The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;--but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son;--but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.
He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:--he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;-- more narrow-minded and selfish.
When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity.-- "Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience. "-- He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.
No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;-- but in HER mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immoveable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother.
Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;--her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's. She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.
Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. She really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?
"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I should assist his widow and daughters. "
"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child. "
"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home. "
"Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy--"
"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition. "
"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.--Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes! "
"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his sisters! And as it is--only half blood!--But you have such a generous spirit! "
"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more. "
"There is no knowing what THEY may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do. "
"Certainly--and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very comfortable fortune for any young woman. "
"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds. "
"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I mean.--My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable. "
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in. "
"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase. "
"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world. "
"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one's own. To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence. "
"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses. "
"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should by no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my father. "
"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?--They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give YOU something. "
"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described. When my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then. "
"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, ONE thing must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it. "
"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here. "
"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of THEM. And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to THEM. "
This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finatlelly resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved.
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.
The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there.
Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished--as--they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising.
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already. "
"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of him. "
"Like him! " replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love. "
"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love. "
Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.
No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
"In a few months, my dear Marianne. " said she, "Elinor will, in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but SHE will be happy. "
"Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her? "
"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice? "
"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not the kind of young man--there is something wanting--his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference! "--
"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you WOULD give him Cowper. "
"Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!-- but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm. "
"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different from her's! "
"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no taste for drawing. "
"No taste for drawing! " replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right. "
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.
"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him. "
Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied:
"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable. "
"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly. "
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne? "
"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart. "
Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister.
"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him. "
Marianne here burst forth with indignation--
"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment. "
Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank. "
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.
"And you really are not engaged to him! " said she. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be! "
Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship.
But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance. On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence.
No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.--Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it? " She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of Exeter.
"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them. "
She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-- The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture.
Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.--The horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. HER wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at Norland.
The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away.
In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey.
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland! " said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home elsewhere!--Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!--And you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.--No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer!--No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade!--But who will remain to enjoy you? "
The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it.
As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.
The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them.
With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly. "
In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.
Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day.
They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.
Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others.
An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.
Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.
Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.
The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manor.
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings's.
Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.
There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required.
Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.
The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.
Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
"But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him? "
"Infirmity! " said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs! "
"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life? "
"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of MY decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty. "
"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony. "
"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying HER. "
"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other. "
"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders. "
"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble. "
"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever? "
Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mamma," said Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Norland? "
"Had you any idea of his coming so soon? " said Mrs. Dashwood. "I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already? "
"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must. "
"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time. "
"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward, cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it? "
The Dashwoods were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of Norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful sensations.
"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to this?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours. "
Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face.-- Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings.
She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.
His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions.-- Marianne herself had seen less of his person that the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.
Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.
"Willoughby! " cried Sir John; "what, is HE in the country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday. "
"You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.
"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year. "
"And what sort of a young man is he? "
"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England. "
"And is that all you can say for him? " cried Marianne, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius? "
"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all THAT. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today? "
But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind.
"But who is he? " said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham? "
On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care. "
"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of MY daughters towards what you call CATCHING him. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible. "
"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down. "
"Did he indeed? " cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit? "
"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert. "
"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue. "
"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Brandon. "
"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity. "
Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied,
"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles. "
Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.
Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.
It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each-- or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.
"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for ONE morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask. "--
"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful--had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared. "
"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor--she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend. "-- Marianne was softened in a moment.
Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.
In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support.
Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.
Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.
Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.
Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.
"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to. "
"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.
"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him. "
"That he is patronised by YOU," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else? "
"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust. "
"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy. "
"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature. "
"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome. "
"He WOULD have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed. "
"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins. "
"I may venture to say that HIS observations have stretched much further than your candour. But why should you dislike him? "
"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year. "
"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression. "
"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor, "and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart. "
"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever. "
Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection.
Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.
When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.
Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.
This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home.
Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jenning's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home;-- and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.
In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments. "
"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic. "
"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist. "
"I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself. "
"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions. "
"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage. "
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,--
"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives? "
"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable. "
"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments--No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change--from a series of unfortunate circumstances"-- Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
As Elinor and Marianne were walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures.
"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs. "
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for HIM; he might always get one at the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.
"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;-- it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed. "
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice,--"But, Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you. "
This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.
Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.
"Oh, Elinor! " she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon. "
"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle. "
"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair. "
"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of HIS. "
"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book. "
For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Elinor? "
This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.
Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Margaret,
"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them. "
"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself. "
This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.
"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name? "
"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too. "
"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say. "
"No, THAT he is not. He is of no profession at all. "
"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence. "
"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an F."
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.
To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight;-- and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.
Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.
By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;--he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
"What is the matter with Brandon? " said Sir John.
"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly. "
In about five minutes he returned.
"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he entered the room.
"None at all, ma'am, I thank you. "
"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse. "
"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business. "
"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it. "
"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying. "
"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married? " said Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.
"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well. "
"Whom do you mean, ma'am? " said he, colouring a little.
"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town. "
"In town! " cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year? "
"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell. "
What a blow upon them all was this!
"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient? "
"We must go," said Sir John.--"It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all. "
"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day! "
"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not. "
"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return. "
"I cannot afford to lose ONE hour. "--
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing. "
"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.
"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell. "
Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
"Well, then, when will you come back again? "
"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return. "
"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all. "
"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him. "
"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is. "
"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of. "
Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.
"You do not go to town on horseback, do you? " added Sir John.
"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post. "
"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind. "
"I assure you it is not in my power. "
He then took leave of the whole party.
"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood? "
"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do. "
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about. "
He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the room.
The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly.
"Can you, ma'am? " said almost every body.
"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure. "
"And who is Miss Williams? " asked Marianne.
"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies. " Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She is his natural daughter. "
"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will leave her all his fortune. "
When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.
It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning. "
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray? "--
"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle? "
"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out WHERE you had been to.-- I hope you like your house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago. "
Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr. Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house.
Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself? "
"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby. "
"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life. "
"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety. "
"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure. "
"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct? "
"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--"
"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done. "
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it WAS rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.--There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture,--but if it were newly fitted up--a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England. "
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. "I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances NOW, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain. "
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him.
"What! " he exclaimed--"Improve this dear cottage! No. THAT I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded. "
"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it. "
"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better. "
"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it? "
"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage. "
"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Elinor.
"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it;--in no one convenience or INconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton. "
"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this. "
"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share. "
Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne? " speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford. "
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted.
"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me. "
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner? " said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton. "
He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
Mrs. Dashwood's visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered Marianne.
"Is anything the matter with her? " cried Mrs. Dashwood as she entered--"is she ill? "
"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment! "
"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you. "
"To London!--and are you going this morning? "
"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;--and her business will not detain you from us long I hope. "
He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth. "
"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here? "
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, "You are too good. "
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far THAT might be pleasing to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination. "
"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are of such a nature--that--I dare not flatter myself"--
He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy. "
He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.
Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister;--the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel? "
"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice--Gone too without intending to return!--Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. YOU must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here? "--
"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see THAT. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you. "
"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;--but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can--it will not satisfy YOU, I know; but you shall not talk ME out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away;-- and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. He is, moreover, aware that she DOES disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may NOT have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say? "
"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer. "
"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of? "
"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him. "
"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted. "
"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they ARE engaged) from Mrs. Smith-- and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us. "
"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness. "
"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement I do. "
"I am perfectly satisfied of both. "
"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them. "
"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection;--that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence? "
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except ONE is in favour of their engagement; but that ONE is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other. "
"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent to her? "
"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure. "
"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him. "
"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed. "
"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful? "
"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning;--he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general character;--but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent. "
"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though WE have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable. "
They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him.
Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!
When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing but what they had been used to read together.
Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne. Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.
"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir John's hands. "
Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother.
"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially. "
"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct. "
Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic delicacy.
It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;-- but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed,
"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens. "
"Months! " cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No--nor many weeks. "
Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.
Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed,
"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is! "--and was hastening to meet him, when Elinor cried out,
"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air. "
"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come. "
She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.
He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
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. "
"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. "
"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, "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, smiling, "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.
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. "
"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "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, 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 apiece! "
"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 shew 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--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. "
"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "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. "
"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, "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, "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? "
"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.
Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. 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 felt 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. "
Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne--remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country--the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug--with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque. "
"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it? "
"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own. "
"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning. "
"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower--and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the world. "
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor only laughed.
The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.
"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should have thought her hair had been darker. "
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt-- but when she saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know. "
Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.
Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning. Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had given her sister.
Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions, extended.
Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.
"You MUST drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite alone--and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a large party. "
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may raise a dance," said she. "And that will tempt YOU, Miss Marianne. "
"A dance! " cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance? "
"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.--What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone! "
"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among us again. "
This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And who is Willoughby? " said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he was sitting.
She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess? "
"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts. "
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,
"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope...I am sure you will like him. "
"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.
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? "
"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. "
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, Mamma, 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. "
As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
"I am so glad to see you! " said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope. "
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
"Not go to town! " cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public. "
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to town this winter. "
Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather.
"How horrid all this is! " said he. "Such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house? How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the weather. "
The rest of the company soon dropt in.
"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today. "
Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say. "
"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.
"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place. "
"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said.
"Is it very ugly? " continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other place that is so pretty I suppose. "
When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with regret that they were only eight all together.
"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today? "
"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last. "
"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony. "
"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.
"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude? "
"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred. "
"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you. "
Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.
"Mr. Palmer is so droll! " said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is always out of humour. "
Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.-- It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife.
"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland? "
"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no other view. "
"There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come. "
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him. "
Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation.
"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.--But do you know, he says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr. Palmer? "
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued-- "he says it is quite shocking. "
"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me. "
"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world. "
She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.
"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable. "
"Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant; and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland.--I can't imagine why you should object to it. "
Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.
"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;-- but I was with my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know. "
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match. "
"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town. "
"Upon my honour I did.--I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly. "
"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Colonel Brandon to do. "
"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately. '"
"And what did the Colonel say? "
"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place? "
"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope? "
"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you. "
"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing. "
"So do I.--He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull. Mamma says HE was in love with your sister too.-- I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body. "
"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire? " said Elinor.
"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night. "
Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.--"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts. "
"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you? "
"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-- He was a particular friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the Colonel, and we should have been married immediately. "
"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself? "
"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr. Palmer is the kind of man I like. "
The Palmers returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.
In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,-- whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day.
The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
"Do come now," said he--"pray come--you must come--I declare you shall come--You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. YOU are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related. "
But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to them.
When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person.-- Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.
"John is in such spirits today! " said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window--"He is full of monkey tricks. "
And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is! "
"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was there such a quiet little thing! "
But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.-- She was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours.
"Poor little creatures! " said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident. "
"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality. "
"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is! " said Lucy Steele.
Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.
"And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is! "
Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly.
"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life.--I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children. "
"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning. "
"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet. "
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence. "
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex. "
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it? " added Miss Steele.
"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed to thinksome apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
"I think every one MUST admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do. "
"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always. "
"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex? "
"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen.-- I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich? "
"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him. "
"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have something else to do. "
"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else. " And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better.
Not so the Miss Steeles.--They came from Exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.-- And to be better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends.
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.
"Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already. "
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F-- had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with Elinor.
The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.
"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret. "
"Ferrars! " repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well. "
"How can you say so, Anne? " cried Lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well. "
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted? " She wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.--But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.
Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.
"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars? "
Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
"Indeed! " replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is? "
"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity-- "I know nothing of her. "
"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent. "
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,
"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars. "
"I am sorry I do NOT," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character. "
"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be very intimately connected. "
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
"Good heavens! " cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be? " And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother. "
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters. "--She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing? "
"We have been engaged these four years. "
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day. "
"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while. "
"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt? "
"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion.
"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him. "
"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars. "
"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends. "
"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name. "
"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it. "
She was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it.
"Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.
"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart. " Then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.--I have had it above these three years. "
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity. "
"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman. "
"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety. "
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke. "
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.
"Sometimes. " continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely. " As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself? "
"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you. "
"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill."
"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us? "
"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town? "
"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth. " She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits? " repeated Lucy.
"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived. "
"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible. "
Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even THAT. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him? "
"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.
However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.--Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time regain tranquillity; but HE, what had he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her--illiterate, artful, and selfish?
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.
If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!
As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house.
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support.
From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.
But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.
The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a round game.
"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it. "
This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper. "
"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes-- will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it done. "
Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse ME--you know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned. " And without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that SHE had never made so rude a speech.
"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard. "
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it. "
"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after all. "
"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele-- "Dear little soul, how I do love her! "
"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now? "
Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.
"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again. "
"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday. "
"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me? "
"And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am sure. "
"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother. "
"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know. "
"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed. "
Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.
"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first. "
"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first. "
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived. "
"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us. "
"But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth? "
"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures. "
"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason. "
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars? " asked Elinor.
"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother--silly and a great coxcomb. "
"A great coxcomb! " repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-- "Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say. "
"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are NOT great coxcombs. "
"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who SHE likes. "
"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's. "
Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto--
"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest. "
"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--THAT must be recommendation enough to her husband. "
"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into orders. "
"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little. "
They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh,
"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Miss Dashwood? "
"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes. "
"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately. "
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person. "
"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having. "
Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.
"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood? " said she with all her accustomary complacency.
"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them. "
"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do. "
"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it. "
Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on HER side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.
From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.
The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.
Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I DO beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford THAT. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it. "
"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss Dashwood about it. "
"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better. "
"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle. "
Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.
On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon HER account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation.
"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you SHOULD go to town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other. "
"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed. "
"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let me hear a word about the expense of it. "
"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence. "
"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton. "
"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said Marianne, "at least it need not prevent MY accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort. "
Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
"I will have you BOTH go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family. "
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not. "
Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue.
After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them.
Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.
Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal.
Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same. "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or two? "
"I am NOT going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is! " and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.
"Is your sister ill? " said he.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to Barton. "
This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today? "
"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been dining. "
"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time. "
"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow. "
"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends. "
He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and Marianne was obliged to appear again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come!
"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think he said when he heard of your coming with Mamma? I forget what it was now, but it was something so droll! "
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at first was induced to go likewise.
Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.
It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.
"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out? " said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the negative. "Are you quite sure of it? " she replied. "Are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note? "
The man replied that none had.
"How very odd! " said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window.
"How odd, indeed! " repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire; and how will MY interference be borne. "
She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.
"If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart. "
"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country. "
It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. "It is charming weather for THEM indeed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight! "
"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week. "
"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way. "
"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by this day's post. "
But if she DID, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost.
The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs. Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.
"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon. "
Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.
Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Barton.
About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive.
"Good God! " cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out. " Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow. " But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jenning's entrance, escaped with the precious card.
This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.
Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table,
"For me! " cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
"No, ma'am, for my mistress. "
But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking! "
"You are expecting a letter, then? " said Elinor, unable to be longer silent.
After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne. "
"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from YOU--you who have confidence in no one! "
"Me! " returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have nothing to tell. "
"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing. "
Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in Marianne.
Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.
Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.
Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough--HE was not there--and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come.
"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.
"I do not know. " And thus ended their discourse.
Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.
"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited. "
"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him somewhere in the street this morning. " Marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person.
About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him.
Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known. "
"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do not know it. "
He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of. "
"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned? "
"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it impossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains. "
These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.
He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away.
Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.
Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.
They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.
They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
"Good heavens! " she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him? "
"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet. "
This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature.
At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me? "
He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.
"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope. "
"But have you not received my notes? " cried Marianne in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter? "
He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend.
Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water.
"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him instantly.-- I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other.-- Oh go to him this moment. "
"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow. "
With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.
That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own wishes, SHE could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.
As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could ESTEEM Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby--in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him.
Before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,
"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all. "
The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby.
Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.
At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning's notice entirely to herself.
As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jenning's notice. That good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne disappeared, she said,
"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life! MY girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married? "
Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married. "
"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte. "
"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now. "
Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows:
"I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me.
With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever-- a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.
She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.
In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,
"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you! "
"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I COULD do, which might be of comfort to you. "
This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.
"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery while YOU suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself. "
"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, YOU cannot have an idea of what I suffer. "
"Do you call ME happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!--And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched! "
"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that? "
"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.
"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You CAN have no grief. "
"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state. "
"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can do away. "
"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period-- if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful. "
"Engagement! " cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement. "
"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith with me. "
"But he told you that he loved you. "
"Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never was. "
"Yes--could that be wrong after all that had passed?-- But I cannot talk. "
Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect.
"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.
Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Middletons', was in these words:--
"I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise.
The contents of her last note to him were these:--
"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.
That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.
"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other. "
"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the same. "
"He DID feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I ever forget his distress? "
For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,
"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby. "
"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been instigated? "
"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well? "
Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence. "
"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return mortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must be wretched--and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can. "
"But for my mother's sake and mine--"
"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable--Oh! who can require it? "
Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed--
"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me-- ought he not to have suspended his belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified? "
"No, Marianne, in no possible way. "
"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who is she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one--he talked to me only of myself. "
Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.
"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone to-morrow? "
"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and now who cares for me? Who regards me? "
"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that. "
"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. The Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would HE say to that! "
Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.
Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern.
"How do you do my dear? "--said she in a voice of great compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.
"How is she, Miss Dashwood?--Poor thing! she looks very bad.-- No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon--a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her. "
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.
Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less. " Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.
When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.
Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
"Poor soul! " cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! they care no more about such things!--"
"The lady then--Miss Grey I think you called her-- is very rich? "
"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age. "
"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be amiable? "
"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never agree. "--
"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a moment--"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for? "
"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest. "
"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow. "
"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer and Sir John against ever naming Mr. Willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe. "
"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what does talking ever do you know? "
"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do THIS justice to Mr. Willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister. "
"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter! "
Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we CAN but put Willoughby out of her head! "
"Ay, if we can do THAT, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon. " And then rising, she went away to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.
"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her.
"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed. " But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.
In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.
"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to your sister. "
"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself. "
Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister.
Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and whispered-- "The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear. "
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister.
"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed. "
"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first. "
"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man, whom I KNEW to be engaged--but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared. "
"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we DO know it all. This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it? "
"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian. "
"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation. "
"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think"--he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And your sister-- how did she--"
"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps--but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him. "
"Ah! " said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But your sister does not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do? "
"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could. "
He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.
From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes.
Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it. "
Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,
"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good. "
Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.
Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother.
In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.
"Who can this be? " cried Elinor. "So early too! I thought we HAD been safe. " Marianne moved to the window--
"It is Colonel Brandon! " said she, with vexation. "We are never safe from HIM. "
"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home. "
"I will not trust to THAT," retreating to her own room. "A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others. "
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon DID come in; and Elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw THAT solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.
"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object--my wish--my sole wish in desiring it--I hope, I believe it is--is to be a means of giving comfort;--no, I must not say comfort--not present comfort--but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for your mother--will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a VERY sincere regard--nothing but an earnest desire of being useful--I think I am justified--though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong? " He stopped.
"I understand you," said Elinor. "You have something to tell me of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne. MY gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and HERS must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it. "
"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but this will give you no idea--I must go farther back. You will find me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it SHALL be a short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little temptation to be diffuse. "
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on. "You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation-- (it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister Marianne. "
"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have NOT forgotten it. " He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,
"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married--married against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate! I have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one-- but had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was THAT which threw this gloom,--even now the recollection of what I suffered--"
He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned to England. My first care, when I DID arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I DID find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered--so faded--worn down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding her--but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it--I have pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was--yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her last moments. "
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as this--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at all! I WILL be more collected--more concise. She left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too. "
"Good heavens! " cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby! "--
"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but HAD he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who CAN feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her. "
"This is beyond every thing! " exclaimed Elinor.
"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it WAS known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister--but what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless WILL turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others. "
Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.
"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you left him at Barton? "
"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable. "
Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad. "
Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.
"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly have I discharged my trust! "
"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains. "
Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.
When the particulars of this conversation were repeated by Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt WAS carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might ONCE have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which SHE could wish her not to indulge!
Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.
From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.
She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother.
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest.
But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.
Sir John, could not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of it! "
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was. "
The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in ONE person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was ONE who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.
Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very shocking, indeed! " and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.
Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him. THESE assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and THESE gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to HER; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.
The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.
About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her STILL in town.
"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here STILL," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always thought I SHOULD. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you TOLD me, you know, at Barton, that you should not stay above a MONTH. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to YOUR WORD. "
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did NOT.
"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel? "
"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did. "
"Oh, oh! " cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is a single man, I warrant you. "
"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine. "
"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do-- the Doctor is the man, I see. "
"No, indeed! " replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of. "
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would NOT, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
"No, I do not think we shall. "
"Oh, yes, I dare say you will. "
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together! "
"Long a time, indeed! " interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is but just begun! "
"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss Steele. "I am sorry she is not well--" for Marianne had left the room on their arrival.
"You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation. "
"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me!--I think she might see US; and I am sure we would not speak a word. "
Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them.
"Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see HER. "
Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.
After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for them.
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.
Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.
At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.
Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother.
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive.
Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.
"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. THIS morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to THEM. As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand. "
"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express. "
"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you. "
Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door.
Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs. Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave.
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where. " Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to THEM, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to HIM.
After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began.
"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune? "
"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire. "
"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life. "
"Me, brother! what do you mean? "
"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune? "
"I believe about two thousand a year. "
"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were TWICE as much, for your sake. "
"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying ME. "
"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable-- you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that"--lowering his voice to an important whisper--"will be exceedingly welcome to ALL PARTIES. " Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day. "
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely. "
"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be married? "
"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here. "
He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say, "Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one. "
"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it HAS cost me a vast deal of money. "
"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth. "
"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great loss. "
"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is. "
"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances. "
"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out. "
"Where is the green-house to be? "
"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow. "
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.
Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous.--Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten.-- She must have a great deal to leave. "
"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her children. "
"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few people of common prudence will do THAT; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of. "
"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us? "
"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises. "
"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far. "
"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is the matter with Marianne?-- she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill? "
"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several weeks. "
"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of YOU, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne NOW, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if YOU do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors. "
Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.
They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both.
"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs. Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting HER, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both. "
Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world!
Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.
The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Jennings, and to HER she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.
Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The intelligence however, which SHE would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.
Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.
The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them-- a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing HER, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.
The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.
So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place.
Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.
On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly knew how she could bear it!
These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together.
The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.
"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood! " said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody here but you, that can feel for me.--I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on--that is to be my mother! "--
Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.
Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events.
Elinor could not NOW be made unhappy by this behaviour.-- A few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars' power to distress her by it now;-- and the difference of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-- for Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four.
Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.
The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it;-- no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared-- but there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want of elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen HAD supplied the discourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were nearly of the same age.
Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.
The parties stood thus: The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.
Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration.
"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well. "
The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by Miss Dashwood.
"Hum"--said Mrs. Ferrars--"very pretty,"--and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.
Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough,--for, colouring a little, she immediately said,
"They are very pretty, ma'am--an't they? " But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added,
"Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am?--She DOES paint most delightfully!--How beautifully her last landscape is done! "
"Beautifully indeed! But SHE does every thing well. "
Marianne could not bear this.--She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,
"This is admiration of a very particular kind!-- what is Miss Morton to us?--who knows, or who cares, for her?--it is Elinor of whom WE think and speak. "
And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter. "
Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.
Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice,
"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make YOU unhappy. " She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.--Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.--Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.
In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.
"Poor Marianne! " said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,-- "She has not such good health as her sister,--she is very nervous,--she has not Elinor's constitution;--and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who HAS BEEN a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne WAS remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.-- Now you see it is all gone. "
Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-- She had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable.-- She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;--and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her OWN sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she OUGHT to have rejoiced.
She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars;--that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was NOT ELINOR, appear a compliment to herself--or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.
The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was!--You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;-- but the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so?-- You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it? "
"She was certainly very civil to you. "
"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?-- I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and affability! "
Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on.--
"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was not the case"--
"I guessed you would say so"--replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was! "
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you an't well. "
"I never was in better health. "
"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I should be sorry to have YOU ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship. "--
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,
"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.--Poor Edward!--But now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;-- and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-- They are such charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high. "
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she SHOULD tell her sister. Lucy continued.
"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I mean--if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she DOES dislike, I know it is most violent. "
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's immediately walking in.
It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.--They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only LOOK her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.
Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that WAS said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.
Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and THAT in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.
"Dear Edward! " she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This would almost make amends for every thing? "
Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her.
"Oh, don't think of me! " she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of MY health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both. "
This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.
"Do you like London? " said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.
"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were! "
"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge. "
Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.
"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull!--But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now. "
And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
"But why were you not there, Edward?--Why did you not come? "
"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met? "
"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great. "
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,
"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!--Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation. "
The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
"Going so soon! " said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not be. "
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.
