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted,with a very earnest assurance on _her_ side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him;on _his_, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.
“When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, “I shall see him the husband of Lucy.”
And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past,recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.
When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before,and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say,her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession,than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared.
“Well, my dear,” she cried, “I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right?—And I suppose you had no great difficulty—You did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?”
“No, ma’am; _that_ was not very likely.”
“Well, and how soon will he be ready?—For it seems all to depend upon that.”
“Really,” said Elinor, “I know so little of these kind of forms,that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary;but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination.”
“Two or three months!” cried Mrs. Jennings; “Lord!my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months!Lord bless me!—I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience!—And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars,I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already.”
“My dear ma’am,” said Elinor, “what can you be thinking of?Why, Colonel Brandon’s only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”
“Lord bless you, my dear!Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!”
The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place,by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment,without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs.Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another,and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first.
“Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,” said she,after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over,“and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought,for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor,and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!and to you too, that had been used to live in Barton cottage!It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear,we must touch up the Colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it.”
“But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living’s being enough to allow them to marry. ”
“The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself,he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive,I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas;and I am sure I shan’t go if Lucy an’t there.”
Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more.
CHAPTER XLI.
Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his happiness to Lucy;and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett’s Buildings,that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings,who called on her again the next day with her congratulations,that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life.
Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs.Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas.So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward _would_ give her,that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth,was ready to own all their obligation to her,and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood’s part,either present or future, would ever surprise her,for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued.As for Colonel Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint,but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns;anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail herself,at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.
It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street,and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife’s indisposition,beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.—This was an obligation,however, which not only opposed her own inclination,but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions. Marianne,not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself,was very urgent to prevent her sister’s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings,though her carriage was always at Elinor’s service, so very much disliked Mrs. John Dashwood,that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery,nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward’s part,could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was,that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination,and to run the risk of a tête-à-tête with a woman,whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.
Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house,her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Elinor,told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and,assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in.
They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.—Nobody was there.
“Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,” said he: “I will go to her presently,for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing _you_. Very far from it,indeed. _Now_ especially there cannot be—but however,you and Marianne were always great favourites. Why would not Marianne come?”
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
“I am not sorry to see you alone,” he replied, “for I have a good deal to say to you.This living of Colonel Brandon’s—can it be true?—has he really given it to Edward?—I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.”
“It is perfectly true.—Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford to Edward.”
“Really!—Well, this is very astonishing!—no relationship!—no connection between them!—and now that livings fetch such a price!—what was the value of this?”
“About two hundred a year.”
“Very well—and for the next presentation to a living of that value—supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly,and likely to vacate it soon—he might have got I dare say—fourteen hundred pounds.And how came he not to have settled that matter before this person’s death?_Now_, indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon’s sense!I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character.I suppose, however—on recollection—that the case may probably be _this_.Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has really sold the presentation,is old enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it.”
Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively;and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward,and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.
“It is truly astonishing!”—he cried, after hearing what she said—“what could be the Colonel’s motive?”
“A very simple one—to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.”
“Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be,Edward is a very lucky man.—You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however,for though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,—she will not like to hear it much talked of.”
Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing,that she thought Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother,by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
“Mrs. Ferrars,” added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject,“knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be.When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.”
“But why should such precaution be used?Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs.Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon,for _that_ must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all?She has done with her son,—she cast him off for ever,and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely,after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account:she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!”
“Ah!Elinor,” said John, “your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature.When Edward’s unhappy match takes place,depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and,therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event,must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs.Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her son.”
“You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by _this_ time.”
“You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world.”
Elinor was silent.
“We think _now_,”—said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, “of _Robert’s_ marrying Miss Morton.”
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother’s tone, calmly replied,—
“The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.”
“Choice!—how do you mean?”
“I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking,it must be the same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.”
“Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;—and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men:I do not know that one is superior to the other.”
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.—His reflections ended thus.
