by Lauren Lane
He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour. On Edward’s side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.
After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.
“A fortnight!” she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same county with Elinor without seeing her before.
He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth.
“Have you been lately in Sussex?” said Elinor.
“I was at Norland about a month ago.” He had, in fact, spent many hours during his visit at Elinor’s secret place in the woods, the place where she had so boldly bared her body and soul, and claimed his heart forever. The memories the place held had reminded him just how much he missed her, and he’d pushed all other matters aside and journeyed to Devonshire as soon as his schedule had allowed.
Of course, before he’d even arrived, his nerves had gotten the better of him and it had taken him the better part of two weeks to build the courage to pay Miss Dashwood a visit. During that interlude, he’d stayed at the only place he knew to stay, though his company there for that seemingly eternal fortnight made him question even farther whether he truly had a sensible bone in his body. Eventually, however, his desire to see Miss Dashwood won out over his worrisome injudiciousness, and he continued on his journey.
“And how does dear, dear Norland look?” cried Marianne.
“Dear, dear Norland,” said Elinor, “probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year — the woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves.”
Elinor’s remark cut directly to Edward’s soul, and he understood that he had been right to distress over coming here. She was telling him, in no uncertain terms, that whatever feelings she may have harboured for him, whatever may have passed between them that day in the woods … it had all since died.
Worst of all, Edward knew he had no one to blame but himself. He should have told her how he felt about her that day; he should not have left things the way he had. And now it was clearly too late.
“Oh,” cried Marianne, “with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight.”
“It is not every one,” said Elinor with just a hint of an edge to her tone, “who has your passion for dead leaves.”
“No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But sometimes they are.” As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments; but rousing herself again, “Now, Edward,” said she, calling his attention to the prospect, “here is Barton valley. Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage.”
“It is a beautiful country,” he replied; “but these bottoms must be dirty in winter.”
“How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?”
“Because,” replied he, “among the rest of the objects before me, I see a very dirty lane.”
“How strange!” said Marianne to herself as she walked on.
“Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant people?”
“No, not all,” answered Marianne; “we could not be more unfortunately situated.”
“Marianne,” cried her sister, “how can you say so? How can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?”
“No,” said Marianne, in a low voice, “nor how many painful moments.”
Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.
CHAPTER XVII
Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.
“What are Mrs. Ferrars’s views for you at present, Edward?” said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; “are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?”
“No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than inclination for a public life!”
“But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter.”
“I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence.”
“You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate.”
“As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.”
“Strange that it would!” cried Marianne. “What have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?”
“Grandeur has but little,” said Elinor, “but wealth has much to do with it.”
“Elinor, for shame!” said Marianne, “money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.”
Elinor may have believed similarly once, but time and experience had taught her that the more intangible causes of happiness are fleeting at best. She now knew that society had it right all along — money, financial security, st
atus … those were far more important factors in securing a match than silly things like love and passion. In truth, she was surprised to hear Marianne speak this way — she’d expected her sister to have formed a similar opinion after the events of late. Then again, as evidenced by Marianne’s joyful reaction in mistaking the arriving Mr. Ferrars to actually be Mr. Willoughby, it was clear Marianne was still in possession of hope — a thing which had abandoned Elinor the moment Edward had rebuffed her mention of marriage.
“Perhaps,” said Elinor, forcing herself to smile, “we may come to the same point. Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?”
“About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than that.”
Elinor laughed. “Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed how it would end.”
“And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,” said Marianne. “A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less.”
Elinor smiled again, this time a bit more authentically, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at Combe Magna.
“Hunters!” repeated Edward; “but why must you have hunters? Every body does not hunt.”
Marianne coloured as she replied, “But most people do.”
“I wish,” said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, “that somebody would give us all a large fortune a-piece!”
“Oh that they would!” cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.
“We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,” said Elinor, “in spite of the insufficiency of wealth.”
“Oh dear!” cried Margaret, “how happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it!”
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
“I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “if my children were all to be rich without my help.”
“You must begin your improvements on this house,” observed Elinor, “and your difficulties will soon vanish.”
“What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,” said Edward, “in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you — and as for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content her. And books! — Thomson, Cowper, Scott — she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes.”
“I love to be reminded of the past, Edward — whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it — and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent; some of it, at least — my loose cash — would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books.”
“And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs.”
“No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.”
“Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life — for your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?”
“Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.”
“Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,” said Elinor, “she is not at all altered.”
“She is only grown a little more grave than she was.”
“Nay, Edward,” said Marianne, “you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself.”
“Why should you think so!” replied he, with a sigh. “But gaiety never was a part of my character.”
It was once, Elinor could not help but think, her face colouring. There was one day when you were very exultant indeed. But she simply said, “Nor do I think it a part of Marianne’s. I should hardly call her a lively girl — she is very earnest, very eager in all she does — sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation — but she is not often really merry.” Especially since the departure of her beloved.
“I believe you are right,” he replied, “and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl.”
“I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,” said Elinor pointedly, looking directly at him now, “in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.”
“But I thought it was right, Elinor,” said Marianne, “to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure.”
“No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?”
“You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility,” said Edward to Elinor, “Do you gain no ground?”
“Quite the contrary,” replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.
“My judgment,” he returned, adopting Elinor’s tone of layered meaning, “is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister’s. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!”
“Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,” said Elinor.
“She knows her own worth too well for false shame,” replied Edward. “Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy.”
“But you would still be reserved,” said Marianne, “and that is worse.”
Edward started. “Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?”
“Yes, very.”
“I do not understand you,” replied he, colouring. “Reserved! — how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?”
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, “Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?”
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent — and he sat for some time silent and dull.
CHAPTER XVIII
Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend — if he could still be called that. His visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had fe
lt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.
“I am going into the village to see my horses,” said he, “as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.”
Elinor could not think what to make of his behaviour. Could he truly not stand to be in the same room as her? Was it too uncomfortable for him, after what had passed between them all that time ago at Norland Park? Certainly, it was strange for her too, but she was at least able to be civil. But it seemed he could not even manage that. Elinor knew all too well that he did not wish to repeat their dalliance, but was it possible that he had grown to regret it? Was she repulsive to her now, the woman who took a man to her bed — metaphorically speaking — outside the confines of marriage? The woman who forced him to abandon his principles and do the same? Was she so disgusting to him that he could not even bring himself to remain at the breakfast table with her?
Her appetite vanished, Elinor pushed her plate away from her and ran from the room before anyone could see the tears in her eyes.
• • •
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country — and a fresh layer of humiliation added to his already thick coat of foibles. He’d intended, in his ungraceful exit from breakfast that morning, to silently communication an invitation for Miss Dashwood to meet him. He was under no impression that there would be a repeat occurrence of their last time alone together — she clearly had no interest in him after how he’d behaved — but he needed desperately to speak to her. He needed to explain himself, his feelings, his situation. He owed her at least that much.