"What can bring her here so often? " said Marianne, on her leaving them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how teazing to Edward! "
"Why so?--we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves. "
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted. "
She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting--and this she had every reason to expect.
Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before.
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on THEIR ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but THAT did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given.
Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.
All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing DID disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world.
I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them.
Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her.
To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped HER minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests. "
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in England.
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they WERE different, Robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme GAUCHERIE which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,' I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented. ' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error. "
Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
"You reside in Devonshire, I think,"--was his next observation, "in a cottage near Dawlish. "
Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house.
"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage. ' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But how can it be done? ' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be? ' I immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon. ' Lady Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling. "
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition.
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jenning's engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.
"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews. But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from her? "
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection. "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations. "
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,
"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you DO like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry! "
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as THEIR visitor.
Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time.
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.
Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.
About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying,
"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news? "
"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.-- When I got to Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, be said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well. '"
"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord! ' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood ill? ' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy!--There's for you, my dear!--And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Nancy!--Could you have believed such a thing possible?-- There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!--THAT is strange!--I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter;-- till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord! ' thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity HER. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon HIS knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. THEN she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure SHE would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours--or a little bigger--with two maids, and two men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly. "
Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it.
She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For HIM she felt much compassion;-- for Lucy very little--and it cost her some pains to procure that little;--for the rest of the party none at all.
As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.
Elinor's office was a painful one.--She was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,--to give such particulars of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to HER fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.--THAT belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she HAD loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.--Marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,
"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you? "
"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement. "
At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--
"Four months!--Have you known of this four months? "
"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?--And I have reproached you for being happy! "--
"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse! "
"Four months! "--cried Marianne again.--"So calm!-- so cheerful!--how have you been supported? "--
"By feeling that I was doing my duty.--My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy. "
"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;-- but without betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you. "
"Four months!--and yet you loved him! "--
"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.--And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.-- Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to HER. "--
"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.--They are brought more within my comprehension. "
"I understand you.--You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.--For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-- It was told me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with triumph.-- This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.-- I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.--Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.-- I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.-- And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.-- If you can think me capable of ever feeling--surely you may suppose that I have suffered NOW. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion;--they did not spring up of themselves;-- they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.-- No, Marianne.--THEN, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not even what I owed to my dearest friends--from openly shewing that I was VERY unhappy. "--
"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.--How barbarous have I been to you!-- you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!--Is this my gratitude?--Is this the only return I can make you?--Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away. "
The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness;--to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her;--and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-- These were great concessions;--but where Marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.--She attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "Yes, ma'am. "--She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.--Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself.
The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife.
"You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday. "
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too--in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress--but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!-- meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them. '"
Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!--such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected ANY prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in THAT quarter. 'THERE, to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe. ' She was quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it. "
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible! "
"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural. "
Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.
"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might. "
"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband. "
John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,
"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one. "
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him.
"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end? "
"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-- Edward is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for WE of course can make no inquiry. "
"Poor young man!--and what is to become of him? "
"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds--how can a man live on it?--and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him. "
"Poor young man! " cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns. "
Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all--his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle THAT estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business. "
"Well! " said Mrs. Jennings, "that is HER revenge. Everybody has a way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me. "
Marianne got up and walked about the room.
"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely. "
A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and Edward's.
Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.
Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. THEY only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.
She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more.
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time.
The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. Mrs. Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke. "
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too, that she would tell any thing WITHOUT being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by the arm--"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world. " And then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is she angry? "
"Not at all, I believe, with you. "
"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is SHE angry? "
"I cannot suppose it possible that she should. "
"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There now, YOU are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it IS the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known he DID like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before them. "
She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first.
"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain. "
"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," said Elinor.
"Oh, did not you? But it WAS said, I know, very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for HER sake, and upon HER account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons. "
"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you? "
"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know better than that. (Laughing affectedly. )--No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door. "
"How! " cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister? "
"Oh, la! there is nothing in THAT. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said. "
Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan't say anything against them to YOU; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after THAT, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!--Good gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the world.-- 'La! ' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed! '"
"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. You have got your answer ready. "
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary.
"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here. Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on!--I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn. "
Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;--every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark.
"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how THAT will end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her.--Then they will have a child every year! and Lord help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I talked of t'other day.--No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works.-- Betty's sister would never do for them NOW. "
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself. It was as follows:
"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.--Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.--My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.
"Very well indeed!--how prettily she writes!--aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.--Poor soul! I wish I COULD get him a living, with all my heart.--She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.--Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of every body!--Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit. "
The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood;--but it was inforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.
When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious.
"Cleveland! "--she cried, with great agitation. "No, I cannot go to Cleveland. "--
"You forget," said Elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..."
"But it is in Somersetshire.--I cannot go into Somersetshire.--There, where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to go there. "
Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings;--she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others;--represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.
Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be;-- and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton.
"Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss Dashwoods;"--was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled--"for they are quite resolved upon going home from the Palmers;--and how forlorn we shall be, when I come back!--Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats. "
Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it;-- and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by the piano forte on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.-- Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think THAT any material objection;--and Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm voice,--
"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon. "
Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "Lord! what should hinder it? "--but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.
"This is very strange!--sure he need not wait to be older. "
This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard Elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to feel what she said,
"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you. " Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!--She had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor.
What had really passed between them was to this effect.
"I have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.-- Have I been rightly informed?--Is it so?--"
"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,"--he replied, with great feeling,--"of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible.-- Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing--what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance--but THAT, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable.-- It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 L per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him to it, will be very great. Pray assure him of it. "
Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;-- and SHE, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!--Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different cause;--but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from HER, she would have been very glad to be spared herself;-- but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and THEN it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent;--an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.
"The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income. "
By which the Colonel was surprised to find that SHE was considering Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on-- and he said so.
"This little rectory CAN do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good;--at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.--"
Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.
"Well, Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I TRIED to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart. "
"Thank you, ma'am," said Elinor. "It is a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life. "
"Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an't the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen. "
"You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur. "
"Opportunity! " repeated Mrs. Jennings--"Oh! as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them. "
"You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose," said Elinor, with a faint smile.
"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw. "
"He spoke of its being out of repair. "
"Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it?-- who should do it but himself? "
They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said,--
"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it. "
Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it at present to any body else. "
"Oh! very well," said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day. "
"No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else. I shall do THAT directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination. "
This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;--
"Oh, ho!--I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself?--sure, he is the proper person. "
Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion.
"Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself. "
"And so YOU are forced to do it. Well THAT is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write. ) You know your own concerns best. So goodby, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed. "
And away she went; but returning again in a moment,
"I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure. "
"Certainly, ma'am," replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.
How she should begin--how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.
He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business.
Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment.--Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair.
"Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least I understood her so--or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time--it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow. "
"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,
"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 be, 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 to 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.
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 scarcely 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 tete-a-tete 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? "
"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. "
"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. "
"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 her's, 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.
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.
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 of confidant of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at 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 a 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 of 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 every body, and the notice of herself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and 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.
Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.
A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs. Jennings's advice, of sending for the Palmers' apothecary.
He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on her baby's account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think Marianne's complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she THEN really believed herself, that it would be a very short one.
The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel Brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise.--Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
Marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seizure that Marianne would never get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Marianne no more.
On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Marianne would be able to travel.
But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.-- Towards the evening Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,--
"Not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton. "
"But she must not go round by London," cried Marianne, in the same hurried manner. "I shall never see her, if she goes by London. "
Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.
It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of:-- he listened to them in silent despondence;--but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon--or such a companion for her mother,--how gratefully was it felt!--a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!--as far as the shock of such a summons COULD be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.
HE, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor's, before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if HE could not come, for some other advice, when the former--but not till after five o'clock--arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.
With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Jennings's compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her;--and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to HER what Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in HER sufferings was very sincere.
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;-- but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had failed;--the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet--not more herself--remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Marianne's disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.
About noon, however, she began--but with a caution--a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend--to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse;--she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;--and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance;-- and Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch--she hardly knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment; and Marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock;--when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.
Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;-- but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was-- but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected back. At ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. The Colonel, too!--perhaps scarcely less an object of pity!--Oh!--how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!
At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs. Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much;-- and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow HER to take her place by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not. Marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers-- they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that she DID, in spite of the ALMOST impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door-- of her doubt--her dread--perhaps her despair!--and of what SHE had to tell!--with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.
Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication,
"Miss Dashwood, for half an hour--for ten minutes-- I entreat you to stay. "
"No, sir," she replied with firmness, "I shall NOT stay. Your business cannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house. "
"Had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. My business is with you, and only you. "
"With me! "--in the utmost amazement--"well, sir,-- be quick--and if you can--less violent. "
"Sit down, and I will be both. "
She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either.
"Pray be quick, sir,"--said Elinor, impatiently;-- "I have no time to spare. "
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her.
"Your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards--"is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised!--But is it true? is it really true? "
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.
"For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not? "
He rose up, and walked across the room.
"Had I known as much half an hour ago--But since I AM here,"--speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat--"what does it signify?--For once, Miss Dashwood--it will be the last time, perhaps--let us be cheerful together.--I am in a fine mood for gaiety.-- Tell me honestly"--a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks-- "do you think me most a knave or a fool? "
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think that he must be in liquor;--the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying,
"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe--I am not at leisure to remain with you longer.-- Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better recollected and explained to-morrow. "
"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk.-- A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me. "
"At Marlborough! "--cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at.
"Yes,--I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough. "
The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's recollection,
"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to feel, and I certainly DO--that after what has passed--your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse.--What is it, that you mean by it? "--
"I mean,"--said he, with serious energy--"if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do NOW. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma--from your sister. "
"Is this the real reason of your coming? "
"Upon my soul it is,"--was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere.
"If that is all, you may be satisfied already,-- for Marianne DOES--she has LONG forgiven you. "
"Has she? "--he cried, in the same eager tone.-- "Then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds.--NOW will you listen to me? "
"I do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,--"how YOU may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me.-- Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me,--it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind--It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what SHE was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection. "
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing.-- Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject. "
"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of;--and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty-- which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much--I was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.--But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not THEN know what it was to love. But have I ever known it?--Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice?--or, what is more, could I have sacrificed hers?-- But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing. "
"You did then," said Elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her? "
"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!--Is there a man on earth who could have done it?--Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even THEN, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here--nor will I stop for YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the interim--in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private-- a circumstance occurred--an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,"--here he hesitated and looked down.--"Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection--but I need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye--"your particular intimacy--you have probably heard the whole story long ago. "
"I have," returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "I have heard it all. And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension. "
"Remember," cried Willoughby, "from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge--that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding--I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish--I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me--(may I say it? ) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind--Oh! how infinitely superior! "--
"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl--I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be--your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence. "
"But, upon my soul, I did NOT know it," he warmly replied; "I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out. "
"Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith? "
"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world--every thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not be--and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this affair--I was to go the next morning-- was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great--but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me--it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A heavy scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire;--I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable--and left her hoping never to see her again. "
"Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby? " said Elinor, reproachfully; "a note would have answered every purpose.-- Why was it necessary to call? "
"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself-- and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right! A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately--I never shall forget it--united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!--Oh, God!--what a hard-hearted rascal I was! "
They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.
"Did you tell her that you should soon return? "
"I do not know what I told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it.--It won't do.--Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it DID torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. My journey to town--travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously--no creature to speak to--my own reflections so cheerful--when I looked forward every thing so inviting!--when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!--oh, it was a blessed journey! "
"Well, sir," said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this is all? "
"Ah!--no,--have you forgot what passed in town?-- That infamous letter--Did she shew it you? "
"Yes, I saw every note that passed. "
"When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time,) what I felt is-- in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one--perhaps too simple to raise any emotion-- my feelings were very, very painful.--Every line, every word was--in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid--a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was--in the same language-- a thunderbolt.--Thunderbolts and daggers!--what a reproof would she have given me!--her taste, her opinions--I believe they are better known to me than my own,--and I am sure they are dearer. "
Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;--yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
"This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.--Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear. "
"Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married. '-- But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But every thing was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley Street;--but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name. "
"Watched us out of the house! "
"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.--Had he NOT told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne-- still affectionate, open, artless, confiding--everything that could make MY conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried--but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you CAN pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN. With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!--Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut!--what an evening of agony it was!-- Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone!--Oh, God!--holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face!--and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was--Well, it does not signify; it is over now.-- Such an evening!--I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as white as death.--THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;-- the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight!--yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue. "
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:
"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger? "
"Your poor mother, too!--doting on Marianne. "
"But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that? "
"Yes, yes, THAT in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons,--and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine--and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion--her malice--At all events it must be appeased. And, in short--what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing?--delicate--tender-- truly feminine--was it not? "
"Your wife!--The letter was in your own hand-writing. "
"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own--her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!--we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed--But I am talking like a fool. Preparation!--day!--In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched?--It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.-- 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion--' said I to myself--'I am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one. ' Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes--unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever--I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair--that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,--the dear lock--all, every memento was torn from me. "
"You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable," said Elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne--nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience. "
"Do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.-- "She does not deserve your compassion.--She knew I had no regard for her when we married.--Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.--And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood?--or have I said all this to no purpose?-- Am I--be it only one degree--am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before?--My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt? "
"Yes, you have certainly removed something--a little.-- You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know--the misery that you have inflicted--I hardly know what could have made it worse. "
"Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been telling you?--Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence--tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever. "
"I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness. "
"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was--for the first time these two months--he spoke to me.--That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to--though probably he did not think it WOULD--vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland--a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent--the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c.--I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying--and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments--for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? ONE person I was sure would represent me as capable of any thing-- What I felt was dreadful!--My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all. "
Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain--Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said--
"There is no use in staying here; I must be off. "
"Are you going back to town? "
"No--to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye. "
He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers's;--he pressed it with affection.
"And you DO think something better of me than you did? "--said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.
Elinor assured him that she did;--that she forgave, pitied, wished him well--was even interested in his happiness--and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging.
"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means--it may put me on my guard--at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again--"
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
"Well,"--he replied--"once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event. "
"You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now. "
"But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear--but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,--God bless you! "
And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister.
Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself--to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.
When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.--Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for Elinor; but SHE, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief;-- and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend;-- and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep;-- but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood WOULD sit up with her all night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to HIS sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby's death.
The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.
Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her;-- and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
"At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself. "
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.
"You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two. "
Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given;--but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child;--he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy--or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose--giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her. "
Here, however, Elinor perceived,--not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
"His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant--which ever we are to call it-- has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!--and without selfishness--without encouraging a hope!--could he have seen her happy with another--Such a noble mind!-- such openness, such sincerity!--no one can be deceived in HIM. "
"Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established. "
"I know it is"--replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men. "
"His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on ONE act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him?--Did you allow him to hope? "
"Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Marianne might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend--not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I DID say, for at first I was quite overcome--that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything;--Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as Willoughby.-- His own merits must soon secure it. "
"To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine. "
"No.--He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed;--and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so handsome as Willoughby--but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance.-- There was always a something,--if you remember,--in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like. "
Elinor could NOT remember it;--but her mother, without waiting for her assent, continued,
"And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness--often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with HIM, as she will be with Colonel Brandon. "
She paused.--Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
"At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs. Dashwood, "even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability,--for I hear it is a large village,--indeed there certainly MUST be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation. "
Poor Elinor!--here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!--but her spirit was stubborn.
"His fortune too!--for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about THAT;--and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, I am sure it must be a good one. "
Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.
His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned.
At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On HER measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.
The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.
The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much.
The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.
"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want. "
Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.
Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said,
"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby. "
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor? "-- hesitatingly it was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do. "--
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"--
She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy. "
"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;-- for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to"--
"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour? "
"I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle. "
Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger health;-- and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them. "
"Do you compare your conduct with his? "
"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours. "
"Our situations have borne little resemblance. "
"They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had I died,-- in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you,--you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?--No;-- not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for or I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake. "
Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied,
"You are very good.--The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance. As for Willoughby--to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment. "
She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart, everything would become easy. "
Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.
Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.
Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt;--she was sorry for him;--she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled.--Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken--a character unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Colonel Brandon.
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself--had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of Willoughby's deserts;-- she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again;-- but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting--her rising colour, as she spoke,-- and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed.
"I wish to assure you both," said she, "that I see every thing--as you can desire me to do. "
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued--
"It is a great relief to me--what Elinor told me this morning--I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear. "--For some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before--"I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this.--I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings. "
"I know it--I know it," cried her mother. "Happy with a man of libertine practices!--With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt. "
Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change. "
"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the LESS grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. YOUR sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that-- and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?-- Beyond THAT, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge HIS enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties? "
Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish? " in a tone that implied--"do you really think him selfish? "
"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle. "
"It is very true. MY happiness never was his object. "
"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife. "
"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to regret--nothing but my own folly. "
"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood; "SHE must be answerable. "
Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued,
"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents. "
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.
Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.
Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:-- "We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;" which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication--
"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married. "
Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
"Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas? "
"I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you. "
"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas? "
"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy. "
"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her? "
"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking. "
Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.
"Was there no one else in the carriage? "
"Do you know where they came from? "
"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy-- Mrs. Ferrars told me. "
"And are they going farther westward? "
"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here. "
Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.
Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hear more.
"Did you see them off, before you came away? "
"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late. "
"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well? "
"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented. "
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before.
When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;-- that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.
That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. What had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!
They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.--Delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;-- pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward--she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;--happy or unhappy,--nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.
"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am? " was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day. "
This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to give.
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopt at their gate. It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it. But--it was NOT Colonel Brandon--neither his air--nor his height. Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;--she could not be mistaken,--it WAS Edward. She moved away and sat down. "He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I WILL be calm; I WILL be mistress of myself. "
In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.
His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.
Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.
Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said,
"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple? "
"At Longstaple! " he replied, with an air of surprise.-- "No, my mother is in town. "
"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire for Mrs. EDWARD Ferrars. "
She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,--
"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. ROBERT Ferrars. "
"Mrs. Robert Ferrars! "--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak, even HER eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,
"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele. "
His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.
"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish. "
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw-- or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village--leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;--a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.
Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;--for after experiencing the blessings of ONE imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of THAT, than the immediate contraction of another.
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor to marry him;--and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said;--that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love;-- and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness;--and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
His heart was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
"It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world-- and want of employment. Had my brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think--nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too--at least I thought so THEN; and I had seen so little of other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly. "
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the Dashwoods, was such--so great--as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
Marianne could speak HER happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur--regrets would arise;--and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
But Elinor--how are HER feelings to be described?--From the moment of learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw him honourably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity;-- and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different. Between THEM no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.
"THAT was exactly like Robert,"--was his immediate observation.--"And THAT," he presently added, "might perhaps be in HIS head when the acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterward arise. "
How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor's hands.
"Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,
"I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls--but the ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep. "
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.--"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by YOU in former days.--In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!--how I have blushed over the pages of her writing!--and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our foolish--business--this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style. "
"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her. "
"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite.--She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner. "
In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking THAT fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he DID, and he said it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions-- they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living. "
"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry YOU than be single. "
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect WHAT, as you were THEN situated, could never be. "
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
"I was simple enough to think, that because my FAITH was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I WAS wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but myself. "
Elinor smiled, and shook her head. Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present," said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering. "
NOW he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. But so little interest had be taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life.
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on THAT he rested for the residue of their income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing Lucy Steele, she feared that Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
About four days after Edward's arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast.
A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet reached him:--he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor.
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion that mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford.-- "I do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven shillings in the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him. "
Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family.-- He thus continued:
"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children. "
This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
"A letter of proper submission! " repeated he; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to HER, and breach of honour to ME?--I can make no submission--I am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.--I am grown very happy; but that would not interest.--I know of no submission that IS proper for me to make. "
"You may certainly ask to be forgiven," said Elinor, "because you have offended;--and I should think you might NOW venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's anger. "
"And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in HER eyes as the first. "
He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go to London, and personally intreat her good offices in his favour.-- "And if they really DO interest themselves," said Marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are not entirely without merit. "
After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted Barton together.-- They were to go immediately to Delaford, that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.
After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.
In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;--told him, that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;-- and enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than THREE; but when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.
What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with Fanny.
It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.
With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton church early in the autumn.
The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;-- could chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.
They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.
"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford House, "THAT would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--I have not seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in Delaford Hanger!--And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him-- yet I think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen--for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth;-- in short, you may as well give her a chance--You understand me. "--
But though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference. THAT was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.
The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred;--for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What immediately followed is known. They passed some months in great happiness at Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages;-- and from thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.
What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all.
With such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else--burst on her--what could she do?
Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!--and THAT other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,-- she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.
Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every past affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.
Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
For Marianne, however--in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss--he always retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman;-- and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover.
Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.
La familia Dashwood llevaba largo tiempo afincada en Sussex. Su propiedad era de buen tamaño, y en el centro de ella se encontraba la residencia, Norland Park, donde la manera tan digna en que habían vivido por muchas generaciones llegó a granjearles el respeto de todos los conocidos del lugar. El último dueño de esta propiedad había sido un hombre soltero, que alcanzó una muy avanzada edad, y que durante gran parte de su existencia tuvo en su hermana una fiel compañera y ama de casa. Pero la muerte de ella, ocurrida diez años antes que la suya, produjo grandes alteraciones en su hogar. Para compensar tal pérdida, invitó y recibió en su casa a la familia de su sobrino, el señor Henry Dashwood, el legítimo heredero de la finca Norland y la persona a quien se proponía dejarla en su testamento. En compañía de su sobrino y sobrina, y de los hijos de ambos, la vida transcurrió confortablemente para el anciano caballero. Su apego a todos ellos fue creciendo con el “tiempo. La constante atención que el señor Henry Dashwood y su esposa prestaban a sus deseos, nacida no del mero interés sino de la bondad de sus corazones, hizo su vida confortable en todo aquello que, por su edad, podía convenirle; y la alegría de los niños añadía nuevos deleites a su existencia.
De un matrimonio anterior, el señor Henry Dashwood tenía un hijo; y de su esposa actual, tres hijas. El hijo, un joven serio y respetable, tenía el futuro asegurado por la fortuna de su madre, que era cuantiosa, y de cuya mitad había entrado en posesión al cumplir su mayoría de edad. Además, su propio matrimonio, ocurrido poco después, lo hizo más rico aún. Para él, entonces, el legado de la finca Norland no era en verdad tan importante como para sus hermanas; pues ellas, independientemente de lo que pudiera llegarles si su padre heredaba esa propiedad, eran de fortuna que no puede considerarse sino escasa. Su madre no tenía nada, y el padre sólo podía disponer de siete mil libras, porque de la restante mitad de la fortuna de su primera esposa también era beneficiario el hijo, y él sólo tenía derecho al usufructo de ese patrimonio mientras viviera.
Murió el anciano caballero, se leyó su testamento y, como casi todos los testamentos, éste dio por igual desilusiones y alegrías. En su última voluntad no fue ni tan injusto ni tan desagradecido como para privar a su sobrino de las tierras, pero se las dejó en términos tales que destruían la mitad del valor del legado. El señor Dashwood había deseado esas propiedades más por el bienestar de su esposa e hijas que para sí mismo y su hijo; sin embargo, la herencia estaba asignada a su hijo, y al hijo de éste, un niño de cuatro años, de tal manera que a él le quitaban toda posibilidad de velar por aquellos que más caros le eran y que más necesitaban de apoyo, ya sea a través de un eventual gravamen sobre las propiedades o la venta de sus valiosos bosques. Se habían tomado las provisiones necesarias para asegurar que todo fuera en beneficio de este niño, el cual, en sus ocasionales visitas a Norland con su padre y su madre, había conquistado el afecto de su tío con aquellos rasgos seductores que no suelen escasear en los niños de dos o tres años: una pronunciación imperfecta, el inquebrantable deseo de hacer siempre su voluntad, incontables jugarretas y artimañas y ruido por montones, gracias que finalmente terminaron por desplazar el valor de todas las atenciones que, durante años, había recibido el caballero de su sobrina y de las hijas de ésta. No era su intención, sin embargo, faltar a la bondad, y como señal de su afecto por las tres niñas le dejó mil libras a cada una.
En un comienzo la desilusión del señor Dashwood fue profunda; pero era de temperamento alegre y confiado; razonablemente podía esperar vivir muchos años y, haciéndolo de manera sobria, ahorrar una suma considerable de la renta de una propiedad ya de buen tamaño, y capaz de casi inmediato incremento. Pero la fortuna, que había tardado tanto en llegar, fue suya durante sólo un año. No fue más lo que sobrevivió a su tío, y diez mil libras, incluidos los últimos legados, fue todo lo que quedó para su viuda e hijas.