“Of _one_ thing, my dear sister,” kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper,“I may assure you;—and I _will_ do it, because I know it must gratify you.I have good reason to think—indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it,for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it,—but I have it from the very best authority,—not that I ever precisely heard Mrs.Ferrars say it herself—but her daughter _did_, and I have it from her,—that in short,whatever objections there might be against a certain—a certain connection, you understand me,—it would have been far preferable to her,—it would not have given her half the vexation that _this_ does.I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light;a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. ‘It would have been beyond comparison,’ she said, ‘the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound _now_ for nothing worse.’ But however, all that is quite out of the question,—not to be thought of or mentioned—as to any attachment you know, it never could be:all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this,because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Elinor.There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well,—quite as well, or better, perhaps,all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with you lately?”
Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance,to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;—and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself,and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr.Robert Ferrars. After a few moments’ chat, John Dashwood,recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister’s being there,quitted the room in quest of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who,by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother’s love and liberality,to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life,and that brother’s integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of Edward; for he, too,had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject.Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John; and their effect on Robert,though very different, was not less striking than it had been on _him_.He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward’s being a clergyman,and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure;—and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a white surplice,and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown,he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
Elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly,could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited.It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings,and gave no intelligence to him. He was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.
“We may treat it as a joke,” said he, at last,recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment;“but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward!he is ruined for ever. I am extremely sorry for it;for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps,as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from _your_ slight acquaintance. Poor Edward!His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we are not all born, you know,with the same powers,—the same address. Poor fellow!to see him in a circle of strangers!To be sure it was pitiable enough; but upon my soul,I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom;and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth.I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I,feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, ‘My dear madam,I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say,that if Edward does marry this young woman, _I_ never will see him again.’ That was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!Poor Edward!he has done for himself completely,—shut himself out for ever from all decent society!But, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it;from his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic.”
“Have you ever seen the lady?”
“Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes;and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance,and almost without beauty. I remember her perfectly.Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Edward. I offered immediately,as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself,and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late _then_, I found, to do any thing,for unluckily, I was not in the way at first,and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know,to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier,I think it is most probable that something might have been hit on.I certainly should have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. ‘My dear fellow,’ I should have said, ‘consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection,and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.’ I cannot help thinking, in short,that means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know, that is certain; absolutely starved.”
He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs.John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though _she_ never spoke of it out of her own family,Elinor could see its influence on her mind,in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered,and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town,as she had hoped to see more of them;—an exertion in which her husband,who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents,seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.
CHAPTER XLII.
One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her brother’s congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton without any expense,and on Colonel Brandon’s being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or two,completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town;—and a faint invitation from Fanny,to come to Norland whenever it should happen to be in their way,which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public,assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her at Delaford,was all that foretold any meeting in the country.
It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to Delaford;—a place,in which, of all others, she would now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside;for not only was it considered as her future home by her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy,when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.
Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day,the two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes,to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child,they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer,travelling more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon,was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.
Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as she had long been to quit it,could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes,and that confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain.Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new engagements,and new schemes, in which _she_ could have no share, without shedding many tears.
Elinor’s satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.She had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature behind,from whom it would give her a moment’s regret to be divided for ever,she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy’s friendship,she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughby since his marriage,and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Barton might do towards restoring Marianne’s peace of mind, and confirming her own.
Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into the cherished,or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Marianne’s imagination;and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to Cleveland.
Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. It had no park,but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive;and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery,and closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front,the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fir,the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether,interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the offices.
Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton,and not thirty from Combe Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls,while the others were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper,she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies,now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple,her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east,could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon,and fancy that from their summits Combe Magna might be seen.
In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland;and as she returned by a different circuit to the house,feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty,of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude,she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained with the Palmers,in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.
She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house,on an excursion through its more immediate premises;and the rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden,examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener’s lamentations upon blights,in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed,and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of Charlotte,—and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid,by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox,or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.
The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment abroad,had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at Cleveland.With great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.She had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds,and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it;but a heavy and settled rain even _she_ could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had her child, and Mrs.Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind,arranged Lady Middleton’s engagements, and wondered whether Mr.Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading that night. Elinor,however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Marianne,who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library,however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book.
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer’s side that constant and friendly good humour could do,to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.
The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner,affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation,which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low.