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 anything 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 inquiry， 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 upstairs into 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 inquire further 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， after her late behaviour， is she supposed to feel at all？ She has done with her son； she has cast him off forever 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 anything 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 anything 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 anything 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 anything 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 his 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 forever. 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 forever 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 anything；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 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 everything that was most affectionate and graceful.
Chapter 6
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 choose 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 forever， 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 forever； 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 tranquillity 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 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 southeast， 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， of 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 greenhouse， 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 dairymaid， by hens forsaking their nests， or being stolen by a fox， or in the rapid decease 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， so 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 everything 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.
Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer， and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found him， however， perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother； she found him very capable of being a pleasant companion and only prevented from being so always by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general as he must feel himself to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits， they were marked， as far as Elinor could perceive， with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating， uncertain in his hours； fond of his child， though affecting to slight it； and idled away the mornings at billiards， which ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him， however，upon the whole much better than she had expected， and in her heart was not sorry that she could like him no more； not sorry to be driven by the observation of his epicurism， his selfishness， and his conceit， to rest with complacency on the remembrance of Edward's generous temper， simple taste， and diffident feelings.
Of Edward， or at least of some of his concerns， she now received intelligence from Colonel Brandon， who had been into Dorsetshire lately； and who， treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars and the kind confidante of himself， talked to her a great deal of the Parsonage of Delaford， described its deficiencies， and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His behaviour to her in this， as well as in every other particular， his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days， his readiness to converse with her， and his deference for her opinion might very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment， and would have been enough， perhaps， had not Elinor still， as from the first， believed Marianne his real favourite， to make her suspect it herself. But as it was， such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion； and she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two； she watched his eyes while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour； and while his looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling， in her head and throat， the beginning of an heavy cold， because unexpressed by words， entirely escaped the latter lady's observation；she could discover in them the quick feelings and needless alarm of a lover.
Two delightful， twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there， not merely on the dry gravel to the shrubbery but all over the grounds， and especially in the most distant parts of them where there was something more of wildness than in the rest， where the trees were the oldest， and the grass was the longest and wettest， had—assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings—given Marianne a cold so violent as， though for a day or two trifled with or denied， would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of everybody and the notice of herself. Preions poured in from all quarters and as usual were all declined. Though heavy and feverish， with a pain in her limbs， a cough， and a sore throat， a good night's rest was to cure her entirely； and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed on her when she went to bed to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.
Chapter 7