Tan pronto se supo que la vida del señor Dashwood peligraba, enviaron por su hijo y a él le encargó el padre, con la intensidad y urgencia que la enfermedad hacía necesarias, el bienestar de su madrastra y hermanas.
El señor John Dashwood no tenía la profundidad de sentimientos del resto de la familia, pero sí le afectó una recomendación de tal índole en un momento como ése, y prometió hacer todo lo que le fuera posible por el bienestar de sus parientes. El padre se sintió tranquilo ante tal promesa, y el señor John Dashwood se entregó entonces sin prisa a considerar cuánto podría prudentemente hacer por ellas.
No era John Dashwood un joven mal dispuesto, a menos que ser algo frío de corazón y un poco egoísta sea tener mala disposición; pero en general era respetado, porque se comportaba con corrección en el desempeño de sus deberes corrientes. De haber desposado una mujer más amable, podría haber llegado a ser más respetable de lo que era -incluso él mismo podría haberse transformado en alguien amable-, porque era muy joven cuando se casó y le tenía mucho cariño a su esposa. Pero la señora de John Dashwood era una áspera caricatura de su esposo, más estrecha de mente y más egoísta que él.
Al hacer la promesa a su padre, había sopesado en su interior la posibilidad de aumentar la fortuna de sus hermanas obsequiándoles mil libras a cada una. En ese momento realmente se sintió a la altura de tal cometido. La perspectiva de aumentar sus ingresos actuales con cuatro mil libras anuales, que venían a sumarse a la mitad restante de la fortuna de su propia madre, le alegraba el corazón y lo hacía sentirse muy generoso. “Sí, les daría tres mil libras: ¡Cuán espléndido y dadivoso gesto! Bastaría para dejarlas en completa holgura. ¡Tres mil libras! Podía desprenderse de tan considerable suma con casi ningún inconveniente.” Pensó en ello durante todo el día, y durante muchos días sucesivos, y no se arrepintió.
No bien había terminado el funeral de su padre cuando la esposa de John Dashwood, sin haber dado aviso alguno de sus intenciones a su suegra, llegó con su hijo y sus criados. Nadie podía discutirle su derecho a venir: la casa pertenecía a su esposo desde el momento mismo de la muerte de su padre. Pero eso mismo agravaba la falta de delicadeza de su conducta, y no se necesitaba ninguna sensibilidad especial para que cualquier mujer en la situación de la señora Dashwood se sintiera enormemente agraviada por ello; en ella, sin embargo, había un tan alto sentido del honor, una generosidad tan romántica, que cualquier ofensa de ese tipo, ejercida o recibida por quienquiera que fuese, se transformaba en fuente de imborrable disgusto. La señora de John Dashwood nunca había contado con el especial favor de nadie en la familia de su esposo; pero, hasta el momento, no había tenido oportunidad de mostrarles con cuán poca consideración por el bienestar de otras personas podía actuar cuando la ocasión lo requería.
Sintió la señora Dashwood de manera tan aguda este descortés proceder, y tan intenso desdén hacia su nuera le produjo, que a la llegada de esta última habría abandonado la casa para siempre de no haber sido porque, primero, la súplica de su hija mayor la llevó a reflexionar sobre la conveniencia de hacerlo; y, más tarde, por el tierno amor que sentía por sus tres hijas, que la decidió a quedarse y por ellas evitar una ruptura con el hermano.
Elinor, esta hija mayor cuya recomendación había sido tan eficaz, poseía una solidez de entendimiento y serenidad de juicio que la calificaban, aunque con sólo diecinueve años, para aconsejar a su madre, y a menudo le permitían contrarrestar, para beneficio de toda la familia, esa vehemencia de espíritu en la señora Dashwood que tantas veces pudo llevarla a la imprudencia. Era de gran corazón, de carácter afectuoso y sentimientos profundos. Pero sabía cómo gobernarlos: algo que su madre todavía estaba por aprender, y que una de sus hermanas había resuelto que nunca se le enseñara.
Las cualidades de Marianne estaban, en muchos aspectos, a la par de las de Elinor. Tenía inteligencia y buen juicio, pero era vehemente en todo; ni sus penas ni sus alegrías conocían la moderación. Era generosa, amable, atrayente: era todo, menos prudente. La semejanza entre ella y su madre era notable.
Preocupaba a Elinor la excesiva sensibilidad de su hermana, la misma que la señora Dashwood valoraba y apreciaba. En las actuales circunstancias, una a otra se incitaban a vivir su aflicción sin permitir que amainara su violencia. Voluntariamente renovaban, buscaban, recreaban una y otra vez la agonía de pesadumbre que las había abrumado en un comienzo. Se entregaban por completo a su pena, buscando aumentar su desdicha en cada imagen capaz de reflejarla, y decidieron jamás admitir consuelo en el futuro. También Elinor estaba profundamente afligida, pero aún podía luchar, y esforzarse. Podía consultar con su hermano, y recibir a su cuñada a su llegada y ofrecerle la debida atención; y podía luchar por inducir a su madre a similares esfuerzos y animarla a alcanzar semejante dominio sobre sí misma.
Margaret, la otra hermana, era una niña alegre y de buen carácter, pero como ya había absorbido una buena dosis de las ideas románticas de Marianne, sin poseer demasiado de su sensatez, a los trece años no prometía igualar a sus hermanas mayores en posteriores etapas de su vida.
La señora de John Dashwood se instaló como dueña y señora de Norland, y su suegra y cuñadas descendieron a la categoría de visitantes. En tanto tales, sin embargo, las trataba con tranquila urbanidad, y su marido con tanta bondad como le era posible sentir hacia cualquiera más allá de sí mismo, su esposa e hijo. Realmente les insistió, con alguna tenacidad, para que consideraran Norland como su hogar; y dado que ningún proyecto le parecía tan conveniente a la señora Dashwood como permanecer allí hasta acomodarse en una casa de la vecindad, aceptó su invitación.
Quedarse en un lugar donde todo le recordaba antiguos deleites, era exactamente lo que sentaba a su mente. En los buenos tiempos, nadie tenía un temperamento más alegre que el de ella o poseía en mayor grado esa optimista expectativa de felicidad que es la felicidad misma. Pero también en la pena se dejaba llevar por la fantasía, y se hacía tan inaccesible al consuelo como en el placer estaba más allá de toda moderación.
La señora de John Dashwood no aprobaba en absoluto lo que su esposo se proponía hacer por sus hermanas. Disminuir en tres mil libras la fortuna de su querido muchachito significaría empobrecerlo de la manera más atroz. Le imploró pensarlo mejor. ¿Cómo podría justificarse ante sí mismo si privara a su hijo, su único hijo, de tan enorme suma? ¿Y qué derecho podían tener las señoritas Dashwood, que eran sólo sus medias hermanas -lo que para ella significaba que no eran realmente parientes-, a exigir de su generosidad una cantidad tan grande? Era bien sabido que no se podía esperar ninguna clase de afecto entre los hijos de distintos matrimonios de un hombre; y, ¿por qué habían de arruinarse, él y su pobrecito Harry, regalándoles a sus medias hermanas todo su dinero?
-Fue la última petición de mi padre -respondió su esposo-, que yo ayudara a su viuda y a sus hijas.
-Me atrevería a decir que no sabía de qué estaba hablando; diez a uno a que le estaba fallando la cabeza en ese momento. Si hubiera estado en sus cabales no podría habérsele ocurrido pedirte algo así, que despojaras a tu propio hijo de la mitad de tu fortuna.
-Mi querida Fanny, él no estipuló ninguna cantidad en particular; tan sólo me pidió, en términos generales, que las apoyara e hiciera de su situación algo más desahogada de lo que estaba en sus manos hacer. Quizá habría sido mejor que dejara todo a mi criterio. Difícilmente habría podido suponer que yo las abandonaría a su suerte. Pero como él quiso que se lo prometiera, no pude menos que hacerlo. Al menos, fue lo que pensé en ese momento. Existió, así, la promesa, y debe ser cumplida. Algo hay que hacer por ellas cuando dejen Norland y se establezcan en un nuevo hogar.
-Está bien, entonces, hay que hacer algo por ellas; pero ese algo no necesita ser tres mil libras. Ten en cuenta -agregó- que cuando uno se desprende del dinero, nunca más lo recupera. Tus hermanas se casarán, y se habrá ido para siempre. Si siquiera algún día se lo pudieran devolver a nuestro pobre hijito...
-Pero, por supuesto -dijo su esposo con gran seriedad-, eso cambiaría todo. Puede llegar un momento en que Harry lamente haberse separado de una suma tan grande. Si, por ejemplo, llegara a tener una familia numerosa, sería un muy conveniente suplemento a sus rentas.
-Quizá, entonces, sería mejor para todos si se disminuyera la cantidad a la mitad. Quinientas libras significarían un portentoso incremento en sus fortunas.
-¡Ah, más allá de todo lo que pudiera imaginarse! ¡Qué persona en el mundo haría siquiera la mitad por sus hermanas, incluso si fuesen verdaderas hermanas! Y en este caso... ¡sólo medias hermanas! Pero, ¡tienes un espíritu tan generoso!
-No querría hacer nada mezquino -respondió él-. En estas ocasiones, uno preferiría hacer demasiado antes que muy poco. Al menos, nadie puede pensar que no he hecho suficiente por ellas; incluso ellas mismas, difícilmente pueden esperar más.
-Imposible saber qué podrían esperar ellas -dijo la señora-, pero no nos corresponde pensar en sus expectativas. El punto es qué puedes permitirte hacer.
-Indudablemente, y creo que puedo permitirme darle quinientas libras a cada una. Tal como están las cosas, sin que yo agregue nada, cada una tendrá más de tres mil libras a la muerte de su madre: una fortuna muy satisfactoria para cualquier mujer joven.
-Claro que lo es; y, en verdad, se me ocurre que quizá no quieran ninguna suma adicional. Tendrán diez mil libras entre las tres. Si se casan, seguramente harán un buen matrimonio; y si no lo hacen, pueden vivir juntas de manera muy holgada con los intereses de las diez mil libras.
-Absolutamente cierto, y, por lo tanto, no sé si, considerándolo todo, no sería más aconsejable hacer algo por su madre mientras viva, antes que por ellas; algo como una pensión anual, quiero decir. Mis hermanas percibirían los beneficios tanto como ella. Cien libras al año las mantendrían en una perfecta holgura.
Su esposa dudó un tanto, sin embargo, en dar su aprobación a este plan.
-De todas maneras dijo-, es mejor que separarse de quinientas libras de una vez. Pero si la señora Dashwood vive quince años más, eso se va a transformar en un abuso.
-¡Quince años! Mi querida Fanny, su vida no puede valer ni la mitad de tal cantidad.
-Por supuesto que no; pero, si te fijas, la gente siempre vive eternamente cuando hay una pensión de por medio; y ella es muy fuerte y saludable, y apenas ha cumplido los cuarenta. Una pensión anual es asunto muy serio; se repite año tras año y no hay forma de librarse de ella. Uno no se da cuenta de lo que hace. Yo sí he conocido bastante los problemas que acarrean las pensiones anuales, porque mi madre se encontraba maniatada por la obligación de pagarlas a tres antiguos sirvientes jubilados, según mi padre lo había establecido en su testamento. Es increíble cuán desagradable lo encontraba. Dos veces al año había que pagar estas pensiones; y, además, estaba el problema de hacérsela llegar a cada uno; luego se dijo que uno de ellos había muerto, y después resultó que no había tal. A mi madre le enfermaba todo el asunto. Sus entradas no eran de ella, decía, con estas perpetuas demandas; y había sido muy poco considerado de parte de mi padre, porque, de otra forma, el dinero habría estado por completo a disposición de mi madre, sin restricción alguna. De allí me ha venido tal aborrecimiento a las pensiones, que estoy segura de que por nada del mundo me ataré al pago de una.
-En verdad es desagradable -replicó el señor Dashwood- que cada año se escurra de esa forma parte del ingreso de uno. Los bienes con que uno cuenta, como tan justamente dice tu madre, no son de uno. Estar obligado a pagar regularmente una suma como ésa en fechas fijas, no es para nada deseable: lo priva a uno de su independencia.
-Indudablemente; y, después de todo, nadie te lo agradece. Sienten que están asegurados, no haces más de lo que se espera de ti y ello no despierta ninguna gratitud. Si estuviera en tu lugar, para cualquier cosa que hiciera me guiaría por mi solo criterio. No me comprometería a darles nada todos los años. Algunos años puede ser muy inconveniente desprenderse de cien, o incluso de cincuenta libras, sacándolas de nuestros propios gastos.
-Creo que tienes razón, mi amor; será mejor que no haya ninguna renta anual en este caso; lo que sea que les pueda dar ocasionalmente será de mucho mayor ayuda que una asignación anual, porque si se sintieran seguras de un ingreso mayor sólo elevarían su estilo de vida, y con ello no serían un penique más ricas al final del año. De todas maneras, será lo mejor. Un regalo de cincuenta libras de vez en cuando impedirá que se aflijan por asuntos de dinero, y pienso que saldará ampliamente la promesa hecha a mi padre.
-Por supuesto que lo hará. A decir verdad, estoy íntimamente convencida de que la idea de tu padre no era en absoluto que les dieras dinero. Me atrevo a decir que la ayuda en que pensaba era lo que razonablemente podría esperarse de ti; por ejemplo, cosas como buscar una casa pequeña y cómoda para ellas, ayudarlas a trasladar sus enseres, enviarles algún presente de pesca y caza, o algo así, siempre que sea la temporada. Apostaría mi vida a que no estaba pensando en más que eso; en verdad, sería bastante raro e improcedente si hubiera pretendido otra cosa. Si no, piensa, mi querido señor Dashwood, cuán holgadas pueden vivir tu madre y sus hijas con los intereses de siete mil libras, además de las mil libras de cada una de las niñas, que les aportan cincuenta libras anuales por persona; y, por supuesto, de allí le pagarán a su madre por su alojamiento. Entre todas juntarán quinientas libras anuales, y ¿se te ocurre para qué van a querer más cuatro mujeres? ¡Les saldrá tan barato vivir! El mantenimiento de la casa será una nada. No tendrán carruajes ni caballos, y casi ningún sirviente; no recibirán visitas, ¡y qué gastos van a tener! ¡Tan sólo piensa en lo bien que van a estar! ¡Quinientas anuales! No puedo ni imaginar cómo gastarán siquiera la mitad; y en cuanto a que les des más, es harto absurdo pensarlo. Estarán en mucho mejores condiciones de darte a ti algo.
-A fe mía -dijo el señor Dashwood-, creo que tienes toda la razón. De todas maneras, con su petición mi padre no puede haber querido decir sino lo que tú señalas. Me parece muy claro ahora, y cumpliré estrictamente mi compromiso con algunas ayudas y gentilezas como las que has descrito. Cuando mi madre se traslade a otra casa, me pondré a su servicio en todo lo que me sea posible para acomodarla. Quizá en ese momento también sea adecuado hacerle un pequeño obsequio, como algún mueble.
-Por supuesto -replicó la señora Dashwood-. Pero, no obstante, hay una cosa que debe tenerse en cuenta. Cuando tu padre y madre se trasladaron a Norland, aunque vendieron el mobiliario de Stanhill, guardaron toda la vajilla, cubiertos y mantelería, que ahora han quedado para tu madre. Y así, apenas se cambien tendrán su casa casi completamente equipada.
-Indudablemente, ésa es una reflexión de la mayor importancia. ¡Un legado valioso, claro que sí! Y parte de la platería habría sido aquí una muy grata adición a la nuestra.
-Sí; y la vajilla para el desayuno es doblemente hermosa que la de esta casa. Demasiado hermosa, a mi juicio, para los lugares en que ellas pueden permitirse vivir. Pero, de cualquier modo, así es la cosa. Tu padre sólo pensó en ellas. Y debo decir esto: no le debes a él ninguna gratitud en especial, ni estás obligado con sus deseos, porque bien sabemos que, si hubiera podido, les habría dejado casi todo lo que poseía en el mundo a ellas.
Este argumento fue irresistible. En él encontró John Dashwood toda la fuerza que antes le había faltado para llevar a cabo sus propósitos; y, por último, resolvió que sería por completo innecesario, si no totalmente inadecuado, hacer más por la viuda y las hijas de su padre que esos gestos de buena vecindad que su propia esposa le había indicado.
La señora Dashwood permaneció en Norland durante varios meses, y ello no porque no deseara salir de allí una vez que los lugares que tan bien conocía dejaron de despertarle la violenta emoción que durante un tiempo le habían producido; pues cuando su ánimo comenzó a revivir y su mente pudo dedicarse a algo más que agudizar su dolor mediante recuerdos tristes, se llenó de impaciencia por partir e infatigablemente se dedicó a averiguar por alguna residencia adecuada en las vecindades de Norland, ya que le era imposible irse lejos de ese tan amado lugar. Pero no le llegaba noticia alguna de lugares que a la vez satisficieran sus nociones de comodidad y bienestar y se adecuaran a la prudencia de su hija mayor, que con más sensato juicio rechazó varias casas que su madre habría aprobado, considerándolas demasiado grandes para sus ingresos.
La señora Dashwood había sido informada por su esposo respecto de la solemne promesa hecha por su hijo en favor de ella y sus hijas, la cual había llenado de consuelo sus últimos pensamientos en la tierra. Ella no dudaba de la sinceridad de este compromiso más de lo que el difunto había dudado, y sentía al respecto gran satisfacción, sobre todo pensando en el bienestar de sus hijas; por su parte, sin embargo, estaba convencida de que mucho menos de siete mil libras como capital le permitirían vivir en la abundancia. También se regocijaba por el hermano de sus hijas, por la bondad de ese hermano, y se reprochaba no haber hecho justicia a sus méritos antes, al creerlo incapaz de generosidad. Su atento comportamiento hacia ella y sus hermanas la convencieron de que su bienestar era caro a sus ojos y, durante largo tiempo, confió firmemente en la generosidad de sus intenciones.
El desdén que, muy al comienzo de su relación, había sentido por su nuera, aumentó considerablemente al conocer mejor su carácter tras ese medio año de vivir con ella y su familia; y, quizá, a pesar de todas las muestras de cortesía y afecto maternal que ella le había demostrado, las dos damas habrían encontrado imposible vivir juntas durante tanto tiempo, de no haber ocurrido una circunstancia particular que hizo más aceptable, en opinión de la señora Dashwood, la permanencia de sus hijas en Norland.
Esta circunstancia fue un creciente afecto entre su hija mayor y el hermano de la señora de John Dashwood, un joven caballeroso y agradable que les fue presentado poco después de la llegada de su hermana a Norland y que desde entonces había pasado gran parte del tiempo allí.
Algunas madres podrían haber alentado esa intimidad guiadas por el interés, dado que Edward Ferrars era el hijo mayor de un hombre que había muerto muy rico; y otras la habrían reprimido por motivos de prudencia, ya que, excepto por una suma baladí, la totalidad de su fortuna dependía de la voluntad de su madre. Pero ninguna de esas consideraciones pesó en la señora Dashwood. Le bastaba que él pareciera afable, que amara a su hija y que esa simpatía fuera recíproca. Era contrario a todas sus creencias el que la diferencia de fortuna debiera mantener separada a una pareja atraída por la semejanza de sus naturalezas; y que los méritos de Elinor no fueran reconocidos por quienes la conocían, le parecía inconcebible.
No fueron dones especiales en su apariencia o trato los que hicieron merecedor a Edward Ferrars de la buena opinión de la señora Dashwood y sus hijas. No era bien parecido y sólo en la intimidad llegaba a mostrar cuán agradable podía ser su trato. Era demasiado inseguro para hacerse justicia a sí mismo; pero cuando vencía su natural timidez, su comportamiento revelaba un corazón franco y afectuoso. Era de buen entendimiento y la educación le había dado una mayor solidez en ese aspecto. Pero ni sus habilidades ni su inclinación lo dotaban para satisfacer los deseos de su madre y hermana, que anhelaban verlo distinguido como... apenas sabían como qué. Querían que de una manera u otra ocupara un lugar importante en el mundo. Su madre deseaba interesarlo en política, hacerlo llegar al parlamento o verlo conectado con alguno de los grandes hombres del momento. La señora de John Dashwood deseaba lo mismo; entre tanto, hasta poder alcanzar alguna de esas bendiciones superiores, habría satisfecho la ambición de ambas verlo conducir un birlocho. Pero Edward no tenía inclinación alguna ni hacia los grandes hombres ni hacia los birlochos. Todos sus deseos se centraban en la comodidad doméstica y en la tranquilidad de la vida privada. Por fortuna, tenía un hermano menor que era más prometedor.
Edward llevaba varias semanas en la casa antes de que la señora Dashwood se fijara en él, ya que en esa época el estado de aflicción en que se encontraba la hacía por completo indiferente a todo lo que la rodeaba. Únicamente vio que era callado y discreto, y le agradó por ello. No perturbaba con conversaciones inoportunas la desdicha que llenaba todos sus pensamientos. Lo que primero la llevó a observarlo con mayor detención y a que le gustara aún más, fue una reflexión que dio en hacer Elinor un día respecto de cuán diferente era de su hermana. La alusión a ese contraste lo situó muy decididamente en el favor de la madre.
-Con eso basta -dijo-, basta con decir que no es como Fanny. Implica que en él se puede encontrar todo lo que hay de amable. Ya lo amo.
-Creo que llegará a gustarle -dijo Elinor- cuando lo conozca más.
-¡Gustarme! -replicó la madre, con una sonrisa-. No puedo abrigar ningún sentimiento de aprobación inferior al amor.
-No he llegado a saber aún lo que es separar la estimación del amor.
La señora Dashwood se afanó ahora en conocerlo más. Con sus modales afectuosos, rápidamente venció la reserva del joven. Muy pronto advirtió cuán grandes eran sus méritos; el estar persuadida de su interés por Elinor quizá la hizo más perspicaz, pero realmente se sentía segura de su valer. E incluso las sosegadas maneras de Edward, que atentaban contra las más arraigadas ideas de la señora Dashwood respecto de lo que debiera ser el trato de un joven, dejaron de parecerle insípidas cuando advirtió que era de corazón cálido y temperamento afectuoso.
Ante el primer signo de amor que percibió en su comportamiento hacia Elinor, dio por cierta la existencia de un vínculo serio entre ellos y se entregó a considerar su matrimonio como algo que pronto se haría realidad.
-En unos pocos meses más, mi querida Marianne -le dijo-, con toda seguridad Elinor se habrá establecido para siempre. Para nosotros será una pérdida, pero ella será feliz.
-¡Ay, mamá! ¿Qué haremos sin ella?
-Mi amor, apenas será una separación. Viviremos a unas pocas millas de distancia y nos veremos todos los días de la vida. Tú ganarás un hermano, un hermano de verdad, cariñoso. Tengo la mejor opinión del mundo sobre los sentimientos de Edward... Pero te noto seria, Marianne; ¿desapruebas la elección de tu hermana?
-Quizá -dijo Marianne- me sorprenda algo. Edward es muy amable y siento gran ternura por él. Pero aun así, no es la clase de joven... Hay algo que falta, no sobresale por su apariencia, carece por completo de esa gracia que yo habría esperado en el hombre al cual mi hermana se sintiera seriamente atraída. En sus ojos no se advierte todo ese espíritu, ese fuego, que anuncian a la vez virtud e inteligencia. Y además de esto, temo, mamá, que carece de verdadero gusto. Aparentemente la música apenas le interesa, y aunque admira mucho los dibujos de Elinor, no es la admiración de alguien que pueda entender su valor. Es evidente, a pesar de su asidua atención cuando ella dibuja, que de hecho no sabe nada en esta materia. Admira como un enamorado, no como un entendido. Para sentirme satisfecha, esos rasgos deben ir unidos. No podría ser feliz con un hombre cuyo gusto no coincidiera punto por punto con el mío. El debe penetrar todos mis sentimientos; a ambos nos deben encantar los mismos libros, la misma música. ¡Ay, mamá! ¡Qué falta de fuego, que mansa fue la actitud de Edward cuando nos leyó anoche! Lo sentí terriblemente por mi hermana. Y, sin embargo, ella lo sobrellevó con tanta compostura que apenas pareció notarlo. A duras penas pude permanecer sentada. ¡Escuchar esos hermosos versos que a menudo me han hecho casi perder el sentido, pronunciados con tan impenetrable calma, tan atroz indiferencia!
-En verdad le habría hecho mucho mayor justicia a una prosa sencilla y elegante. Lo pensé en ese momento; pero tenías que pasarle a Cowper.
-No, mamá, ¡si ni Cowper es capaz de animarlo...! Pero debemos admitir que hay diferencias de gusto. En Elinor no se da mi manera de sentir, así que puede pasar esas cosas por alto y ser feliz con él. Pero si yo lo amara, me habría destrozado el corazón escucharlo leer con tan poca sensibilidad. Mamá, mientras más conozco el mundo, más convencida estoy de que jamás encontraré a un hombre al que realmente pueda amar. ¿Es tanto lo que pido? Debe tener todas las virtudes de Edward, y su apariencia y modales deben adornar su bondad con todas las gracias posibles.
