CHAPTER XIX.
Edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs.
Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification,
he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was
at the height. His spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very
unequal, were greatly improved—he grew more and more partial to the
house and environs—never spoke of going away without a sigh—declared
his time to be wholly disengaged—even doubted to what place he should go
when he left them—but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so
quickly—he could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly; other
things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to
his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town; but
either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their kindness beyond
any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must
leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and
without any restraint on his time.
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother’s account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose
character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for
every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and
vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to
herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with
all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been
rather more painfully extorted from her, for Willoughby’s service, by her
mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most
usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of
Mrs. Ferrars’s disposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the
steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered
inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother.
The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against
child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad to know when these
difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield,—when Mrs. Ferrars
would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such
vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her
confidence in Edward’s affection, to the remembrance of every mark of
regard in look or word which fell from him while at Barton, and above all
to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger.
“I think, Edward,” said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the last
morning, “you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage
your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it—you would not
be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you would be
materially benefited in one particular at least—you would know where to
go when you left them.”
“I do assure you,” he replied, “that I have long thought on this point, as
you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy
misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage me, no
profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like
independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my
friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never could
agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church, as I still
do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the
army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was allowed to be
genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the Temple, made
a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very
knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse
study of it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its
side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter it—and, at
length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I
might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with
one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and
honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent
on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was
therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since.”
“The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,” said Mrs. Dashwood,
“since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be
brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as
Columella’s.”
“They will be brought up,” said he, in a serious accent, “to be as unlike
myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing.”
“Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike
yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from friends
will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state.
Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience—or give it a
more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time,
that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must
ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being
wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months do?”
“I think,” replied Edward, “that I may defy many months to produce any
good to me.”
This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to
Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which
shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor’s
feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as
it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing
to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did
not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Marianne, on a similar
occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude and
idleness. Their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited
to the advancement of each.
Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house,
busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the
mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in
the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not
lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase,
and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account.
Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no
more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her. The
business of self-command she settled very easily;—with strong affections it
was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister’s
affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to
acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking
proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying
conviction.
Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in
determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to
indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to
think of Edward, and of Edward’s behaviour, in every possible variety
which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce,—
with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments
in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least
by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among
them, and every effect of solitude was produced. Her mind was inevitably at
liberty; her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the
future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her
attention, and engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.
From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was
roused one morning, soon after Edward’s leaving them, by the arrival of
company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at
the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the
window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them
were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, but there were two
others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her. She was
sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John perceived her, he left the
rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping
across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to him, though the
space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly
possible to speak at one without being heard at the other.
“Well,” said he, “we have brought you some strangers. How do you like
them?”
“Hush! they will hear you.”
“Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I
can tell you. You may see her if you look this way.”
As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking
that liberty, she begged to be excused.
“Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open.”
“She is walking, I believe.”
They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to
wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She came hallooing
to the window, “How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs. Dashwood do?
And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be glad of a little
company to sit with you. I have brought my other son and daughter to see
you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I thought I heard a carriage
last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that
it could be them. I thought of nothing but whether it might not be Colonel
Brandon come back again; so I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage;
perhaps it is Colonel Brandon come back again—”
Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to receive
the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers; Mrs.
Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat
down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued her story as she
walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir John.
Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally
unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very pretty
face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be.
Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister’s, but they were
much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of
her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her
husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an
air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please
or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly
bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying
them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and
continued to read it as long as he staid.
Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a
turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her
admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.
“Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charming!
Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last! I always
thought it such a sweet place, ma’am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you
have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful every thing is!
How I should like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Palmer?”
Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the
newspaper.
“Mr. Palmer does not hear me,” said she, laughing; “he never does
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!”
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to
find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with
surprise at them both.
Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their
friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer laughed
heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed,
two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.
“You may believe how glad we all were to see them,” added Mrs.
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if
she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different
sides of the room; “but, however, I can’t help wishing they had not travelled
quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by
London upon account of some business, for you know (nodding
significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation. I
wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with
us; she longed so much to see you all!”
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
“She expects to be confined in February,” continued Mrs. Jennings.
Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the
paper.
“No, none at all,” he replied, and read on.
“Here comes Marianne,” cried Sir John. “Now, Palmer, you shall see a
monstrous pretty girl.”
He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if
she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at the
question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her
entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his
newspaper. Mrs. Palmer’s eye was now caught by the drawings which hung
round the room. She got up to examine them.
“Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,
mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them
for ever.” And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were
any such things in the room.
When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down
the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.
“My love, have you been asleep?” said his wife, laughing.
He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He
then made his bow, and departed with the rest.
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the
park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than
they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her
daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from
them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse
themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir
John would not be satisfied—the carriage should be sent for them and they
must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not press their mother,
pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined their entreaties, all
seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were
obliged to yield.
“Why should they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
“The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard
terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with
them, or with us.”
“They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,” said Elinor, “by these
frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few
weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious
and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere.”
