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.