-Recuerda, mi amor, que aún no tienes diecisiete años. Es todavía demasiado temprano en la vida para que desesperes de lograr tal felicidad. ¿Por qué debías ser menos afortunada que tu madre? ¡Que en tan sólo una circunstancia, Marianne mía, tu destino sea diferente al de ella!
-Qué lástima, Elinor -dijo Marianne-, que Edward carezca de gusto para el dibujo.
-Que carezca de gusto para el dibujo... ¿y qué te hace pensar eso? -replicó Elinor-. El no dibuja, es cierto, pero disfruta enormemente viendo dibujar a otras personas y, puedo asegurártelo, de ninguna manera está falto de un buen gusto natural, aunque no se le ha ofrecido oportunidad de mejorarlo. Si alguna vez hubiera tenido la posibilidad de aprender, creo que habría dibujado muy bien. Desconfía tanto de su propio juicio en estas materias que siempre es reacio a dar su opinión sobre cualquier cuadro; pero tiene una innata finura y simplicidad de gusto que, en general, lo guía de manera perfectamente adecuada.
Marianne temía ser ofensiva y no dijo nada más acerca del tema; pero la clase de aprobación que, según Elinor, despertaban en él los dibujos de otras personas estaba muy lejos del extasiado deleite que, en su opinión, era exclusivo merecedor de ser llamado gusto. No obstante, y aunque sonriendo para sí misma ante el error, rendía tributo a su hermana por esa ciega predilección por Edward que la llevaba a así equivocarse.
-Espero, Marianne -continuó Elinor-, que no lo consideres falto de gusto en general. En verdad, creo poder decir que no piensas eso, porque tu comportamiento hacia él es perfectamente cordial; y si ésa fuera tu opinión, estoy segura de que no serias capaz de ser atenta con él.
Marianne casi no supo qué decir. Por ningún motivo quería herir los sentimientos de su hermana, pero le era imposible decir algo que no creía. Finalmente, respondió:
-No te ofendas, Elinor, si los elogios que yo pueda hacer de Edward no se equiparan en todo a tu percepción de sus méritos. No he tenido tantas oportunidades como tú de apreciar hasta las más mínimas tendencias de su mente, sus inclinaciones, sus gustos; pero tengo la mejor opinión del mundo respecto de su bondad y sensatez. Lo creo poseedor de todo lo que es valioso y amable.
-Estoy segura -respondió Elinor, con una sonrisa- de que sus amigos más queridos no quedarían disconformes con un elogio como ése. No me imagino cómo podrías expresarte con mayor calidez.
Marianne se regocijó de ver cuán fácilmente se contentaba su hermana.
-De su sensatez y bondad -continuó Elinor-, pienso que nadie que lo haya visto lo suficiente para haber conversado con él sin reservas, podría dudar. Tan sólo esa timidez que tantas veces lo lleva a guardar silencio puede haber ocultado la excelencia de su entendimiento, y sus principios. Lo conoces lo suficiente para hacer justicia a la solidez de su valer. Pero de sus más mínimas tendencias, como tú las llamas, circunstancias específicas te han mantenido más ignorante que a mí. En diversas ocasiones él y yo nos hemos quedado mucho rato juntos, mientras tú, llevada por el más afectuoso de los impulsos, has estado completamente absorbida por mi madre. Lo he visto mucho, he estudiado sus sentimientos y escuchado sus opiniones acerca de temas de literatura y gusto; y, en general, me atrevo a afirmar que tiene una mente cultivada, que el placer que encuentra en los libros es extremadamente grande, su imaginación es vivaz, sus observaciones justas y correctas, y su gusto delicado y puro. Cuando se le conoce más, sus dotes mejoran en todos los terrenos, tal como lo hacen sus modales y apariencia. Es cierto que, a primera vista, su trato no produce gran admiración y su apariencia difícilmente lleva a llamarlo apuesto, hasta que se advierte la expresión de sus ojos, que son extraordinariamente bondadosos, y la general dulzura de su semblante. En la actualidad lo conozco tan bien, que lo creo en verdad apuesto; o, al menos, casi. ¿Qué dices tú, Marianne?
-Muy pronto lo consideraré apuesto, Elinor, si es que ya no lo hago. Cuando me digas que lo ame como a un hermano, ya no veré imperfecciones en su rostro, como no las veo hoy en su corazón.
Elinor se sobresaltó ante esta declaración y se arrepintió de haberse dejado traicionar por el calor de sus palabras. Sentía que Edward ocupaba un lugar muy alto en sus afectos. Creía que el interés era mutuo, pero requería una mayor certeza al respecto para aceptar con agrado la convicción de Marianne acerca de sus relaciones. Sabía que una conjetura que Marianne y su madre hacían en un momento dado, se transformaba en certeza al siguiente; que, con ellas, el deseo era esperanza y la esperanza, expectativa. Trató de explicarle a su hermana el verdadero estado de la situación.
-No es mi intención negar -dijo- que tengo una gran opinión de él; que lo estimo profundamente, que me gusta.
Ante esto, Marianne estalló indignada.
-¡Estimarlo! ¡Gustarte! Elinor, qué corazón tan frío. ¡Ah, peor que frío! Sin atreverse a ser de otra forma. Utiliza esas palabras otra vez, y me iré de esta pieza de inmediato.
-Perdóname -le dijo-, y puedes estar segura de que no fue mi intención ofenderte al referirme con palabras tan mesuradas a mis propios sentimientos. Créelos más fuertes que lo declarado por mí; créelos, en fin, lo que los méritos de Edward y la presunción... la esperanza de su afecto por mí podrían garantizar, sin imprudencia ni locura. Pero más que esto no debes creer. No tengo seguridad alguna de su afecto por mí. Hay momentos en que parece dudoso hasta qué punto tal afecto existe; y mientras no conozca plenamente sus sentimientos, no puede extrañarte mi deseo de evitar dar alas a mi propia inclinación creyéndola o llamándola más de lo que es. En lo más profundo de mi corazón, tengo pocas, casi ninguna duda de sus preferencias. Pero hay otros puntos que deben ser tomados en cuenta, además de su interés. Está muy lejos de ser independiente. No podemos saber cómo es realmente su madre; pero las ocasionales observaciones de Fanny acerca de su conducta y opiniones nunca nos han llevado a considerarla amable; y me equivoco mucho si Edward no está también consciente de las variadas dificultades que encontraría en su camino si deseara casarse con una mujer que no fuera o de gran fortuna, o de alto rango.
Marianne quedó atónita al descubrir en qué medida la imaginación de su madre y la suya propia habían ido más allá de la verdad.
-¡Y en verdad no estás comprometida con él! -dijo-. Aunque de todas maneras va a ocurrir luego. Pero esta tardanza tiene dos ventajas. Yo no te perderé tan pronto y Edward tendrá más oportunidades de mejorar ese gusto natural por tu ocupación favorita, tan indispensable para tu felicidad futura. ¡Ah! Si tu genio lo llevara a aprender a dibujar también, ¡qué delicioso sería!
Elinor le había dado su verdadera opinión a su hermana. No podía considerar su inclinación por Edward bajo las favorables perspectivas que Marianne había supuesto. Había, en ocasiones, una falta de ánimo en él que, si no denotaba indiferencia, hablaba de algo casi igualmente poco prometedor. Si tenía dudas acerca del afecto que ella le profesaba, suponiendo que las tuviera, ello no debía producirle más que inquietud. No parecía posible que le causaran ese abatimiento de espíritu que a menudo le sobrevenía. Una causa más razonable podía encontrarse en su situación de dependencia, que le vedaba la posibilidad de entregarse a sus afectos. Ella sabía que el trato que la madre le daba no le proporcionaba un hogar confortable en la actualidad ni le daba seguridad alguna de que pudiera formar un hogar propio, si no se atenía estrictamente a las ideas que ella sustentaba sobre la importancia que él debía alcanzar. Sabiendo esto, a Elinor le era imposible sentirse tranquila. Estaba lejos de confiar en ese resultado de las preferencias de Edward que su madre y hermana daban por seguro. No, mientras más tiempo estaban juntos, más dudosa le parecía la naturaleza de su afecto; y a veces, durante unos pocos y dolorosos minutos, creía que no era más que simple amistad.
Pero, cualesquiera fueran en realidad sus límites, ese afecto fue suficiente, apenas lo percibió la hermana de Edward, para intranquilizarla; y al mismo tiempo (lo que era más usual aún), para sacar a luz sus malos modales. Aprovechó la primera oportunidad que encontró para ofender a su suegra hablándole tan expresivamente de las grandes expectativas que tenían para su hermano, de la decisión de la señora Ferrars respecto de que sus dos hijos se casaran bien, y del peligro que acechaba a cualquier joven que quisiera ganárselo, que la señora Dashwood no pudo fingir no darse cuenta ni intentar mantenerse tranquila. Le dio una respuesta que revelaba su desdén y de inmediato abandonó el cuarto, mientras tomaba la decisión de que cualesquiera fueran los inconvenientes o gastos de una partida tan súbita, su tan querida Elinor no debía estar expuesta ni una semana más a tales insinuaciones.
En este estado de ánimo estaba cuando le llegó una carta por correo con una propuesta particularmente oportuna. Un caballero distinguido y dueño de importantes propiedades en Devonshire, pariente suyo, le ofrecía una casa pequeña en términos muy convenientes. La carta, firmada por él mismo, estaba escrita en un tono amistosamente servicial. Entendía que ella necesitaba un alojamiento, y aunque lo que ahora le ofrecía era una simple casita de campo, una cabaña de su propiedad, le aseguraba que se le haría todo aquello que ella pensara necesario, si la ubicación le agradaba. La urgía con gran insistencia, tras describirle en detalle la casa y el jardín, a ir a Barton Park, donde estaba su propia residencia y desde donde ella podría juzgar por sí misma si la casita de Barton -porque ambas casas pertenecían a la misma parroquia- podía ser arreglada a su conveniencia. Parecía realmente ansioso de acomodarlas, y toda su carta estaba redactada en un estilo tan amistoso que no podía sino complacer a su prima, en especial en un momento en que sufría por el comportamiento frío e insensible de sus parientes más cercanos. No necesitó de tiempo alguno para deliberaciones o consultas. Junto con leer la carta tomó su decisión. La ubicación de Barton en un condado tan distante de Sussex como Devonshire, algo que tan sólo unas horas antes habría constituido objeción suficiente para contrarrestar todas las posibles bondades del lugar, era ahora su principal ventaja. Abandonar el vecindario de Norland ya no parecía un mal; era un objeto de deseo, una bendición en comparación con la miseria de seguir siendo huésped de su nuera. Y alejarse para siempre de ese lugar amado iba a ser menos doloroso que habitar en él o visitarlo mientras esa mujer fuera su dueña y señora. De inmediato le escribió a sir John Middleton manifestándole agradecimiento por su bondad y aceptando su proposición; luego se apresuró a mostrar ambas cartas a sus hijas, asegurándose de su aprobación antes de enviarlas.
Elinor había pensado siempre que sería más prudente para ellas establecerse a alguna distancia de Norland antes que entre sus actuales conocidos, por lo que no se opuso a las intenciones de su madre de irse a Devonshire. La casa, además, tal como la describía sir John, era de dimensiones tan sencillas y el alquiler tan notablemente moderado, que no le daba derecho a objetar punto alguno; y así, aunque no era un plan que atrajera su fantasía y aunque significaba un alejamiento de las vecindades de Norland que excedía sus deseos, no hizo intento alguno por disuadir a su madre de escribir aceptando el ofrecimiento.
Apenas despachada su respuesta, la señora Dashwood se permitió el placer de anunciar a su hijastro y esposa que contaba con una casa y que ya no los incomodaría sino hasta que todo estuviera listo para habitarla. La escucharon con sorpresa. La señora de John Dashwood no dijo nada, pero su esposo manifestó cortésmente que esperaba que no se irían lejos de Norland. Con gran satisfacción, la señora Dashwood le respondió que se iban a Devonshire. Edward rápidamente levantó los ojos al escuchar esto, y con una voz de sorpresa y preocupación que no requirieron de mayor explicación para la señora Dashwood, repitió: “¡Devonshire! ¿En verdad van allá? ¡Tan lejos de aquí! ¿Y a qué parte?” Ella le explicó la ubicación. Estaba a cuatro millas al norte de Exeter.
-No es sino una casita de campo -continuo-, pero espero ver allí a muchos de mis amigos. Será fácil agregarle una o dos habitaciones; y si mis amigos no encuentran impedimento en viajar tan lejos para verme, con toda seguridad yo no lo encontraré para acomodarlos.
Concluyó con una muy generosa invitación al señor John Dashwood y a su esposa para que la visitaran en Barton; y a Edward le extendió otra con aun mayor afecto. Aunque en su última conversación con su nuera las expresiones de ésta la habían decidido a no permanecer en Norland más de lo que era inevitable, no produjeron en ella el efecto al que principalmente apuntaban: separar a Edward y Elinor estaba tan lejos de ser su objetivo como lo había estado antes; y con esa invitación a su hermano, deseaba mostrarle a la señora de John Dashwood cuán escasa importancia daba a su desaprobación de esa unión.
El señor John Dashwood le repitió a su madre una y otra vez cuán profundamente lamentaba que ella hubiera tomado una casa a una distancia tan grande de Norland que le impediría ofrecerle sus servicios para el traslado de su mobiliario. Se sentía en verdad molesto con la situación, porque hacía impracticable aquel esfuerzo al que había limitado el cumplimiento de la promesa a su padre. Los enseres fueron enviados por mar. Consistían principalmente en ropa blanca, cubiertos, vajilla y libros, junto con un hermoso piano de Marianne. La señora de John Dashwood vio partir los bultos con un suspiro; no podía evitar sentir que como la renta de la señora Dashwood iba a ser tan insignificante comparada con la suya, a ella le correspondía tener cualquier artículo de mobiliario que fuera hermoso.
La señora Dashwood arrendó la casa por un año; ya estaba amoblada, y podía tomar posesión de ella de inmediato. Ninguna de las partes interesadas opuso dificultad alguna al acuerdo, y ella esperó tan sólo el despacho de sus efectos desde Norland y decidir su futuro servicio doméstico antes de partir hacia el oeste; y esto, dada la extrema rapidez con que llevaba a cabo todo lo que le interesaba, muy pronto estuvo hecho. Los caballos que le había dejado su esposo habían sido vendidos tras su muerte, y habiéndosele ofrecido ahora una oportunidad de disponer de su carruaje, aceptó venderlo a instancias de su hija mayor. Si hubiera dependido de sus solos deseos, se lo habría quedado, para mayor comodidad de sus hijas; pero prevaleció el buen juicio de Elinor. Fue también su sabiduría la que limitó el número de sirvientes a tres, dos doncellas y un hombre, prontamente seleccionados entre los que habían constituido su servicio en Norland.
El hombre y una de las doncellas partieron de inmediato a Devonshire a preparar la casa para la llegada de su ama, pues como la señora Dashwood desconocía por completo a lady Middleton, prefería llegar directamente a la cabaña antes que hospedarse en Barton Park; y confió con tal seguridad en la descripción que sir John había hecho de la casa, que no sintió curiosidad de examinarla por sí misma hasta que entró en ella como su dueña. La evidente satisfacción de su nuera ante la perspectiva de su partida, apenas disimulada tras una fría invitación a quedarse un tiempo más, mantuvo intacta su ansiedad por alejarse de Norland. Ahora era el momento en que la promesa de John Dashwood a su padre podría haberse cumplido con especial idoneidad. Como había descuidado hacerlo al llegar a la casa, el momento en que ellas la dejaban parecía el más adecuado para ello. Pero muy pronto la señora Dashwood abandonó toda esperanza al respecto y comenzó a convencerse, por el sentido general de sus palabras, de que su ayuda no iría más allá de haberlas mantenido durante seis meses en Norland. Tan a menudo se refería él a los crecientes gastos del hogar y a las permanentes e incalculables demandas monetarias a que estaba expuesto cualquier caballero de alguna importancia, que más parecía estar necesitado de dinero que dispuesto a darlo.
Muy pocas semanas después del día que trajo la primera carta de sir John Middleton a Norland, todos los arreglos estaban tan avanzados en su futuro alojamiento que la señora Dashwood y sus hijas pudieron comenzar su viaje.
Muchas fueron las lágrimas que derramaron en sus últimos adioses a un lugar que tanto habían amado.
-¡Querido, querido Norland! -repetía Marianne mientras deambulaba sola ante la casa la última tarde que estuvieron allí-. ¿Cuándo dejaré de extrañarte? ; ¿cuándo aprenderé a sentir como un hogar cualquier otro sitio? ¡Ah, dichosa casa! ¡Cómo podrías saber lo que sufro al verte ahora desde este lugar, desde donde puede que no vuelva a verte! ¡Y ustedes, árboles que me son tan familiares! Pero ustedes, ustedes seguirán iguales. Ninguna hoja se marchitará porque nosotras nos vayamos, ninguna rama dejará de agitarse aunque ya no podamos mirarlas. No, seguirán iguales, inconscientes del placer o la pena que ocasionan e insensibles a cualquier cambio en aquellos que caminan bajo sus sombras. Y, ¿quién quedará para gozarlos?
La primera parte del viaje transcurrió en medio de un ánimo tan melancólico que no pudo resultar sino tedioso y desagradable. Pero a medida que se aproximaban a su destino, el interés en la apariencia de la región donde habrían de vivir se sobrepuso a su decaimiento, y la vista del Valle Barton a medida que entraban en él las fue llenando de alegría. Era una comarca agradable, fértil, con grandes bosques y rica en pastizales. Tras un recorrido de más de una milla, llegaron a su propia casa. En el frente, un pequeño jardín verde constituía la totalidad de sus dominios, al que una pulcra portezuela de rejas les permitió la entrada.
Como vivienda, la casita de Barton, aunque pequeña, era confortable y sólida; pero en tanto casa de campo era defectuosa, porque la construcción era regular, el techo tenía tejas, las celosías de las ventanas no estaban pintadas de verde ni los muros estaban cubiertos de madreselva. Un corredor angosto llevaba directamente a través de la casa al jardín del fondo. A ambos lados de la entrada había una salita de estar de aproximadamente dieciséis pies cuadrados; y luego estaban las dependencias de servicio y las escaleras. Cuatro dormitorios y dos buhardillas componían el resto de la casa. No había sido construida hacía muchos años y estaba en buenas condiciones. En comparación con Norland, ¡ciertamente era pequeña y pobre! Pero las lágrimas que hicieron brotar los recuerdos al entrar a la casa muy pronto se secaron. Las alegró el gozo de los sirvientes a su llegada y cada una, pensando en las otras, decidió parecer contenta. Recién comenzaba septiembre, el tiempo estaba hermoso, y desde la primera visión que tuvieron del lugar bajo las ventajas de un buen clima, la impresión favorable que recibieron fue de primordial importancia para que se hiciera acreedor de su más firme aprobación.
La ubicación de la casa era buena. Tras ella, y a no mucha distancia a ambos lados, se levantaban altas colinas, algunas de las cuales eran lomas abiertas, las otras cultivadas y boscosas. La aldea de Barton estaba situada casi en su totalidad en una de estas colinas, y ofrecía una agradable vista desde las ventanas de la casita. La perspectiva por el frente era más amplia; se dominaba todo el valle, e incluso los campos en que éste desembocaba. Las colinas que rodeaban la cabaña cerraban el valle en esa dirección; pero bajo otro nombre, y con otro curso, se abría otra vez entre dos de los montes más empinados.
La señora Dashwood se sentía en general satisfecha con el tamaño y mobiliario de la casa, pues aunque su antiguo estilo de vida hacía indispensable mejorarla en muchos aspectos, siempre era un placer para ella ampliar y perfeccionar las cosas; y en ese momento contaba con dinero suficiente para dar a los aposentos todo lo que requerían de mayor elegancia.
-En cuanto a la casa misma -dijo-, por cierto es demasiado pequeña para nuestra familia; pero estaremos aceptablemente cómodas por el momento, ya que se encuentra muy avanzado el año para realizar mejoras. Quizá en la primavera, si tengo suficiente dinero, como me atrevo a decir que tendré, podremos pensar en construir. Estos recibos son los dos demasiado pequeños para los grupos de amigos que espero ver a menudo reunidos aquí; y tengo la idea de llevar el corredor dentro de uno de ellos, con quizá una parte del otro, y así dejar lo restante de ese otro como vestíbulo; esto, junto con una nueva sala, que puede ser agregada fácilmente, y un dormitorio y una buhardilla arriba, harán de ella una casita muy acogedora. Podría desear que las escaleras fueran más atractivas. Pero no se puede esperar todo, aunque supongo que no seria difícil ampliarlas. Ya veré cuánto le deberé al mundo cuando llegue la primavera, y planificaremos nuestras mejoras de acuerdo con ello:
Entre tanto, hasta cuando una mujer que nunca había economizado en su vida pudiera llevar a cabo todos estos cambios con los ahorros de un ingreso de quinientas libras al año, sabiamente se contentaron con la casa tal como estaba; y cada una de ellas se preocupó y empeñó en organizar sus propios asuntos, distribuyendo sus libros y otras posesiones para hacer de la casa un hogar. Desempacaron el piano de Marianne y lo ubicaron en el lugar más adecuado, y colgaron los dibujos de Elinor en los muros de la sala.
Al día siguiente, apenas terminado el desayuno, se vieron interrumpidas en sus ocupaciones por la entrada del propietario de la cabaña, que llegó a darles la bienvenida a Barton y a ofrecerles todo aquello de su propia casa y jardín que les pudiera faltar en el momento. Sir John Middleton era un hombre bien parecido de unos cuarenta años. Antes había estado de visita en Stanhill, pero hacía de ello demasiado tiempo para que sus jóvenes primas lo recordaran. Su semblante revelaba buen humor y sus modales eran tan amistosos como el estilo de su carta. Parecía que la llegada de sus parientes lo llenaba de real satisfacción y que su comodidad era objeto de verdadero desvelo para él. Se explayó en su profundo deseo de que ambas familias vivieran en los términos más cordiales y las exhortó tan afablemente a que cenaran en Barton Park todos los días hasta que estuvieran mejor instaladas en su hogar, que aunque insistía en sus peticiones hasta un punto que sobrepasaba la buena educación, era imposible sentirse ofendido por ello. Su bondad no se limitaba a las palabras, porque antes de una hora de su partida, un gran cesto de hortalizas y frutas llegó desde la finca, seguido antes de terminar el día por un presente de animales de caza. Más aún, insistió en llevar todas sus cartas al correo y traer las que les llegaran, y rehusó lo privaran de la satisfacción de enviarles a diario su periódico.
Lady Middleton les había mandado con él un mensaje muy cortés, en que manifestaba su intención de visitar a la señora Dashwood tan pronto como pudiera estar segura de que su llegada no le significaría un inconveniente; y como este mensaje recibió una respuesta igualmente atenta, al día siguiente les presentaron a su señoría.
Por supuesto, estaban ansiosas de ver a la persona de quien debía depender tanto de su comodidad en Barton, y la elegancia de su apariencia las impresionó favorablemente. Lady Middleton no tenía más de veintiséis o veintisiete años, era de hermoso rostro, figura alta y llamativa y trato gracioso. Sus modales tenían todo el refinamiento de que carecía su esposo. Pero le habría venido bien algo de su franqueza y calidez. Y su visita se prolongó lo suficiente para hacer disminuir en algo la admiración inicial que había provocado, al mostrar que, aunque perfectamente educada, era reservada, fría, y no tenía nada que decir por sí misma más allá de las más trilladas preguntas u observaciones.
No faltó, sin embargo, la conversación, porque sir John era muy locuaz y lady Middleton había tenido la sabia precaución de llevar con ella a su hijo mayor, un guapo muchachito de alrededor de seis años cuya presencia ofreció en todo momento un tema al que recurrir en caso de extrema urgencia. Debieron indagar su nombre y edad, admirar su apostura y hacerle preguntas, que su madre contestaba por él mientras él se mantenía pegado a ella con la cabeza gacha, para gran sorpresa de su señoría, que se extrañaba de que fuera tan tímido ante los extraños cuando en casa podía hacer bastante ruido. En todas las visitas formales debiera haber un niño, a manera de seguro para la conversación. En el caso actual, tomó diez minutos decidir si el niño se parecía más al padre o a la madre, y en qué cosa en especial se parecía a cada uno; porque, por supuesto, todos discrepaban y cada uno se manifestaba estupefacto ante la opinión de los demás.
Muy pronto las Dashwood tuvieron una nueva oportunidad de conversar sobre el resto de los niños, porque sir John no dejó la casa sin que antes le prometieran cenar con ellos al día siguiente.
Barton Park estaba más o menos a media milla de la cabaña. Las Dashwood habían pasado cerca de allí al cruzar el valle pero desde su hogar no lo veían, pues lo tapaba la saliente de una colina. La casa misma era amplia y hermosa, y los Middleton vivían de manera que conjugaba la hospitalidad y la elegancia. La primera se daba para satisfacción de sir John, la última para la de su esposa. Casi nunca faltaba algún amigo alojado con ellos en la casa, y recibían más visitas de todo tipo que ninguna otra familia de los alrededores. Ello era necesario para la felicidad de ambos, dado que a pesar de sus diferentes caracteres y comportamientos, se parecían extremadamente en la total falta de talento y gusto, carencia que limitaba a un rango en verdad estrecho las ocupaciones no relacionadas con la vida social. Sir John estaba entregado a los deportes, lady Middleton a la maternidad. El cazaba y practicaba el tiro, ella consentía a sus hijos; y éstos eran sus únicos recursos. Lady Middleton tenía la ventaja de poder mimar a sus hijos durante todo el año, en tanto que las ocupaciones independientes de sir John podían darle sólo la mitad del tiempo. No obstante, continuos compromisos en la casa y fuera de ella suplían todas las deficiencias de su naturaleza y educación, alimentaban el buen ánimo de sir John y permitían que su esposa ejercitara su buena crianza.
Lady Middleton se preciaba de la elegancia de su mesa y de todos sus arreglos domésticos, y de esta clase de vanidad extraía las mayores satisfacciones en todas sus reuniones. En cambio, el gusto de sir John por la vida social era mucho más real; disfrutaba de reunir en torno a él a más gente joven de la que cabía en su casa, y mientras más ruidosa era, mayor su placer. Era una bendición para toda la juventud de la vecindad, ya que en verano constantemente reunía grupos de personas para comer jamón y pollo frío al aire libre, y en invierno sus bailes privados eran lo suficientemente numerosos para cualquier muchacha que ya hubiera dejado atrás el insaciable apetito de los quince años.
La llegada de una nueva familia a la región era siempre motivo de alegría para él, y desde todo punto de vista estaba encantado con los inquilinos que había conseguido para su cabaña en Barton. Las señoritas Dashwood eran jóvenes, bonitas y sencillas, de modales poco afectados. Eso bastaba para asegurar su buena opinión, porque la falta de afectación era todo lo que una chica bonita podía necesitar para hacer de su espíritu algo tan cautivador como su apariencia. Complació a sir John en su carácter amistoso la posibilidad de hacer un favor a aquellos cuya situación podía considerarse adversa si se la comparaba con la que habían tenido en el pasado. Así, sus muestras de bondad a sus primas satisfacían su buen corazón; y al establecer en la casita de Barton a una familia compuesta solamente de mujeres, obtenía todos los placeres de un deportista; porque un deportista, aunque sólo estima a los representantes de su sexo que también lo son, pocas veces se muestra deseoso de fomentar sus gustos alojándolos en su propio coto.
La señora Dashwood y sus hijas fueron recibidas en la puerta de la casa por sir John, quien les dio la bienvenida a Barton Park con espontánea sinceridad; y mientras las guiaba hasta el salón, repetía a las jóvenes la preocupación que el mismo tema le había causado el día anterior, esto es, no poder conseguir ningún joven elegante e ingenioso para presentarles. Ahí sólo habría otro caballero además de él, les dijo; un amigo muy especial que' se estaba quedando en la finca, pero que no era ni muy joven ni muy alegre. Esperaba que le disculparan lo escaso de la concurrencia y les aseguró que ello no volvería a repetirse. Había estado con varias familias esa mañana, en la esperanza de conseguir a alguien más para hacer mayor el grupo, pero había luna y todos estaban llenos de compromisos para esa noche. Afortunadamente, la madre de lady Middleton había llegado a Barton a última hora, y como era una mujer muy alegre y agradable, esperaba que las jóvenes no encontrarían la reunión tan aburrida como podrían imaginar. Las jóvenes, al igual que su madre, estaban perfectamente satisfechas con tener a dos personas por completo desconocidas entre la concurrencia, y no deseaban más.
La señora Jennings, la madre de lady Middleton, era una mujer ya mayor, de excelente humor, gorda y alegre que hablaba en cantidades, parecía muy feliz y algo vulgar. Estaba llena de bromas y risas, y antes del final de la cena había dado repetidas muestras de su ingenio en el tema de enamorados y maridos; había manifestado sus esperanzas de que las muchachas no hubieran dejado sus corazones en Sussex, y cada vez fingía haberlas visto ruborizarse, ya sea que lo hubieran hecho o no. Marianne se sintió molesta por ello a causa de su hermana y, para ver cómo sobrellevaba estos ataques, miró a Elinor con una ansiedad que le produjo a ésta una incomodidad mucho mayor que la que podían generar las triviales bufonadas de la señora Jennings.
El coronel Brandon, el amigo de sir John, con sus modales silenciosos y serios, parecía tan poco adecuado para ser su amigo como lady Middleton para ser su esposa, o la señora Jennings para ser la madre de lady Middleton. Su apariencia, sin embargo, no era desagradable, a pesar de que a juicio de Marianne y Margaret era un solterón sin remedio, porque ya había pasado los treinta y cinco y entrado a la zona deslucida de la vida; pero aunque no era de rostro apuesto, había inteligencia en su semblante y una particular caballerosidad en su trato.
Nadie de la concurrencia tenía nada que lo recomendara como compañía para las Dashwood; pero la fría insipidez de lady Middleton era tan especialmente poco grata, que comparadas con ella la gravedad del coronel Brandon, e incluso la bulliciosa alegría de sir John y su suegra, eran interesantes. La alegría de lady Middleton sólo pareció brotar después de la cena con la entrada de sus cuatro ruidosos hijos, que la tironearon de aquí allá, desgarraron su ropa y pusieron fin a todo tipo de conversación, salvo la referida a ellos.
Al atardecer, como se descubriera que Marianne tenía aptitudes musicales, la invitaron a tocar. Abrieron el instrumento, todos se prepararon para sentirse encantados, y Marianne, que cantaba muy bien, a su pedido recorrió la mayoría de las canciones que lady Middleton había aportado a la familia al casarse, y que quizá habían permanecido desde entonces en la misma posición sobre el piano, ya que su señoría había celebrado ese acontecimiento renunciando a la música, aunque según su madre tocaba extremadamente bien y, según ella misma, era muy aficionada a hacerlo.
La actuación de Marianne fue muy aplaudida. Sir John manifestaba sonoramente su admiración al finalizar cada pieza, e igualmente sonora era su conversación con los demás mientras duraba la canción. A menudo lady Middleton lo llamaba al orden, se extrañaba de que alguien pudiera distraer su atención de la música siquiera por un momento y le pedía a Marianne que cantara una canción en especial que ella acababa de terminar. Sólo el coronel Brandon, entre toda la concurrencia, la escuchaba sin arrebatos. Su único cumplido era escucharla, y en ese momento ella sintió por él un respeto que los otros con toda razón habían perdido por su desvergonzada falta de gusto. El placer que el coronel había mostrado ante la música, aunque no llegaba a ese éxtasis que, con exclusión de cualquier otro, ella consideraba compatible con su propio deleite, era digno de estimación frente a la horrible insensibilidad del resto; y ella era lo bastante sensata como para conceder que un hombre de treinta y cinco años bien podía haber dejado atrás en su vida toda agudeza de sentimientos y cada exquisita facultad de gozo. Estaba perfectamente dispuesta a hacer todas las concesiones necesarias a la avanzada edad del coronel que un espíritu humanitario exigiría.
En su viudez, la señora Jennings había quedado en poder de una generosa renta por el usufructo de los bienes dejados por su marido. Sólo tenía dos hijas, a las que había llegado a ver respetablemente casadas y, por tanto, ahora no tenía nada que hacer sino casar al resto del mundo. Hasta donde era capaz, era celosamente activa en el cumplimiento de este objetivo y no perdía oportunidad de planificar matrimonios entre los jóvenes que conocía. Era de notable rapidez para descubrir quién se sentía atraído por quién, y había gozado del mérito de hacer subir los rubores y la vanidad de muchas jóvenes con insinuaciones relativas a su poder sobre tal o cual joven; y apenas llegada a Barton, este tipo de perspicacia le permitió anunciar que el coronel Brandon estaba muy enamorado de Marianne Dashwood. Más bien, sospechó que así era la primera tarde que estuvieron juntos, por la atención con que la escuchó cantar; y cuando los Middleton devolvieron la visita y cenaron en la cabaña, se cercioró de ello al ver otra vez cómo la escuchaba. Tenía que ser así. Estaba totalmente convencida de ello. Sería una excelente unión, porque el era rico y ella era hermosa. Desde el momento mismo en que había conocido al coronel Brandon, debido a sus lazos con sir John, la señora Jennings había ansiado verlo bien casado; y, además, nunca flaqueaba en el afán de conseguirle un buen marido a cada muchacha bonita.
La ventaja inmediata que obtuvo de ello no fue de ninguna manera insignificante, porque la proveyó de interminables bromas a costa de ambos. En Barton Park se reía del coronel, y en la cabaña, de Marianne. Al primero, probablemente esas chanzas le eran totalmente indiferentes, ya que sólo lo afectaban a él; pero para la segunda, al comienzo fueron incomprensibles; y cuando entendió, su objeto, no sabía si reírse de lo absurdas que eran o censurar su impertinencia, ya que las consideraba un comentario insensible a los avanzados años del coronel y a su triste condición de solterón.
La señora Dashwood, que no podía considerar a un hombre cinco años menor que ella tan excesivamente anciano como aparecía ante la juvenil imaginación de su hija, intentó limpiar a la señora Jennings del cargo de haber querido ridiculizar su edad.
-Pero, mamá, al menos no podrá negar lo absurdo de la acusación, aunque no la crea intencionalmente maliciosa. Por supuesto que el coronel Brandon es más joven que la señora Jennings, pero es lo suficientemente viejo para ser mi padre; y si llegara a tener el ánimo suficiente para enamorarse, ya debe haber olvidado qué se siente en esos casos. ¡Es demasiado ridículo! ¿Cuándo podrá un hombre liberarse de tales ingeniosidades, si la edad y su debilidad no lo protegen?
-¡Debilidad! -exclamó Elinor-. ¿Llamas débil al coronel Brandon? Fácilmente puedo suponer que a ti su edad te parezca mucho mayor que a mi madre, pero es difícil que te engañes respecto a que sí está en uso de sus extremidades.
-¿No lo escuchaste quejarse de reumatismo? ¿Y no es ésa la primera debilidad de una vida que declina?
-¡Mi querida niña! -dijo la madre, riendo-, entonces debes estar en continuo terror de que yo haya entrado también en la decadencia; y debe parecerte un milagro que mi vida haya llegado a la avanzada edad de cuarenta años.
-Mamá, no está siendo justa conmigo. Sé perfectamente que el coronel Brandon no es tan viejo como para que sus amigos teman perderlo por causas propias del curso de la naturaleza. Puede vivir veinte años más. Pero treinta y cinco años no tienen nada que ver con el matrimonio.
-Quizá -dijo Elinor-, sea mejor que una persona de treinta y cinco y otra de diecisiete no tengan nada que ver con un matrimonio entre sí. Pero si por casualidad llegara a tratarse de una mujer soltera a los veintisiete, no creo que el hecho de que el coronel Brandon tenga treinta y cinco le despertaría ninguna objeción a que se casara con ella.
-Una mujer de veintisiete -dijo Marianne, después de una pequeña pausa- jamás podría esperar sentir o inspirar afecto nuevamente; y si su hogar no es cómodo, o su fortuna es pequeña, supongo que podría intentar conformarse con desempeñar el oficio de institutriz, para así obtener la seguridad con que cuenta una esposa. Por tanto, si el coronel se casara con una mujer en esa condición, no habría nada inapropiado. Sería un pacto de conveniencia y el mundo estaría satisfecho. A mis ojos no sería en absoluto un matrimonio, Pero eso no importa. A mí me parecería sólo un intercambio comercial, en que cada uno querría beneficiarse a costa del otro.
-Sé -dijo Elinor- que sería imposible convencerte de que una mujer de veintisiete pueda sentir por un hombre de treinta y cinco algo que ni siquiera se acerque a ese amor que lo transformaría en un compañero deseable para ella. Pero debo objetar que condenes al coronel Brandon y a su esposa al perpetuo encierro en una habitación de enfermo, por la simple razón de que ayer (un día muy frío y húmedo) él llegó a quejarse de una leve sensación reumática en uno de sus hombros.
-Pero él mencionó camisetas de franela -dijo Marianne-; y para mí, una camiseta de franela está invariablemente unida a dolores, calambres, reumatismo, y todos los males que pueden afligir a los ancianos y débiles.
-Si tan sólo hubiera estado sufriendo de una fiebre violenta, no lo habrías menospreciado tanto. Confiesa, Marianne, ¿no sientes que hay algo interesante en las mejillas encendidas, ojos hundidos y pulso acelerado de la fiebre?
Poco después, cuando Elinor hubo abandonado la habitación, dijo Marianne:
-Mamá, tengo una preocupación en este tema de las enfermedades que no puedo ocultarle. Estoy segura de que Edward Ferrars no está bien. Ya llevamos acá cerca de quince días y todavía no viene. Tan sólo una verdadera indisposición podría ocasionar esta extraordinaria tardanza. ¿Qué otra cosa puede detenerlo en Norland?
-¿Tú pensabas que él vendría tan pronto? -dijo la señora Dashwood-. Yo no. Al contrario, si me he llegado a sentir ansiosa al respecto, ha sido al recordar que a veces él mostraba una cierta falta de placer ante mi invitación y poca disposición a aceptar cuando le mencionaba su venida a Barton. ¿Es que Elinor lo espera ya?
-Nunca se lo he mencionado a ella, pero por supuesto tiene que estar esperándolo.
-Creo que te equivocas, porque cuando ayer le hablaba de conseguir una nueva rejilla para la chimenea del dormitorio de alojados, señaló que no había ninguna urgencia, como si la habitación no fuera a ser ocupada por algún tiempo.
-¡Qué extraño es todo esto! ¿Qué puede significar? ¡Pero todo en la forma en que se han tratado entre ellos ha sido inexplicable! ¡Cuán frío, cuán formal fue su último adiós! ¡Qué desganada su conversación la última tarde que estuvieron juntos! Al despedirse, Edward no hizo ninguna diferencia entre Elinor y yo: para ambas tuvo los buenos deseos de un hermano afectuoso. Dos veces los dejé solos a propósito la última mañana, y cada vez él, de la manera más inexplicable, me siguió fuera de la habitación. Y Elinor, al dejar Norland y a Edward, no lloró como yo lo hice. Incluso ahora su autocontrol es invariable. ¿Cuándo está abatida o melancólica? ¿Cuándo intenta evitar la compañía de otros, o parece inquieta e insatisfecha con ella misma?
Las Dashwood estaban instaladas ahora en Barton con bastante comodidad. La casa y el jardín, con todos los objetos que los rodeaban, ya les eran familiares; poco a poco retomaban las ocupaciones cotidianas que habían dado la mitad de su encanto a Norland, pero esta vez con mucho mayor placer que el que allí habían logrado desde la muerte de su padre. Sir John Middleton, que las visitó diariamente durante los primeros quince días y que no estaba acostumbrado a ver demasiados quehaceres en su hogar, no podía ocultar su asombro por encontrarlas siempre ocupadas.
Sus visitantes, excepto los de Barton Park, no eran muchos. A pesar de los perentorios ruegos de sir John para que se integraran más al vecindario y de haberles asegurado repetidamente que su carruaje estaba siempre a su disposición, la independencia de espíritu de la señora Dashwood venció su deseo de vida social para sus hijas; y con gran decisión rehusó visitar a ninguna familia cuya casa quedara a mayor distancia que la que se podía recorrer caminando. Había pocas que cumplieran tal requisito, y no todas ellas eran asequibles. Aproximadamente a milla y media de la cabaña, junto al angosto y sinuoso valle de Allenham, que nacía del de Barton, tal como ya se ha descrito, en una de sus primeras caminatas las muchachas habían descubierto una mansión de aire respetable que, al recordarles un poco a Norland, despertó interés en sus imaginaciones y las hizo desear conocerla más. Pero a sus preguntas les respondieron que su propietaria, una dama anciana de muy buen carácter, desgraciadamente estaba demasiado débil para compartir con el resto del mundo y nunca se alejaba de su hogar.
En general, los alrededores abundaban en hermosos paseos. Los altos lomajes, que las invitaban desde casi todas las ventanas de la cabaña a buscar en sus cumbres el exquisito placer del aire, eran una feliz alternativa cuando el polvo de los valles de abajo ocultaba sus superiores encantos; y hacia una de esas colinas dirigieron sus pasos Marianne y Margaret una memorable mañana, atraídas por el poco sol que asomaba en un cielo chubascoso e incapaces de soportar más el encierro al que las -había obligado la continua lluvia de los dos días anteriores. El clima no era tan tentador como para arrancar a las otras dos de sus lápices y libros, a pesar de la declaración de Marianne de que el buen tiempo se mantendría y que hasta la última de las nubes amenazadoras se alejaría de los cerros. Y juntas partieron las dos muchachas.
Alegremente ascendieron las lomas, regocijándose de su propia clarividencia cada vez que vislumbraban un trozo de cielo azul; y cuando recibieron en sus rostros las vivificantes ráfagas de un penetrante viento del suroeste, lamentaron los temores que habían impedido a su madre y a Elinor la posibilidad de compartir tan deliciosas sensaciones.
-¿Existe en el mundo -dijo Marianne- una felicidad comparable a ésta? Margaret, caminaremos aquí al menos dos horas.
Margaret estuvo de acuerdo, y reemprendieron su camino contra el viento, resistiéndolo con alegres risas durante casi veinte minutos más, cuando de súbito las nubes se unieron por sobre sus cabezas y una intensa lluvia les empapó los rostros. Apenadas y sorprendidas, se vieron obligadas, aunque a desgana, a devolverse, porque ningún refugio había más cercano que su casa. No obstante, les quedaba un consuelo, al que pudieron recurrir en ese momento puesto que la necesidad les dio más decoro del que habitualmente tendrían: y éste fue bajar corriendo tan rápido como podían por la falda de la colina que conducía directamente al portón de su jardín.
Partieron. Marianne tomó ventaja al comienzo, pero un paso en falso la hizo caer de repente a tierra; y Margaret, incapaz de detenerse para auxiliarla, involuntariamente siguió de largo a toda prisa y llegó abajo sana y salva.
Un caballero que cargaba una escopeta, con dos perros pointer que jugaban a su alrededor, se encontraba subiendo la colina y a pocas yardas de Marianne cuando ocurrió el accidente. Dejó su arma y corrió en su auxilio. Ella se había levantado del suelo, pero habiéndose torcido un tobillo al caer, apenas podía sostenerse en pie. El caballero le ofreció sus servicios, y advirtiendo que su modestia la hacía rehusar lo que su situación hacía necesario, la levantó en sus brazos sin más tardanza y la llevó cerro abajo. Luego, cruzando el jardín cuya puerta Margaret había dejado abierta, la cargó directamente al interior de la casa, adonde Margaret acababa de llegar, y no dejó de sostenerla hasta sentarla en una silla de la salita.
Elinor y su madre se levantaron atónitas al verlo entrar, y mientras le clavaban la vista con evidente extrañeza y a la vez con secreta admiración ante su apariencia, él disculpó su intromisión relatando lo que la había causado; y lo hizo de manera tan franca y llena de gracia que su voz y expresión parecieron hacer mayores sus encantos, aunque ya era extraordinariamente bien parecido. Si hubiera sido viejo, feo y vulgar, igualmente habría contado con la gratitud y amabilidad de la señora Dashwood por cualquier acto de atención hacia su hija; pero la influencia de la juventud, la belleza y elegancia prestó un nuevo interés a su acción, que la conmovió aún más.
Le agradeció una y otra vez, y con la dulzura de trato que le era propia, lo invitó a sentarse. Pero él declinó hacerlo, en consideración a que estaba sucio y mojado. La señora Dashwood le rogó entonces le dijera con quién debía estar agradecida. Su nombre, replicó él, era Willoughby, y su hogar en ese momento estaba en Allenham, desde donde él esperaba le permitiera el honor de visitarlas al día siguiente para averiguar cómo seguía la señorita Dashwood. El honor fue rápidamente concedido y él partió, haciéndose aún más interesante, en medio de una intensa lluvia.
Su belleza varonil y más que común gracia se hicieron instantáneamente tema de generalizada admiración, y las risas a costa de Marianne que despertó su galantería recibieron particular estímulo de sus atractivos externos. Marianne misma había visto menos de su apariencia que el resto, porque la confusión que enrojeció su rostro cuando él la levantó le había impedido mirarlo después de que entraron en la casa. Pero había visto lo suficiente de él para sumarse a la admiración de las demás, y lo hizo con esa energía que siempre adornaba sus elogios. En apariencia y aire era exacto a lo que su fantasía había siempre atribuido al héroe de sus relatos favoritos; y el haberla cargado a casa con tan poca formalidad previa revelaba una rapidez de pensamiento que en forma muy especial despertaba en ella un ánimo favorable a él. Todas las circunstancias que le eran propias lo hacían interesante. Tenía un buen nombre, su residencia estaba en el villorrio que preferían por sobre los demás, y muy luego Marianne descubrió que de todas las vestimentas masculinas, la más sentadora era una chaqueta de caza. Bullía su imaginación, sus reflexiones eran gratas, y el dolor de un tobillo torcido perdió toda importancia.
Esa mañana sir John acudió a visitarlas tan pronto como el siguiente lapso de buen tiempo le permitió salir de casa. Tras relatarle el accidente de Marianne, le preguntaron ansiosamente si conocía en Allenham a un caballero de nombre Willoughby.
-¡Willoughby! -exclamó sir John-. ¿Es que él está acá? Pero qué buenas noticias; cabalgaré hasta su casa mañana para invitarlo a cenar el jueves.
¿Usted lo conoce, entonces? -preguntó la señora Dashwood.
-¡Conocerlo! Por supuesto que sí. ¡Pero si viene todos los años!
-Le aseguro que una persona tan buena como el que más. Un tirador bastante decente, y no hay jinete más audaz en toda Inglaterra.
-¡Y eso es todo lo que puede decir de él! -exclamó Marianne indignada-. Pero, ¿cómo son sus modales cuando se lo conoce de manera más íntima? ¿Cuáles son sus ocupaciones, sus talentos, cómo es su espíritu?
Sir John estaba algo confundido.
-Por mi vida -dijo-, no lo conozco tanto como para saber eso. Pero es una persona agradable, de buen carácter, y tiene una perrita pointer de color negro que es lo mejor que he visto. ¿Iba con él hoy?
Pero Marianne era tan incapaz de satisfacer su curiosidad respecto al color del perro del señor Willoughby, como lo era él en cuanto a describir los matices de la mente del joven.
-Pero, ¿quién es él? -preguntó Elinor-. ¿De dónde viene? ¿Posee una casa en Allenham?
Sobre este punto podía informarlas más sir John, y les dijo que el señor Willoughby no tenía propiedades personales en la región; que residía allí sólo mientras visitaba a la anciana de Allenham Court, de quien era pariente y cuyos bienes heredaría. Y agregó:
-Sí, sí, vale la pena atraparlo, le aseguro, señorita Dashwood; es dueño, además, de una linda propiedad en Somersetshire; y si yo fuera usted, no se lo cedería a mi hermana menor a pesar de todo su dar tumbos cerro abajo. La señorita Marianne no puede pretender quedarse con todos los hombres. Brandon se pondrá celoso si ella no tiene más cuidado.
-No creo -dijo la señora Dashwood, con una sonrisa divertida-, que ninguna de mis hijas vaya a incomodar al señor Willoughby con intentos de atraparlo. No es una ocupación para la que hayan sido criadas. Los hombres están muy a salvo con nosotras, sin importar cuán ricos sean. Me alegra saber, sin embargo, por lo que usted dice, que es un joven respetable y alguien cuyo trato no será de despreciar.
-Creo que es una persona tan buena como el que más -repitió sir John-. Recuerdo la última Navidad, en una pequeña reunión en Barton Park, en que él bailó desde las ocho hasta la cuatro sin sentarse ni una vez.
¿En verdad? -exclamó Marianne brillándole los ojos-. ¿Y con elegancia, con espíritu?
-Sí; y estaba otra vez en pie a las ocho, listo para salir a cabalgar.
-Eso es lo que me gusta; así es como debiera ser un joven. Sin importar a qué esté dedicado, su entrega a lo que hace no debe saber de moderaciones ni dejarle ninguna sensación de fatiga.
-Ya, ya, estoy viendo cómo va a ser -dijo sir John-, ya veo cómo será. Usted se propondrá echarle el lazo ahora, sin pensar en el pobre Brandon.
-Esa es una expresión, sir John -dijo Marianne acaloradamente- que me disgusta en especial.
Aborrezco todas las frases trilladas con las que se intenta demostrar agudeza; y “echarle el lazo a un hombre”, o “hacer una conquista”, son las más odiosas de todas. Se inclinan a la vulgaridad y mezquindad; y si alguna vez pudieron ser consideradas bien construidas, hace mucho que el tiempo ha destruido toda su ingeniosidad.
Sir John no entendió mucho este reproche, pero rió con tantas ganas como si lo hubiera hecho, y luego replicó:
-Sí, sí, me atrevo a decir que usted, de una manera u otra, va a hacer suficientes conquistas. ¡Pobre Brandon! Ya está bastante prendado de usted, y le aseguro que bien vale la pena echarle el lazo, a pesar de todo este andar rodando por el suelo y torciéndose los tobillos.
El protector de Marianne, según los términos en que con más elegancia que precisión ensalzara Margaret a Willoughby, llegó a la casa muy temprano la mañana siguiente para preguntar personalmente por ella. Fue recibido por la señora Dashwood con algo más que cortesía: con una amabilidad que las palabras de sir John y su propia gratitud inspiraban; y todo lo que tuvo lugar durante la visita llevó a darle al joven plena seguridad sobre el buen sentido, elegancia, trato afectuoso y comodidad hogareña de la familia con la cual se había relacionado por un accidente. Para convencerse de los encantos personales de que todas hacían gala, no había necesitado una segunda entrevista.
La señorita Dashwood era de tez delicada, rasgos regulares y una figura notablemente bonita. Marianne era más hermosa aún. Su silueta, aunque no tan correcta como la de su hermana, al tener la ventaja de la altura era más llamativa; y su rostro era tan encantador, que cuando en los tradicionales panegíricos se la llamaba una niña hermosa, se faltaba menos a la verdad de lo que suele ocurrir. Su cutis era muy moreno, pero su transparencia le daba un extraordinario brillo; todas sus facciones eran correctas; su sonrisa, dulce y atractiva; y en sus ojos, que eran muy oscuros, había una vida, un espíritu, un afán que difícilmente podían ser contemplados sin placer. Al comienzo contuvo ante Willoughby la expresividad de su mirada, por la turbación que le producía el recuerdo de su ayuda. Pero cuando esto pasó; cuando recuperó el control de su espíritu; cuando vio que a su perfecta educación de caballero él unía la franqueza y vivacidad; y, sobre todo, cuando le escuchó afirmar que era apasionadamente aficionado a la música y al baile, le dio tal mirada de aprobación que con ella aseguró que gran parte de sus palabras estuvieran dirigidas a ella durante el resto de su estadía.
Lo único que se requería para inducirla a hablar era mencionar cualquiera de sus diversiones favoritas. No podía mantenerse en silencio cuando se tocaban esos temas, y no era ni tímida ni reservada para discutirlos. Rápidamente descubrieron que compartían el gusto por el baile y la música, y que ello nacía de una general similitud de juicio en todo lo que concernía a ambas actividades. Animada por esto a examinar con mayor detenimiento las opiniones del joven, Marianne procedió a interrogarlo en tomo al tema de los libros; trajo a colación sus autores favoritos hablando de ellos con tal arrobamiento, que cualquier joven de veinticinco años tendría que haber sido en verdad insensible para no transformarse en un inmediato converso a la excelencia de tales obras, sin importar cuán poco las hubiera tenido en consideración antes. Sus gustos eran extraordinariamente semejantes. Ambos idolatraban los mismos libros, los mismos pasajes; o, si aparecía cualquier diferencia o surgía cualquier objeción de parte de él, no duraba sino hasta el momento en que la fuerza de los argumentos de la joven o el brillo de sus ojos podían desplegarse. El asentía a todas sus decisiones, se contagiaba de su entusiasmo y mucho antes del fin de su visita, conversaban con la familiaridad de conocidos de larga data.
-Bien, Marianne -dijo Elinor inmediatamente tras su partida-, creo que para una mañana lo has hecho bastante bien. Ya has averiguado la opinión del señor Willoughby en casi todas las materias de importancia. Estás al tanto de lo que piensa de Cowper y Scott; tienes total certidumbre de que aprecia sus encantos tal como debe hacerse, y has recibido todas las seguridades necesarias -respecto de que no admira a Pope más allá de lo adecuado. Pero, ¡cómo podrás continuar tu relación con él tras despachar de manera tan extraordinaria todos los posibles temas de conversación! Pronto habrán agotado todos los tópicos preferidos. Otro encuentro bastará para que él explique sus sentimientos sobre la belleza pintoresca y los segundos matrimonios, y entonces ya no tendrás nada más que preguntar...
-¡Elinor! -exclamó Marianne-. ¿Estás siendo justa? ¿Estás siendo equitativa? ¿Es que mis ideas son tan escasas? Pero entiendo lo que dices. Me he sentido demasiado cómoda, demasiado feliz, he estado demasiado franca. He faltado a todos los lugares comunes relativos al decoro. He sido abierta y sincera allí donde debí ser reservada, opaca, desganada y falsa. Si sólo hubiera conversado del clima y de los caminos, y si sólo hubiera hablado una vez en diez minutos, me habría salvado de este reproche.
-Querida mía -dijo su madre-, no debes sentirte ofendida por Elinor; ella sólo bromeaba. Yo misma la regañaría si la creyera capaz de desear poner freno al placer de tu conversación con nuestro nuevo amigo.
Marianne se apaciguó en un instante.
Willoughby, por su parte, dio tantas pruebas del placer que le producía la relación con ellas como su evidente deseo de profundizarla podía ofrecer. Las visitaba diariamente. Al comienzo su excusa fue preguntar por Marianne; pero la alentadora forma en que era recibido, que día a día crecía en gentileza, hizo innecesaria tal excusa antes de que la perfecta recuperación de Marianne dejara de hacerla posible. Debió quedarse confinada a la casa durante algunos días, pero nunca encierro alguno había sido menos molesto. Willoughby era un joven de grandes habilidades, imaginación rápida, espíritu vivaz y modales francos y afectuosos. Estaba hecho exactamente para conquistar el corazón de Marianne, porque a todo esto unía no sólo una apariencia cautivadora, sino una mente llena de un natural apasionamiento, que ahora despertaba y crecía con el ejemplo del de ella y que lo encomendaba a su afecto más que ninguna otra cosa.
Poco a poco la compañía de Willoughby se transformó en el más exquisito placer de Marianne. Juntos leían, conversaban, cantaban; los talentos musicales que él mostraba eran considerables, y leía con toda la sensibilidad y entusiasmo de que tan lamentablemente había carecido Edward.
En la opinión de la señora Dashwood, el joven aparecía tan sin tacha como lo era para Marianne; y Elinor no veía nada en él digno de censura más que una propensión -que lo hacía extremadamente parecido a su hermana y que a ésta muy en especial deleitaba- a decir demasiado lo que pensaba en cada ocasión, sin prestar atención ni a personas ni a circunstancias. Al formar y dar apresuradamente su opinión sobre otra gente, al sacrificar la cortesía general al placer de entregar por completo su atención a aquello que llenaba su corazón, y al pasar con demasiada facilidad por sobre las convenciones sociales mostraba un descuido que Elinor no podía aprobar, a pesar de todo lo que él y Marianne dijeran en favor de ello.
Marianne comenzaba ahora a advertir que la desesperación que se había apoderado de ella a los dieciséis años y medio al pensar que jamás iba a conocer a un hombre que satisficiera sus ideas de perfección, había sido apresurada e injustificable. Willoughby era todo lo que su imaginación había elaborado en esa desdichada hora, y en cada una de sus épocas más felices, como capaz de atraerla; y en su comportamiento, él mostraba que sus deseos en tal aspecto eran tan intensos como numerosos eran sus dones.
También la señora Dashwood, en cuya mente la futura riqueza de Willoughby no había hecho brotar especulación alguna en torno a un posible matrimonio entre los jóvenes, se vio arrastrada antes de terminar la semana a poner en ello sus esperanzas y expectativas, y a felicitarse en secreto por haber ganado dos yernos como Edward y Willoughby.
La preferencia del coronel Brandon por Marianne, tan anticipadamente descubierta por sus amigos, se hizo por primera vez perceptible a Elinor cuando ellos dejaron de advertirla. Comenzaron a dirigir su atención e ingenio a su más afortunado rival, y las chanzas de que el primero había sido objeto antes de que se despertara en él interés particular alguno, dejaron de caer sobre él cuando sus sentimientos realmente comenzaron a ser merecedores de ese ridículo que con tanta justicia se vincula a la sensibilidad. Elinor se vio obligada, aunque en contra de su voluntad, a creer que los sentimientos que para su propia diversión la señora Jennings le había atribuido al coronel, en verdad los había despertado su hermana; y que si una general afinidad entre ambos podía impulsar el afecto del señor Willoughby por Marianne, una igualmente notable oposición de caracteres no era obstáculo al afecto del coronel Brandon. Veía esto con preocupación, pues, ¿qué esperanzas podía tener un hombre circunspecto de treinta y cinco años frente a un joven lleno de vida de veinticinco? Y como ni siquiera podía desearlo vencedor, con todo el corazón lo deseaba indiferente. Le gustaba el coronel; a pesar de su gravedad y reserva, lo consideraba digno de interés. Sus modales, aunque serios, eran suaves, y su reserva parecía más el resultado de una cierta pesadumbre del espíritu que de un temperamento naturalmente sombrío. Sir John había dejado caer insinuaciones de pasadas heridas y desilusiones, que dieron pie a Elinor para creerlo un hombre desdichado y mirarlo con respeto y compasión.
Quizá lo compadecía y estimaba más por los desaires que recibía de Willoughby y Marianne, quienes, prejuiciados en su contra por no ser ni vivaz ni joven, parecían decididos a menospreciar sus méritos.
-Brandon es justamente el tipo de persona -afirmó Willoughby un día en que conversaban sobre él de quien todos hablan bien y que no le importa a nadie; a quien todos están dichosos de ver, y con quien nadie se acuerda de hablar.
-Es exactamente lo que pienso de él -exclamó Marianne.
-Pero no hagan alarde de ello -dijo Elinor-, porque en eso los dos son injustos. En Barton Park todos lo estiman profundamente, y por mi parte nunca lo veo sin hacer todos los esfuerzos posibles para conversar con él.
-Que usted esté de su parte -replicó Willoughby- ciertamente habla en favor del coronel; pero en lo que toca al aprecio de los demás, ello constituye en sí mismo un reproche. ¿Quién querría someterse a la indignidad de ser aprobado por mujeres como lady Middleton y la señora Jennings, algo que a cualquiera dejaría por completo indiferente?
-Pero puede que el maltrato de gente como usted y Marianne compense por el aprecio de lady Middleton y su madre. Si la alabanza de éstas es censura, la censura de ustedes puede ser alabanza; porque la falta de discernimiento de ellas no es mayor que los prejuicios e injusticia de ustedes.
-Cuando sale en defensa de su protegido, es hasta cáustica.
Mi protegido, como usted lo -llama, es un hombre sensato; y la sensatez siempre me será atractiva. Sí, Marianne, incluso en un hombre entre los treinta y los cuarenta. Ha visto mucho del mundo, ha estado en el extranjero, ha leído y tiene una cabeza que piensa. He encontrado que puede dar me mucha información sobre diversos temas, y siempre ha respondido a mis preguntas con la diligencia que dan la buena educación y el buen carácter.
-Lo que significa -exclamó Marianne desdeñosamente- que te ha dicho que en las Indias Orientales el clima es cálido y que los mosquitos son una molestia.
-Me lo habría dicho, no me cabe la menor duda, si yo lo hubiera preguntado; pero ocurre que son cosas de las cuales ya había sido informada.
-Quizá -dijo Willoughby- sus observaciones se hayan ampliado a la existencia de nababs, mohúres de oro y palanquines.
-Me atrevería a decir que sus observaciones han ido mucho más allá de su imparcialidad, señor Willoughby. Pero, ¿por qué le disgusta?
-No me disgusta. Al contrario, lo considero un hombre muy respetable, de quien todos hablan bien y en el cual nadie se fija; que tiene más dinero del que puede gastar, más tiempo del que sabe cómo emplear, y dos abrigos nuevos cada año.
-A lo que se puede agregar -exclamó Marianne- que no tiene ni genio, ni gusto, ni espíritu. Que su mente es sin brillo, sus sentimientos sin ardor, su voz sin expresión.
-Ustedes decretan cuáles son sus imperfecciones de manera tan general -replicó Elinor-, y en tal medida apoyados en la fuerza de su imaginación, que los encomios que yo puedo hacer de él resultan por comparación fríos e insípidos. Lo único que puedo decir es que es un hombre de buen juicio, bien educado, cultivado, de trato gentil y, así lo creo, de corazón afectuoso.
-Señorita Dashwood -protestó Willoughby-, ahora me está tratando con muy poca amabilidad. Intenta desarmarme con razones y convencerme contra mi voluntad. Pero no resultará. Descubrirá que mi testarudez es tan grande como su destreza. Tengo tres motivos irrefutables para que me desagrade el coronel Brandon: me ha amenazado con que llovería cuando yo quería que hiciese buen tiempo; le ha encontrado fallas a la suspensión de mi calesa, y no puedo convencerlo de que me compre la yegua castaña. Sin embargo, si en algo la compensa que le diga que, en mi opinión, su carácter es irreprochable en otros aspectos, estoy dispuesto a admitirlo. Y en pago por una confesión que no deja de darme un cierto dolor, usted no puede negarme el privilegio de que él me desagrade igual que antes.
Poco habían imaginado la señora Dashwood y sus hijas, cuando recién llegaron a Devonshire, que al poco tiempo de ser presentadas tantos compromisos ocuparían su tiempo, o que la frecuencia de las invitaciones y lo continuo de las visitas les dejarían tan pocas horas para dedicarlas a ocupaciones serias. Sin embargo, fue lo que ocurrió. Cuando Marianne se recuperó, los planes de diversiones en casa y fuera de ella que sir John había estado imaginando previamente, comenzaron a hacerse realidad. Se iniciaron los bailes privados en Barton Park e hicieron tantas excursiones a la costa como lo permitía un lluvioso octubre. En todos esos encuentros estaba incluido Willoughby; y la soltura y familiaridad que tanta naturalidad prestaba a estas reuniones estaba calculada exactamente para dar cada vez mayor intimidad a su relación con las Dashwood; para permitirle ser testigo de las excelencias de Marianne, hacer más señalada su viva admiración por ella y recibir, a través del comportamiento de ella hacia él, la más plena seguridad de su afecto.
Elinor no podía sentirse sorprendida ante el apego entre los jóvenes. Tan sólo deseaba que lo mostraran menos abiertamente, y una o dos veces se atrevió a sugerir a Marianne la conveniencia de un cierto control sobre sí misma. Pero Marianne aborrecía todo disimulo cuando la franqueza no iba a conducir a un mal real; y empeñarse en reprimir sentimientos que no eran en sí mismos censurables le parecía no sólo un esfuerzo innecesario, sino también una lamentable sujeción de la razón a ideas erróneas y ramplonas. Willoughby pensaba lo mismo; y en todo momento, el comportamiento de ambos era una perfecta ilustración de sus opiniones.
Cuando él estaba presente, ella no tenía ojos para nadie más. Todo lo que él hacía estaba bien. Todo lo que decía era inteligente. Si sus tardes en la finca concluían con partidas de cartas, él se hacía trampas a sí mismo y al resto de los comensales para darle a ella una buena mano. Si el baile constituía la diversión de la noche, formaban pareja la mitad del tiempo; y cuando se veían obligados a separarse durante un par de piezas, se Preocupaban de permanecer de pie uno junto al Otro, y apenas hablaban una palabra con nadie más. Por supuesto, tal conducta los exponía a las constantes risas de los otros, pero el ridículo no los avergonzaba y apenas parecía molestarlos.
La señora Dashwood celebraba todos sus sentimientos con una ternura que la privaba de todo deseo de controlar el excesivo despliegue de ellos. Para ella, tal abundancia no era sino la consecuencia natural de un intenso afecto en espíritus jóvenes y apasionados.
Esta fue la época de felicidad para Marianne. Su corazón estaba consagrado a Willoughby, y los encantos que su compañía le conferían a su hogar actual parecían debilitar más de lo que antes había creído posible el sentimental apego a Norland que había traído consigo desde Sussex.
La felicidad de Elinor no llegaba a tanto. Su corazón no estaba tan en paz ni era tan completa su satisfacción por las diversiones en que tomaban parte. No le habían procurado compañía alguna capaz de compensar lo que había dejado atrás, o de llevarla a recordar Norland con menos añoranza. Ni lady Middleton ni la señora Jennings podían ofrecerle el tipo de conversación que le hacía falta, aunque la última era una conversadora infatigable y la cordialidad con que la había acogido desde un comienzo le aseguraba que gran parte de sus comentarios estuvieran dirigidos a ella. Ya le había repetido su propia historia a Elinor tres o cuatro veces; y si la memoria de Elinor hubiera estado a la altura de los medios que la señora Jennings desplegaba para incrementarla, podría haber sabido desde los primeros momentos de su relación todos los detalles de la última enfermedad del señor Jennings y lo que le dijo a su esposa minutos antes de morir. Lady Middleton era más agradable que su madre únicamente en que era más callada. Elinor necesitó observarla muy poco para darse cuenta de que su reserva era una simple placidez en todos sus modales que nada tenía que ver con el buen juicio. Con su esposo y su madre era igual que con ella y su hermana; en consecuencia, la intimidad no era algo deseado ni buscado. Nunca tenía algo que decir que no hubiera dicho ya el día antes. Su insulsez era inalterable, porque incluso su ánimo permanecía siempre igual; y aunque no se oponía a las reuniones que organizaba su esposo, con la condición de que todo se desarrollara con distinción y sus dos hijos mayores la acompañaran, esas ocasiones no parecían ofrecerle más placer que el que experimentaría quedándose en casa; y era tan poco lo que su presencia agregaba al placer de los demás a través de alguna participación en las conversaciones, que a veces lo único que les recordaba que estaba entre ellos eran los afanes que desplegaba en torno a sus fastidiosos hijos.
Tan sólo en el coronel Brandon, entre todos sus nuevos conocidos, encontró Elinor una persona merecedora de algún grado de respeto por sus capacidades, cuya amistad interesara cultivar o que pudiera constituir una compañía placentera. Con Willoughby no podía contarse. Tenía él toda su admiración y afecto, incluso como hermana; pero era un enamorado: sus atenciones pertenecían por completo a Marianne, e incluso un hombre mucho menos entretenido que él podría haber sido en general más grato. El coronel Brandon, para su desgracia, no había sido alentado de la misma forma a pensar sólo en Marianne, y en sus conversaciones con Elinor encontró el mayor consuelo a la total indiferencia de su hermana.
La compasión de Elinor por él se hizo cada día mayor, pues tenía motivos para sospechar que ya había conocido las miserias de un amor desengañado. Se originó esta sospecha en algunas palabras que accidentalmente salieron de su boca una tarde en Barton Park, cuando por propia elección estaban sentados juntos mientras los otros bailaban. Miraba él fijamente a Marianne y, tras un silencio de algunos minutos, dijo con una casi imperceptible sonrisa:
-Su hermana, entiendo, no aprueba las segundas uniones.
-No -replicó Elinor-; sus opiniones son completamente románticas.
-O más bien, según creo, considera imposible su existencia.
-Así lo creo. Pero cómo se las ingenia para ello sin pensar en el carácter de su propio padre, que tuvo dos esposas, es algo que no sé. Unos pocos años más, sin embargo, sentará sus opiniones sobre la razonable base del sentido común y la observación; y puede que entonces se las pueda definir y defender mejor que hoy, cuando sólo ella lo hace.
-Probablemente es lo que ocurrirá -replicó él-; pero hay algo tan dulce en los prejuicios de una mente joven, que uno llega a sentir pena de ver cómo ceden y les abren paso a opiniones más comunes.
-No puedo estar de acuerdo con usted en eso -dijo Elinor-. Sentimientos como los de Marianne presentan inconvenientes que ni todos los encantos del entusiasmo y la ignorancia habidos y por haber pueden redimir. Todas sus normas tienen la desafortunada tendencia a ignorar por completo los cánones sociales; y espero que un mejor conocimiento del mundo sea de gran beneficio para ella.
Tras una corta pausa, él reanudó la conversación diciendo:
-¿No hace ninguna distinción su hermana en sus objeciones a una segunda unión? ¿Le parece igualmente descalificable en cualquier persona? ¿Por el resto de su vida deberán mantenerse igualmente indiferenciados aquellos que se han visto desilusionados en su primera elección, ya sea por la inconstancia de su objeto o la perversidad de las circunstancias?
-Le aseguro que no conozco sus principios en detalle. Sólo sé que nunca la he escuchado admitir ningún caso en que sea perdonable una segunda unión.
-Eso -dijo él- no puede durar; pero un cambio, un cambio total en los sentimientos... No, no, no debo desearlo... porque cuando los refinamientos románticos de un espíritu joven se ven obligados a ceder, ¡cuán a menudo los suceden opiniones demasiado comunes y demasiado peligrosas! Hablo por experiencia. Conocí una vez a una dama que en temperamento y espíritu se parecía mucho a su hermana, que pensaba y juzgaba como ella, pero que a causa de un cambio impuesto, debido a una serie de desafortunadas circunstancias...
Aquí se interrumpió bruscamente; pareció pensar que había dicho demasiado, y con la expresión de su rostro generó conjeturas que de otra manera no habrían entrado en la cabeza de Elinor. La dama mencionada habría pasado de largo sin despertar sospecha alguna, si él no hubiera convencido a la señorita Dashwood de que nada concerniente a ella debía salir de sus labios. Tal como ocurrió, no se requirió sino el más ligero esfuerzo de la imaginación para conectar su emoción con el tierno recuerdo de un amor pasado. Elinor no fue más allá. Pero Marianne, en su lugar, no se habría contentado con tan poco. Su activa imaginación habría elaborado rápidamente toda la historia, disponiendo todo en el más melancólico orden, el de un amor desgraciado.
A la mañana siguiente, mientras Elinor y Marianne paseaban, esta última le contó algo a su hermana que, a pesar de todo lo que sabía acerca de la imprudencia e irreflexibilidad de Marianne, la sorprendió por la extravagante manera en que testimoniaba ambas características. Marianne le dijo, con el mayor de los placeres, que Willoughby le había regalado un caballo, uno que él mismo había criado en sus propiedades de Somersetshire, pensado exactamente para ser montado por una mujer. Sin tomar en cuenta que los planes de su madre no contemplaban mantener un caballo -que, si fuera a cambiarlos, tendría que comprar otra cabalgadura para el sirviente, mantener a un mozo para que lo montara y, además, construir un establo para guardarlos-, no había vacilado en aceptar el presente y se lo había contado a su hermana en medio de un éxtasis total.
-Piensa enviar a su mozo de inmediato a Somersetshire para que lo traiga -agregó- y cuando llegue, cabalgaremos todos los días. Lo compartirás conmigo. Imagínate, mi querida Elinor, el placer de galopar en alguna de estas colinas.
No se mostró en absoluto deseosa de despertar de un sueño tal de felicidad para admitir todas las tristes verdades de que estaba rodeado, y durante algún tiempo rehusó someterse a ellas. En cuanto a un sirviente adicional, el gasto sería una bagatela; estaba segura de que mamá nunca lo objetaría, y cualquier caballo estaría bien para él; en todo caso, siempre podría conseguir uno en la finca; y en lo referente al establo, bastaría con cualquier cobertizo. Elinor se atrevió entonces a dudar de lo apropiado de recibir tal presente de un hombre al que conocían tan poco, o al menos desde hacía tan poco tiempo. Esto fue demasiado.
-Estás equivocada, Elinor -dijo acaloradamente- al suponer que sé poco de Willoughby. Es cierto que no lo he conocido durante mucho tiempo, pero me es más cercano que ninguna otra criatura del mundo, excepto tú y mamá. No es el tiempo ni la ocasión los que determinan la intimidad: es sólo el carácter, la disposición de las personas. Siete años podrían no bastar para que dos seres se conocieran bien, y siete días son más que suficientes para otros. Me sentiría culpable de una mayor falta a las convenciones si aceptara un caballo de mi hermano que recibiéndolo de Willoughby. A John lo conozco muy poco, aunque hayamos vivido juntos durante años; pero respecto de Willoughby, hace tiempo que me he formado una opinión.
Elinor pensó que era más sabio no seguir tocando el punto. Conocía el temperamento de su hermana. Oponérsele en un tema tan sensible sólo serviría para que se apegara más a su propia opinión. Pero un llamado al afecto por su madre, hacerle ver los inconvenientes que debería sobrellevar una madre tan indulgente si (como probablemente ocurriría) consentía a este aumento de sus gastos, vencieron sin gran demora a Marianne. Prometió no tentar a su madre a tan imprudente bondad con la mención de la oferta, y decir a Willoughby la siguiente vez que lo viera, que debía declinarla.
Fue fiel a su palabra; y cuando Willoughby la visitó ese mismo día, Elinor la escuchó manifestarle en voz baja su desilusión por verse obligada a rechazar su presente. Al mismo tiempo le relató los motivos de este cambio, que eran de tal naturaleza como para imposibilitar toda insistencia de parte del joven. No obstante, la preocupación de éste era muy visible, y tras expresarla con gran intensidad, agregó también en voz baja:
-Pero, Marianne, el caballo aún es tuyo, aunque no puedas usarlo ahora. Lo tendré bajo mi cuidado sólo hasta que tú lo reclames. Cuando dejes Barton para establecerte en un hogar más permanente, Reina Mab te estará esperando.
Todo esto llegó a oídos de la señorita Dashwood, y en cada una de las palabras de Willoughby, en su manera de pronunciarlas y en su dirigirse a su hermana sólo por su nombre de pila, tuteándola, vio de inmediato una intimidad tan definitiva, un sentido tan transparente, que no podían sino constituir clara señal de un perfecto acuerdo entre ellos. Desde ese momento ya no dudó que estuvieran comprometidos; y tal creencia no le causó otra sorpresa que advertir de qué manera caracteres tan francos habían dejado que ella, o cualquiera de sus amigos, descubrieran ese compromiso sólo por accidente.
Al día siguiente, Margaret le contó algo que iluminó aún más este asunto. Willoughby había pasado la tarde anterior con ellas, y Margaret, al haberse quedado un rato en la salita con él y Marianne, había tenido oportunidad de hacer algunas observaciones que, con cara de gran importancia, comunicó a su hermana mayor cuando estuvieron á solas.
-¡Ay, Elinor! -exclamó-. Tengo un enorme secreto que contarte sobre Marianne. Estoy segura de que muy pronto se casará con el señor Willoughby.
-Has dicho lo mismo -replicó Elinor- casi todos los días desde la primera vez que se vieron en la colina de la iglesia; y creo que no llevaban una semana de conocerse cuando ya estabas segura de que Marianne llevaba el retrato de él alrededor del cuello; pero resultó que tan sólo era la miniatura de nuestro tío abuelo.
-Pero esto es algo de verdad diferente. Estoy segura de que se casarán muy luego, porque él tiene un rizo de su pelo.
-Ten cuidado, Margaret. Puede que sólo sea el pelo de un tío abuelo de él.
-Pero, Elinor, de verdad es de Marianne. Estoy casi segura de que lo es, porque lo vi cuando se lo cortaba. Anoche después del té, cuando tú y mamá salieron de la pieza, estaban cuchicheando y hablando entre ellos muy rápido, y parecía que él le estaba rogando algo, y ahí él tomó las tijeras de ella y le cortó un mechón de pelo largo, porque tenía todo el cabello suelto a la espalda; y él lo besó, y lo envolvió en un pedazo de papel blanco y lo metió en su cartera.
Elinor no pudo menos que dar crédito a todos estos pormenores, dichos con tal autoridad; tamPoco se sentía inclinada a hacerlo, porque la circunstancia relatada concordaba perfectamente con lo que ella misma había escuchado y visto.
No siempre Margaret mostraba su sagacidad de manera tan satisfactoria para su hermana. Cuando una tarde, en Barton Park, la señora Jennings comenzó a asediarla para que le diera el nombre del joven por quien Elinor tenía especial preferencia, materia que desde hacía tiempo carcomía su curiosidad, Margaret respondió mirando a su hermana y diciendo:
-No debo decirlo, ¿verdad, Elinor?
Esto, por supuesto, hizo reír a todo el mundo, y Elinor intentó reír también. Pero el esfuerzo le fue doloroso. Estaba convencida de que Margaret pensaba en una persona cuyo nombre ella no iba a aguantar con compostura que se transformara en broma habitual de la señora Jennings.
Marianne simpatizó muy sinceramente con su hermana, pero hizo más mal que bien a la causa al ponerse muy roja y decir a Margaret, en tono muy enojado:
-Recuerda que no importa cuáles sean tus suposiciones, no tienes derecho a repetirlas.
-Nunca he supuesto nada al respecto -respondió Margaret-, fuiste tú misma quien me lo dijo.
Esto aumentó aún más el regocijo de la concurrencia, que comenzó a presionar insistentemente a Margaret para que dijera algo más.
-¡Ah! Se lo suplico, señorita Margaret, cuéntenos todo -dijo la señora Jennings-. ¿Cómo se llama el caballero?
-No debo decirlo, señora. Pero lo sé muy bien; y sé dónde está él también.
-Sí, sí, podemos adivinar dónde se encuentra: en su propia casa en Norland, con toda seguridad. Apuesto que es clérigo, allá en la parroquia.
-No, no es eso. No tiene ninguna profesión.
-Margaret -dijo Marianne, enérgicamente-, sabes bien que todo esto es invención tuya, y que no hay tal persona.
-Bien, entonces, ha muerto recientemente, Marianne, porque estoy segura de que este hombre existió, y su nombre comienza con F.
Elinor sintió en ese momento enorme gratitud hacia lady Middleton al escucharla comentar que “había llovido mucho”, aunque pensaba que la interrupción se debía menos a una atención hacia ella que al profundo desagrado de su señoría frente a la falta de elegancia de las bromas que encantaban a su esposo y a su madre. Sin embargo, la idea iniciada por ella fue de inmediato recogida por el coronel Brandon, siempre atento a los sentimientos de los demás; y así, mucho hablaron ambos sobre el asunto de la lluvia. Willoughby abrió el piano y le pidió a Marianne que lo ocupara; de esta forma, entre las distintas iniciativas de diferentes personas para acabar con el tema, éste pasó al olvido. Pero a Elinor no le fue igualmente fácil reponerse del estado de inquietud a que la había empujado.
Esa tarde se organizó una salida para ir al día siguiente a conocer un lugar muy agradable, distante unas doce millas de Barton y propiedad de un cuñado del coronel Brandon, sin cuya presencia no podía ser visitado dado que el dueño, que se encontraba en el extranjero, había dejado estrictas órdenes en ese tenor. Dijeron que el sitio era de gran belleza, y sir John, cuyos elogios fueron particularmente entusiastas, podía ser considerado un juez adecuado, porque al menos dos veces cada verano durante los últimos diez años había organizado excursiones para visitarlo. Había allí una noble cantidad de agua; un paseo en barca iba a constituir gran parte de la diversión en la mañana; se llevarían provisiones frías, sólo se emplearían carruajes abiertos, y todo se llevaría a cabo a la manera usual de una genuina excursión de placer.
Para unos pocos entre la concurrencia parecía una empresa algo audaz, considerando la época del año y que había llovido durante la última quincena. Elinor persuadió a la señora Dashwood, que ya estaba resfriada, de que se quedara en casa.
La planeada excursión a Whitwell resultó muy diferente a la que Elinor había esperado. Se había preparado para quedar completamente mojada, cansada y asustada; pero la ocasión resultó incluso más desafortunada, porque ni siquiera fueron.
Hacia las diez de la mañana todos estaban reunidos en Barton Park, donde iban a desayunar. Aunque había llovido toda la noche el tiempo estaba bastante bueno, pues las nubes se iban dispersando por todo el cielo y el sol aparecía con alguna frecuencia. Estaban todos de excelente ánimo y buen humor, ansiosos de la oportunidad de sentirse felices, y decididos a someterse a los mayores inconvenientes y fatigas para lograrlo.
Mientras desayunaban, llegó el correo. Entre las cartas había una para el coronel Brandon. El la cogió, miró la dirección, su rostro cambió de color y de inmediato abandonó el cuarto.
-¿Qué le ocurre a Brandon? -preguntó sir John. Nadie supo decirlo.
-Espero que no se trate de malas noticias -dijo lady Middleton-. Tiene que ser algo extraordinario para hacer que el coronel Brandon dejara mi mesa de desayuno de manera tan repentina.
A los cinco minutos se encontraba de vuelta.
-¿Espero que no sean malas noticias, coronel? -preguntó la señora Jennings no bien lo vio entrar en la habitación.
-En absoluto, señora, gracias.
-¿Era de Avignon? ¿Espero que no fuera para comunicarle que su hermana ha empeorado?
-No, señora. Venía de la ciudad, y es simplemente una carta de negocios.
-Pero, ¿cómo pudo descomponerse tanto al ver la letra, si era sólo una carta de negocios? Vamos, vamos, coronel; esa explicación no sirve; cuéntenos la verdad.
-Mi querida señora -dijo lady Middleton-, fijese bien en lo que dice.
-¿Acaso es para decirle que su prima Fanny se ha casado? -continuó la señora Jennings, sin hacer caso al reproche de su hija.
-Bien, entonces sé de quién es, coronel. Y espero que ella esté bien.
-¿A quién se refiere, señora? -preguntó él, enrojeciendo un tanto.
-Lamento muy especialmente, señora -manifestó el coronel dirigiéndose a lady Middleton- haber recibido esta carta hoy, porque se trata de negocios que demandan mi inmediata presencia en la ciudad.
-¡En la ciudad! -exclamó la señora Jennings-. ¿Qué puede tener que hacer usted en la ciudad en esta época del año?
-Verme obligado a abandonar una excursión tan agradable -continuó él- significa una gran pérdida para mí; pero mi mayor preocupación es que temo que mi presencia sea necesaria para que ustedes tengan acceso a Whitwell.
¡Qué gran golpe fue éste para todos!
-¿Pero no sería suficiente, señor Brandon -inquirió Marianne con una cierta desazón-, si usted le escribe una nota al cuidador de la casa?
El coronel negó con la cabeza.
-Debemos ir -dijo sir John-. No lo vamos a postergar cuando estamos por partir. Usted, Brandon, tendrá que ir a la ciudad mañana, y no hay más que decir.
-Ojalá la solución fuera tan fácil. Pero no está en mi poder retrasar mi viaje ni un solo día.
-Si nos permitiera saber qué negocio es el que lo llama -dijo la señora Jennings-, podríamos ver si se puede posponer o no.
-No se retrasaría más de seis horas -añadió Willoughby-, si consintiera en aplazar su viaje hasta que volvamos.
-No puedo permitirme perder ni siquiera una hora.
Elinor escuchó entonces a Willoughby decirle en voz baja a Marianne:
-Algunas personas no soportan una excursión de placer. Brandon es uno. Tenía miedo de resfriarse, diría yo, e inventó esta triquiñuela para escaparse. Apostaría cincuenta guineas a que él mismo escribió la carta.
-No me cabe la menor duda -replicó Marianne.
-Cuando usted toma una decisión, Brandon -dijo sir John-, no hay manera de persuadirlo a que cambie de opinión, siempre lo he sabido. Sin embargo, espero que lo piense mejor. Recuerde que están las dos señoritas Carey, que han venido desde Newton; las tres señoritas Dashwood vinieron caminando desde su casa, y el señor Willoughby se levantó dos horas antes de lo acostumbrado, todos con el propósito de ir a Whitwell.
El coronel Brandon volvió a repetir cuánto lamentaba que por su causa se frustrara la excursión, pero al mismo tiempo declaró que ello era inevitable. -Y entonces, ¿cuándo estará de vuelta?
-Espero que lo veamos en Barton -agregó su señoría- tan pronto como pueda dejar la ciudad; y debemos posponer la excursión a Whitwell hasta su vuelta.
-Es usted muy atenta. Pero tengo tan poca certeza respecto de cuándo podré volver, que no me atrevo a comprometerme a ello.
-¡Oh! El tiene que volver, y lo hará -exclamó sir John-. Si no está acá a fines de semana, iré a buscarlo.
-Sí, hágalo, sir John -exclamó la señora Jennings-, y así quizás pueda descubrir de qué se trata su negocio.
-No quiero entrometerme en los asuntos de otro hombre; me imagino que es algo que lo avergüenza..
Avisaron en ese momento que estaban listos los caballos del coronel Brandon.
-No pensará ir a la ciudad a caballo, ¿verdad? -añadió sir John.
-No, sólo hasta Honiton. Allí tomaré la posta.
-Bien, como está decidido a irse, le deseo buen viaje. Pero habría sido mejor que cambiara de opinión.
-Le aseguro que no está en mi poder hacerlo.
Se despidió entonces de todo el grupo.
-¿Hay alguna posibilidad de verla a usted y a sus hermanas en la ciudad este invierno, señorita Dashwood?
-Entonces debo decirle adiós por más tiempo del que quisiera.
Frente a Marianne sólo inclinó la cabeza, sin decir nada.
-Vamos, coronel -insistió la señora Jennings-, antes de irse, cuéntenos a qué va.
El coronel le deseó los buenos días y, acompañado de sir John, abandonó la habitación.
Las quejas y lamentaciones que hasta el momento la buena educación había reprimido, ahora estallaron de manera generalizada; y todos estuvieron de acuerdo una y otra vez en lo molesto que era sentirse así de frustrado.
-Puedo adivinar, sin embargo, qué negocio es ése -dijo la señora Jennings con gran alborozo.
-¿De verdad, señora? -dijeron casi todos.
-Sí, estoy segura de que se trata de la señorita Williams.
-¿Y quién es la señorita Williams? -preguntó Marianne.
-¡Cómo! ¿No sabe usted quién es la señorita Williams? Estoy segura de que tiene que haberla oído nombrar antes. Es pariente del coronel, querida; una pariente muy cercana. No diremos cuán cercana, por temor a escandalizar a las jovencitas.-Luego, bajando la voz un tanto, le dijo a Elinor-: Es su hija natural.
-¡Oh, sí! Y se le parece como una gota de agua a otra. Me atrevería a decir que el coronel le dejará su fortuna.
Al volver, sir John se unió con gran entusiasmo al lamento general por tan desafortunado incidente; no obstante, concluyó observando que como estaban todos juntos, debían hacer algo que los alegrara; y tras algunas consultas acordaron que aunque sólo podían encontrar felicidad en Whitwell, podrían procurarse una aceptable tranquilidad de espíritu dando un paseo por el campo. Trajeron entonces los carruajes; el de Willoughby fue el primero, y nunca se vio más contenta Marianne que cuando subió a él. Willoughby condujo a gran velocidad a través de la finca, y muy pronto se habían perdido de vista; y nada más se -vio de ellos hasta su vuelta, lo que no ocurrió sino después de que todos los demás habían llegado. Ambos parecían encantados con su paseo, pero dijeron sólo en términos generales que no habían salido de los caminos, en tanto los otros habían ido hacia las lomas.
Se acordó que al atardecer habría un baile y que todos deberían estar extremadamente alegres durante todo el día. Otros miembros de la familia Carey llegaron a cenar, y tuvieron el placer de juntarse casi veinte a la mesa, lo que sir John observó muy contento. Willoughby ocupó su lugar habitual entre las dos señoritas Dashwood mayores. La señora Jennings se sentó a la derecha de Elinor; y no llevaban mucho allí cuando se cruzó por detrás de la joven y de Willoughby y dijo a Marianne, en voz lo suficientemente alta para que ambos escucharan:
-Los he descubierto, a pesar de todas sus triquiñuelas. Sé dónde pasaron la mañana.
Marianne enrojeció, y replicó con voz inquieta:
¿Acaso no sabía usted -dijo Willoughby- que habíamos salido en mi calesa?
-Sí, sí, señor Descaro, eso lo sé bien, y estaba decidida a descubrir dónde habían estado. Espero que le guste su casa, señorita Marianne. Es muy grande, ya lo sé, y cuando venga a visitarla, espero que la haya amoblado de nuevo, porque le hacía mucha falta la última vez que estuve ahí hace seis años.
Marianne se dio vuelta en un estado de gran turbación. La señora Jennings rió de buena gana; y Elinor descubrió que en su insistencia por saber dónde habían estado, llegó a hacer que su propia sirvienta interrogara al mozo del señor Willoughby, y que por esa vía supo que habían ido a Allenham y pasado un buen rato paseando por el jardín y recorriendo la casa.
A Elinor se le hacía difícil creer que ello fuera cierto, ya que parecía tan improbable que Willoughby propusiera, o Marianne aceptara, entrar en la casa mientras la señora Smith, a quien Marianne nunca había sido presentada, se encontraba allí.
Tan pronto abandonaron el comedor, Elinor le preguntó sobre lo ocurrido; y grande fue su sorpresa al descubrir que cada una de las circunstancias que había relatado la señora Jennings era completamente cierta. Marianne se mostró bastante enojada con su hermana por haberlo dudado.
-¿Por qué habías de pensar, Elinor, que no fuimos allá o que no vimos la casa? ¿Acaso no es eso lo que a menudo has querido hacer tú misma?
-Sí, Marianne, pero yo no iría mientras la señora Smith estuviera allí, y sin otra compañía que el señor Willoughby.
-El señor Willoughby, sin embargo, es la única persona que puede tener derecho a mostrar esa casa; y como fue en un carruaje descubierto, era imposible tener otro acompañante. Jamás he pasado una mañana tan agradable en toda mi vida.
-Temo -respondió Elinor- que lo agradable de una ocupación no es siempre prueba de su corrección.
-Al contrario, nada puede ser una prueba más -contundente de ello, Elinor; pues si lo que hice hubiera sido de alguna manera incorrecto, lo habría estado sintiendo todo el tiempo, porque siempre sabemos cuando actuamos mal, y con tal convicción no podría haber disfrutado. - -Pero, mi querida Marianne, como esto ya te ha expuesto a algunas observaciones bastante impertinentes, ¿no comienzas a dudar ahora de la discreción de tu conducta?
-Si las observaciones impertinentes de la señora Jennings van a ser prueba de la incorrección de una conducta, todos nos encontramos en falta en cada uno de los momentos de nuestra vida. No valoro sus censuras más de lo que valoraría sus elogios. No tengo conciencia de haber hecho nada malo al pasear por los jardines de la señora Smith o visitar su casa. Algún día serán del señor Willoughby, y...
-Si un día fueran a ser tuyas, Marianne, eso no justificaría lo que has hecho.
Marianne se sonrojó ante esta insinuación, pero hasta se veía que era gratificante para ella; y tras un lapso de diez minutos de intensa meditación, se acercó nuevamente a su hermana y le dijo con bastante buen humor:
-Quizá, Elinor, fue imprudente de mi parte ir a Allenham; pero el señor Willoughby quería muy en especial mostrarme el lugar; y es una casa encantadora, te lo aseguro. Hay una salita extremadamente linda arriba, de un tamaño muy agradable Y cómodo, que puede ser usada a lo largo de todo el año, y con muebles modernos sería exquisita. Está situada en una esquina, con ventanas a ambos lados. Hacia un lado, a través de un campo plantado de césped donde se juega a los bolos, tras la casa, ves un hermoso bosque en pendiente; hacia el otro, tienes una vista de la iglesia y de la aldea y, más allá, esas bellas colinas escarpadas que tantas veces hemos admirado. No vi esta salita en la mejor de las circunstancias, porque nada podría estar más abandonado que ese mobiliario... pero si se lo arreglara con cosas nuevas... un par de cientos de libras, dice Willoughby, la transformarían en una de las salas de verano más agradables de toda Inglaterra.
Si Elinor la hubiera podido escuchar sin interrupciones de los demás, le habría descrito cada habitación de la casa con idéntico entusiasmo.
El súbito término de la visita del coronel Brandon a Barton Park, junto con su firmeza en ocultar las causas de tal determinación, ocuparon todos los pensamientos de la señora Jennings durante dos o tres días, llevándola a imaginar las más diversas explicaciones. Tenía una enorme capacidad de elaborar conjeturas, como debe tenerla todo aquel que se toma un interés tan vivo en las idas y venidas de cada uno de sus conocidos. Se preguntaba casi sin pausa cuál podría ser la razón de ello; estaba segura de que debían ser malas noticias, y recorrió todas las desgracias que podrían haber recaído sobre él, firmemente resuelta a que no escapara a ellas.
-Estoy segura de que debe tratarse de algo muy triste -afirmó-. Pude verlo en su cara. ¡Pobre hombre! Me temo que se encuentra en una mala situación. Nunca se ha sabido que sus tierras en Delaford produzcan más de dos mil libras al año, y su hermano dejó todo lamentablemente comprometido. En verdad creo que lo han llamado por asuntos de dinero, porque, ¿qué otra cosa puede ser? Me pregunto si es así. Daría lo que fuera por saber. Quizá se trate de la señorita Williams... y, a propósito, me atrevo a decir que sí, porque pareció afectarle tanto cuando se la mencioné. Quizá ella se encuentre enferma en la ciudad; es bastante posible, porque tengo la idea de que es harto enfermiza. Apostaría lo que fuera a que se trata de la señorita Williams. No es muy probable que él esté en aprietos económicos ahora, porque es un hombre muy prudente y con toda seguridad a estas alturas debe haber saneado la situación de sus propiedades. ¡Me pregunto qué podrá ser! Quizá su hermana haya empeorado en Avignon, y lo ha mandado a buscar. Su apuro en partir parece concordar con ello. Bueno, le deseo de todo corazón que salga de todos sus problemas, y con una buena esposa por añadidura.
Así divagaba la señora Jennings, así hablaba; sus opiniones cambiaban con cada nueva conjeturo y todas le parecían igualmente probables en el momento en que nacían. Elinor, aunque sentía verdadero interés por el bienestar del coronel Brandon, no podía dedicar a su repentina partida todas las inquietudes que la señora Jennings exigía que sintiera; porque además de que, en su opinión, las circunstancias no ameritaban tan persistentes disquisiciones o variedad de especulaciones, su perplejidad se dirigía a otro asunto. Estaba por Completo ocupada en dilucidar el extraordinario silencio de su hermana y de Willoughby respecto de aquello que debían saber que era de especial interés para todos. Como persistía este silencio, cada día que pasaba lo hacía parecer más extraño e incompatible con el carácter de ambos. Por qué no reconocían abiertamente ante su madre y ella misma lo que, minuto a minuto, su mutuo comportamiento declaraba haber tenido lugar, era algo que Elinor no podía imaginar.
Fácilmente podía entender que el matrimonio no fuera algo que Willoughby pudiera emprender de inmediato; pues aunque era independiente, no había razón alguna para creerlo rico. Sir John había calculado sus haberes en alrededor de seiscientas o setecientas libras al año, pero estos ingresos difícilmente podían estar a la altura del rango con que vivía, y él mismo a menudo se quejaba de pobreza. Así y todo, Elinor no podía explicarse esta extraña clase de secreto que ellos mantenían en relación con su compromiso, secreto que en la práctica no ocultaba nada; y era tan completamente contradictorio con todas sus opiniones y conductas, que a veces le surgía la duda de si en verdad estaban comprometidos, y esta duda bastaba para impedirle hacer pregunta alguna a Marianne.
A los ojos de toda la familia, no había señal más clara del afecto que se profesaban que el comportamiento de Willoughby. Distinguía a Marianne con todas las muestras de ternura que un corazón enamorado puede ofrecer, y con las demás tenía las afectuosas atenciones de un hijo y un hermano. Parecía considerar la casa de ellas como su hogar, y amarla en consecuencia; en ella transcurrían muchas más horas de su vida que en Allenham; y si ningún compromiso general los reunía en Barton Park, el ejercicio que ocupaba sus mañanas casi con toda seguridad terminaba allí, donde pasaba el resto del día junto a Marianne, y con su pointer favorito a los pies de ella.
Una tarde en particular, más o menos una semana después de que el coronel Brandon había abandonado la región, Willoughby pareció abrir su corazón más de lo habitual a los sentimientos de apego por todos los objetos que lo rodeaban; y al mencionar la señora Dashwood sus intenciones de mejorar la casita esa primavera, se opuso vehementemente a toda alteración de un lugar que, a través del afecto que le profesaba, había llegado a considerar perfecto.
¡Cómo! -exclamó-. Mejorar esta querida casita. No... jamás aceptaré eso. No deben agregar ni una sola piedra a sus muros, ni una pulgada a su tamaño, si tienen alguna consideración con mis sentimientos.
-No se alarme -dijo la señorita Dashwood-, no se hará nada de ese estilo, pues mi madre nunca tendrá el dinero suficiente para intentarlo.
Me alegro de todo corazón -exclamó el joven-. Ojalá siempre sea pobre si no puede utilizar sus riquezas en nada mejor.
-Gracias, Willoughby. Pero puede estar seguro de que ni todas las mejoras del mundo me llevarían a sacrificar los sentimientos de cariño hacia la casa que pueda tener usted, o cualquier persona a quien yo quiera. Confíe en que cualquier cantidad de dinero no utilizado que pueda quedar cuando haga mis cuentas en la primavera, preferiré dejarlo sin destino que disponer de él de forma que le cause tanto dolor. Pero, ¿en verdad siente tanto apego a este lugar como para no ver defectos en él?
-Sí -dijo él-. Para mí es impecable. No, más aún lo considero el único tipo de construcción en que puede alcanzarse la felicidad; y si yo fuera lo suficientemente rico, de inmediato derribaría Combe y lo reconstruiría según el plano exacto de esta casita.
-Con escaleras oscuras y estrechas y una cocina llena de humo, supongo -comentó Elinor.
-Sí -exclamó él con el mismo tono vehemente-, con todas y cada una de las cosas que tiene; en ninguna de sus comodidades o incomodidades debe notarse el más mínimo cambio. Entonces, y sólo entonces, bajo tal techo, puede que quizá sea tan feliz en Combe como lo he sido en Barton.
-Creo saber -replicó Elinor- que incluso con la desventaja de mejores habitaciones y una escalera más amplia, en adelante encontrará su propia casa tan impecable como ésta.
-Ciertamente hay circunstancias -dijo Willoughby- que podrían hacérmela mucho más querida; pero este lugar siempre tendrá un sitio en mi corazón que ningún otro podrá compartir.
La señora Dashwood contempló llena de placer a Marianne, cuyos hermosos ojos estaban fijos de manera tan expresiva en Willoughby, que denotaban claramente cuán bien lo comprendía.
-¡Cuán a menudo deseé -añadió el joven-, cuando estuve en Allenham hace un año ya, que la casita de Barton estuviese habitada! Nunca pasé por sus alrededores sin admirar su ubicación, y lamentando que nadie viviera en ella. ¡Cuán poco me imaginaba en ese entonces que las primeras nuevas que escucharía a la señora Smith, cuando recién llegué a la región, serían que la casita de Barton estaba ocupada! Y sentí una instantánea satisfacción e interés por ese hecho, que nada podría explicar sino una especie de premonición de la felicidad que aquí encontraría. ¿No es así como debió ocurrir, Marianne? -le dijo en voz más queda. Y luego, retomando su tono anterior, continuó-: ¡Y aun así, señora Dashwood, usted querría arruinar esta casa! ¡La despojaría de su sencillez con mejoras imaginarias! Y esta querida salita, en que comenzó nuestro encuentro y en la cual desde entonces hemos compartido tantas horas felices, se vería degradada a la condición de un vulgar recibo y todos se apresurarían entonces a simplemente-pasar por él, por esta habitación que hasta ese momento habría contenido en su interior más facilidades y comodidades que ningún otro aposento de las más amplias dimensiones que el mundo pudiera permitirse.
La señora Dashwood le aseguró nuevamente que no se llevaría a cabo ninguna transformación como las por él mencionadas.
-Es usted una buena mujer -replicó él con expresión de gran calidez-, Su promesa me tranquiliza. Amplíela un poco más, y me hará feliz. Dígame que no sólo su casa se mantendrá igual, sino que siempre la encontraré a usted, y a los suyos, tan inalterados como su morada; y que siempre encontraré en usted ese trato bondadoso que ha hecho tan querido para mí todo lo que le pertenece.
La promesa fue prontamente dada, y durante toda la tarde la conducta de Willoughby no dejó de manifestar tanto su afecto como su felicidad.
-¿Lo veremos mañana para cenar? -le preguntó la señora Dashwood cuando se iba-. No le pido que venga en la mañana, porque debemos ir a Barton Park a visitar a lady Middleton.
El joven se comprometió a estar allí a las cuatro de la tarde.
La visita de la señora Dashwood a lady Middleton tuvo lugar al día siguiente, y dos de sus hijas fueron con ella; Marianne, por su parte, se excusó de hacerlo con el trivial pretexto de tener alguna ocupación pendiente; y su madre, que concluyó que la noche anterior Willoughby le habría hecho alguna promesa en cuanto a visitarla mientras ellas estaban fuera, estuvo completamente de acuerdo con que se quedara en casa.
Al volver de la finca, encontraron la calesa de. Wiloughby y a su sirviente esperando en la puerta, y la señora Dashwood estuvo cierta de que su conjetura había sido acertada. Hasta ese momento era todo tal como ella lo había previsto; pero al ingresar en la casa contempló lo que ninguna previsión le había permitido esperar. No bien habían entrado al corredor cuando Marianne salió a toda prisa de la salita, al parecer violentamente afligida, cubriéndose los ojos con un pañuelo, y sin advertir su presencia corrió escaleras arriba. Sorprendidas y alarmadas, entraron directamente a la habitación que ella acababa de abandonar, donde encontraron a Willoughby apoyado contra la repisa de la chimenea y vuelto de espaldas hacia ellas. Giró al sentirlas entrar, y su semblante mostró que compartía intensamente la emoción a la cual había sucumbido Marianne.
-¿Ocurre algo con ella? . -exclamó la señora Dashwood al entrar-. ¿Está enferma?
-Espero que no -replicó el joven, tratando de parecer alegre; y con una sonrisa forzada, añadió-: Más bien soy yo el que podría estar enfermo... ¡en este mismo momento estoy sufriendo una terrible desilusión!
-Sí, porque me veo incapacitado de cumplir mi compromiso con ustedes. Esta mañana la señora Smith ha ejercido el privilegio de los ricos sobre un pobre primo que depende de ella, y me ha enviado por negocios a Londres. Acabo de recibir de ella las cartas credenciales y me he despedido de Allenham; y para colmar estos tan jocosos sucesos, he venido a despedirme de ustedes.
-A Londres... ¿y se va hoy en la mañana?
-¡Qué infortunio! Pero hay que plegarse a los deseos de la señora Smith... y sus negocios no lo mantendrán alejado de nosotros por mucho tiempo, espero.
Se sonrojó el joven al contestar:
-Es usted muy amable, pero no tengo planes de volver a Devonshire de inmediato. Mis visitas a la señora Smith nunca se repiten dentro del año.
-¿Es que la señora Smith es su única amiga? ¿Y Allenham es la única casa de los alrededores a la que es bienvenido? ¡Qué vergüenza, Willoughby! ¿Acaso no puede esperar una invitación acá?
Su bochorno se hizo más intenso y, con los ojos fijos en el piso, se limitó a contestar:
Sorprendida, la señora Dashwood miró a Elinor. Elinor sentía el mismo asombro. Durante algunos momentos todos se quedaron callados. La señora Dashwood fue la primera en hablar.
-Sólo me queda agregar, mi querido Willoughby, que en esta casa siempre será bienvenido; no lo presionaré para que vuelva de inmediato, porque usted es el único que puede juzgar hasta qué Punto eso complacerá a la señora Smith; y en esto no estaré más dispuesta a discutir su decisión que a dudar de sus deseos.
-Mis compromisos actuales -replicó Willoughby en estado de gran confusión- son de tal naturaleza... que... no me atrevo a creerme merecedor...
Se detuvo. El asombro de la señora Dashwood le impedía hablar, y sobrevino una nueva pausa. Esta fue interrumpida por Willoughby, que dijo con una débil sonrisa:
-Es una locura demorar mi partida en esta forma. No me atormentaré más quedándome entre amigos de cuya compañía ahora me es imposible gozar.
Se despidió rápidamente de ellas y abandonó la habitación. Lo vieron trepar a su carruaje, y en un minuto se había perdido de vista.
La señora Dashwood estaba demasiado impactada para hablar, y en el mismo momento salió de la sala para entregarse a solas a la preocupación y alarma que tan repentina partida había suscitado en ella.
La inquietud de Elinor era al menos igual a la de su madre. Meditaba en lo ocurrido con ansiedad y desconfianza. El comportamiento de Willoughby al despedirse de ellas, su turbación y fingida alegría y, sobre todo, su renuencia a aceptar la invitación de su madre, una timidez tan ajena a un enamorado, tan ajena a lo que él mismo era, la preocupaban profundamente. Por momentos temía que nunca había habido de parte de Willoughby ninguna decisión seria; a continuación, que había ocurrido alguna lamentable disputa entre él y su hermana; la angustia que embargaba a Marianne en el momento en que salía de la habitación era tan grande, que una disputa seria bien podía explicarla; aunque cuando pensaba en cuánto lo quería ella, una pelea parecía algo casi imposible.
Pero, fueran cuales fuesen las circunstancias de su separación, la aflicción de su hermana era indudable, y Elinor pensó con la más tierna de las compasiones en esa desgarradora pena a la cual Marianne no sólo estaba dando curso como forma de aliviarla, sino también alimentándola y estimulándola como si ello fuera un deber.
Alrededor de media hora después volvió su madre, y aunque tenía los ojos enrojecidos, su semblante no era desdichado.
-Nuestro querido Willoughby está ya a algunas millas de Barton, Elinor -le dijo, mientras se sentaba a trabajar-, ¡y con cuánto pesar en el corazón debe estar viajando!
-Todo es muy extraño. ¡Irse tan rápido! Parece una decisión tan repentina. ¡Y anoche estaba tan feliz aquí, tan alegre, tan cariñoso! Y ahora, con sólo diez minutos de aviso... ¿se ha ido sin intenciones de volver? Debe haber ocurrido algo más de lo que era su deber comunicarnos. Ni habló ni se comportó como la persona que conocemos. Usted tiene que haber notado la diferencia tal como lo hice yo. ¿Qué puede ser? ¿Habrán reñido? ¿Qué otro motivo puede haber tenido él para mostrar tan pocos deseos de aceptar su invitación a esta casa?
-¡No eran deseos lo que le faltaba, Elinor! Lo vi con toda claridad. No estaba en sus manos aceptarlo. Lo he pensado una y otra vez, te lo aseguro, y puedo explicar a la perfección todo lo que a primera vista me pareció tan extraño como a ti.
-Sí. Me lo he explicado a mí misma de la forma más satisfactoria; pero sé que a ti, Elinor, a ti que te gusta dudar siempre que puedes, no te satisfará; sin embargo, a mí no podrás quitarme la certeza que me he formado. Estoy convencida de que la señora Smith sospecha que él se interesa por Marianne, lo desaprueba (quizá porque tiene otros planes para él), y por tal motivo está ansiosa de enviarlo lejos; y que el negocio que le encomendó es una excusa inventada para sacarlo de aquí. Esto es lo que creo que ha ocurrido. El está consciente, además, de que ella positivamente desaprueba la unión; en consecuencia, por el momento no se atreve a confesarle su compromiso con Mariana, y se siente obligado, dada su situación de dependencia, a ceder a los planes que ella haya formado para él y ausentarse de Devonshire por un tiempo. Sé que me dirás que esto puede o no puede haber ocurrido; pero no prestaré oídos a tus cavilaciones a no ser que me muestres otra manera de explicar este asunto tan satisfactoria como la que te he planteado. Y ahora, Elinor, ¿qué puedes decir?
-Nada, porque usted ha anticipado mi respuesta.
-Entonces me habrías dicho que las cosas podrían haber ocurrido así, o no. ¡Ay, Elinor! ¡Qué incomprensibles son tus sentimientos! Prefieres creer lo malo antes que lo bueno. Prefieres buscar el infortunio para Marianne y la culpa para el pobre Willoughby, antes que una disculpa para él. Estás resuelta a creerlo culpable, porque se despidió de nosotras con menos afecto del que en general nos ha demostrado. ¿Y no te es posible hacer alguna concesión al atolondramiento, o a un ánimo abatido por desengaños recientes? ¿Es que no puede aceptarse ninguna probabilidad, simplemente porque no es una certeza? ¿Nada se le debe al hombre al que tenemos tantos motivos para querer, y ninguno en el mundo para pensar mal? ¿No le debemos abrirnos a la posibilidad de que haya motivos incuestionables en sí mismos, pero inevitablemente secretos durante un tiempo? Y, después de todo, ¿de qué lo haces sospechoso?
-Tampoco lo tengo claro. Pero es inevitable sospechar algo desagradable tras ver un trastorno tan grande como el que observamos en él. Hay una gran verdad, sin embargo, en su insistencia respecto de las concesiones que debemos hacer en su favor, y es mi deseo ser imparcial en todos mis juicios. Es indudable que Willoughby puede tener motivos suficientes para haberse comportado así, y espero que los tenga. Pero habría sido más propio de su carácter haberlos dado a conocer. La reserva puede ser aconsejable, pero aun así no puedo evitar extrañarme de encontrarla en él. -
-No lo culpes, sin embargo, por apartarse de su naturaleza, allí donde la desviación es necesaria. En todo caso, ¿realmente sí admites la justicia de lo que he dicho en su defensa? Eso me alegra... y a él lo absuelve.
-No por completo. Puede que sea adecuado ocultar su compromiso (si es que están comprometidos) a la señora Smith; y si tal es el caso, debe ser extremadamente conveniente para Willoughby estar lo menos posible en Devonshire por el momento. Pero eso no es excusa para ocultárnoslo a nosotras.
-¡Ocultárnoslo a nosotras! Mi niña querida, ¿acusas a Willoughby y a Marianne de ocultamiento? Esto es en verdad extraño, cuando tus ojos los han acusado a diario por su falta de cautela.
-No me falta prueba alguna de su afecto -dijo Elinor-, pero sí de su compromiso.
-A mí me bastan las que tengo de ambos.
-Pero ni una palabra le han dicho, ninguno de los dos, sobre esta materia.
-No he necesitado palabras donde las acciones han hablado por sí mismas con tanta claridad. Su comportamiento hacia Marianne y todas nosotras, al menos durante la última quincena, ¿acaso no ha hecho patente que la amaba y la consideraba su futura esposa, y que sentía por nosotras el afecto que se tiene por los parientes más cercanos? ¿No nos hemos entendido mutuamente a la perfección? ¿No ha solicitado a diario mi consentimiento a través de sus miradas, sus modales, sus atenciones afectuosas y llenas de respeto? Elinor, hija mía, ¿es posible dudar de su compromiso? ¿Cómo pudo ocurrírsete tal idea? Es imposible suponer que Willoughby, convencido como debe estar del amor de tu hermana, fuera a abandonarla, y quizá por meses, sin hablarle de su amor; imposible pensar que pudieran separarse sin intercambiar estas mutuas expresiones de confianza.
-Confieso -replicó Elinor- que todas las circunstancias excepto una hablan en favor de su compromiso, pero esa una es el total silencio de ambos sobre ello, y para mí casi anula todas las demás.
-¡Qué extraño! Ciertamente debes pensar horrores de Willoughby si, después de cuanto ha pasado entre ellos a la vista de todos, puedes dudar de la naturaleza de los lazos que los unen. ¿Ha estado representando un papel frente a tu hermana todo este tiempo? ¿Lo crees de verdad indiferente a ella?
-No, no puedo creer tal cosa. Estoy segura de que él debe amarla, y que la ama.
-Pero con una rara clase de ternura, si puede dejarla con tal indiferencia, con tal despreocupación por el futuro como la que tú le atribuyes.
-Debe recordar, madre querida, que nunca he dado por ciertos estos asuntos. Confieso que he tenido mis dudas; pero son menos fuertes de lo que eran, y puede que muy pronto hayan desaparecido por completo. Si descubrimos que se corresponden en su amor, todos mis temores habrán desaparecido.
-¡Mira qué gran concesión! Si los vieras ante el altar, supondrías que se iban a casar. ¡Qué niña desagradable! Pero yo no necesito tales pruebas. Nada, a mi juicio, ha pasado que justifique las dudas; no ha habido intentos de mantener nada en secreto; en todo ha habido igual transparencia. No pueden caberte dudas acerca de los deseos de tu hermana. Entonces debe ser de Willoughby que sospechas. Pero, ¿por qué? ¿No es acaso un hombre de honor y buenos sentimientos? ¿Ha mostrado alguna inconsistencia capaz de crear alarma? ¿Es capaz de engaño?
-Espero que no, creo que no -exclamó Elinor-. Quiero a Willoughby, sinceramente lo quiero; y las sospechas sobre su integridad no pueden ser más dolorosas para usted que para mí. Lo he hecho involuntariamente, y no atizaré esa tendencia en mí. Me sobresaltó, lo confieso, el cambio en su trato esa mañana; al hablar parecía una persona diferente a la que conocimos, y no respondió a la gentileza que usted tuvo hacia él con ninguna muestra de cordialidad. Pero todo esto puede explicarse por estar afectado por alguna situación como la que usted supone. Se acababa de separar de mi hermana, la había visto alejarse en la mayor de las aflicciones; y si se sentía obligado, por temor a ofender a la señora Smith, a resistir la tentación de volver acá luego, y aun así se daba cuenta de que al declinar su invitación diciendo que se iba por algún tiempo parecería estar actuando de manera mezquina y sospechosa hacia nuestra familia, bien puede haberse sentido avergonzado y perturbado. En tal caso, creo que un reconocimiento simple y franco de sus dificultades lo habría honrado más y habría sido más coherente con su carácter en general. Pero no criticaré la conducta de nadie sobre bases tan débiles como una diferencia entre sus opiniones y las mías, o una desviación de lo que yo considero correcto y consecuente.
-Lo que dices está muy bien. No cabe duda de que Willoughby no merece que sospechen de él. Aunque nosotras no lo hemos conocido durante mucho tiempo, no es un desconocido en esta parte del mundo; ¿y quién ha hablado en contra de él? Si hubiese estado en situación de actuar con independencia y casarse de inmediato, habría sido extraño que nos dejara sin decírmelo todo al momento; pero no es el caso. Es un compromiso iniciado, en algunos aspectos, bajo auspicios no favorables, porque la posibilidad de una boda parece estar lejos todavía; e incluso, según lo que se observa, puede que sea aconsejable mantener las cosas en secreto por ahora.
Se vieron interrumpidas por la entrada de Margaret, lo que dio libertad a Elinor para meditar detenidamente en los planteamientos de su madre, reconocer que muchos de ellos eran probables, y confiar en que todos fueran acertados.
No vieron a Marianne hasta la hora de la cena, cuando entró a la habitación y ocupó su lugar en la mesa sin proferir palabra. Tenía los ojos rojos e hinchados, y parecía que incluso en ese momento reprimía las lágrimas con dificultad. Evitó las miradas de las demás, no pudo comer ni conversar, y después de un rato, cuando su madre le oprimió silenciosamente la mano en un gesto de tierna compasión, el pequeño grado de fortaleza que había mantenido hasta entonces se derrumbó, rompió a llorar y abandonó la habitación.
Esta inexorable tristeza continuó durante toda la tarde. Marianne era impotente frente a ella, porque carecía de todo deseo de control sobre sí misma. La más pequeña mención de cualquier cosa relativa a Willoughby sobrepasaba de inmediato en ella toda resistencia; y aunque su familia estaba ansiosamente atenta a su bienestar, si llegaban a hablar les era imposible evitar todos los temas que sus sentimientos asociaban al joven.
Marianne no habría sabido cómo perdonarse si hubiera podido dormir aunque fuera un instante esa primera noche tras la partida de Willoughby. Habría tenido vergüenza de mirar a su familia a la cara la mañana siguiente si no se hubiera levantado de la cama más necesitada de descanso que cuando se acostó. Pero los mismos sentimientos que hacían de la circunspección algo indeseable, la liberaron de todo peligro de caer en ella. Estuvo despierta durante toda la noche y lloró gran parte de ella. Se levantó con dolor de cabeza, incapaz de hablar y sin deseos de tomar ningún alimento, apesadumbrando en todo momento a su madre y hermanas y rechazando todas sus tentativas de consuelo. ¡No iba ella a mostrar falta de sensibilidad!
Una vez terminado el desayuno, salió sola y deambuló por la aldea de Allenham, entregándose a los recuerdos de pasados goces y llorando por el actual revés de su fortuna durante la mayor parte de la mañana.
La tarde transcurrió en igual abandono a los sentimientos. Volvió a tocar cada una de las canciones que le gustaban y que solía tocar para Willoughby, cada aire en el que con más frecuencia se habían unido sus voces, y permaneció sentada ante el instrumento contemplando cada línea de música que él había copiado para ella, hasta que fue tan grande el pesar de su corazón que ya no podía alcanzarse tristeza mayor; y día a día se esforzó en nutrir así su dolor. Pasaba horas completas al piano alternando cantos y llantos, a menudo con la voz totalmente ahogada por las lágrimas. También en los libros, al igual que en la música, cortejaba la desdicha que con toda certeza podía obtener de la confrontación entre el pasado y el presente. No leía nada sino lo que solían leer juntos.
Tan ardiente congoja de ninguna manera podía sostenerse para siempre; a los pocos días se sumió en una más tranquila melancolía; pero las ocupaciones a que se entregaba diariamente -sus caminatas solitarias y silenciosas meditaciones-, aún daban pie a ocasionales efluvios de dolor tan intensos como antes.
No llegó ninguna carta de Willoughby, y no parecía que Marianne esperara ninguna. Su madre estaba sorprendida y Elinor nuevamente se fue inquietando. Pero la señora Dashwood era capaz de encontrar explicaciones siempre que le eran necesarias, lo que calmaba al menos su preocupación.
-Recuerda, Elinor -le dijo-, cuán a menudo sir John se encarga de transportar nuestro correo. Estuvimos de acuerdo en que el secreto puede ser necesario, y debemos reconocer que no podríamos mantenerlo si la correspondencia de Willoughby y Marianne pasara por las manos de sir John.
Elinor no pudo negar la verdad de lo anterior e intentó encontrar allí motivo suficiente para el silencio de los jóvenes. Pero había un método tan directo, tan sencillo y, en su opinión, tan fácil de adoptar para conocer el verdadero estado de las cosas y eliminar de una vez todo el misterio, que no pudo evitar sugerírselo a su madre.
-¿Por qué no le pregunta de inmediato a Marianne -le dijo- si está o no está comprometida con Willoughby? Viniendo de usted, su madre, y una madre tan dulce e indulgente, la pregunta no puede molestar. Sería consecuencia natural de su cariño por ella. Ella solía ser toda franqueza, y con usted de manera muy especial.
-Por nada del mundo le haría tal pregunta. Suponiendo posible que no estén comprometidos, ¡cuánta aflicción no le infligiría al así interrogarla! En todo caso, revelaría una falta de consideración tan grande a sus sentimientos. Nunca podría merecer su confianza de nuevo tras obligarla a confesar algo que por el momento no se quiere en conocimiento de nadie. Conozco el corazón de Marianne: sé que me quiere profundamente y que no seré la última en quien confíe sus asuntos, cuando las circunstancias así lo aconsejen. Jamás intentaría forzar las confidencias de nadie, menos aún de una niña, porque un sentido del deber contrario a sus deseos le impediría negarse a ello.
Elinor pensó que su generosidad era excesiva, considerando la juventud de su hermana, e insistió un poco, pero en vano; el sentido común, el celo común y la prudencia común, todos habían sucumbido en la romántica delicadeza de la señora Dashwood.
Pasaron varios días antes de que nadie en la familia mencionara el nombre de Willoughby frente a Marianne; por supuesto, sir John y la señora Jennings no fueron tan delicados; sus ingeniosidades sumaron dolor a muchos momentos dolorosos; pero una tarde, la señora Dashwood, tomando al azar un volumen de Shakespeare, exclamó:
-Nunca terminamos Hamlet, Marianne; nuestro querido Willoughby se fue antes de que lo leyéramos completo. Lo reservaremos, de manera que cuando vuelva... Pero pueden pasar meses antes de que eso ocurra.
-¡Meses! -exclamó, con enorme sorpresa-. No, ni siquiera muchas semanas.
La señora Dashwood lamentó lo que había dicho; pero alegró a Elinor, ya que había arrancado una respuesta de Marianne que mostraba con tanta fuerza su confianza en Willoughby y el conocimiento de sus intenciones.
Una mañana, alrededor de una semana después de la partida del joven, Marianne se dejó convencer de unirse a sus hermanas en su caminata habitual en vez de ponerse a deambular sola. Hasta ese momento había evitado cuidadosamente toda compañía durante sus vagabundeos. Si sus hermanas pensaban pasear en las lomas, ella se escabullía hacia los senderos; si mencionaban el valle, con igual prisa trepaba las colinas, y nunca podían encontrarla cuando las demás partían. Pero a la larga la vencieron los esfuerzos de Elinor, que desaprobaba enérgicamente ese permanente apartamiento. Caminaron a lo largo del camino que cruzaba el valle, casi todo el tiempo en silencio, porque era imposible ejercer control sobre la mente de Marianne; y Elinor, satisfecha con haber ganado un punto, no intentó por el momento obtener ninguna otra ventaja. Más allá de la entrada al valle, allí donde la campiña, aunque todavía fértil, era menos agreste y más abierta, se extendía ante ellas un largo trecho del camino que habían recorrido al llegar a Barton; y cuando alcanzaron este punto, se detuvieron para mirar a su alrededor y examinar la perspectiva dada por la distancia desde la cual veían su casa, ubicadas como estaban en un sitio al que nunca se les había ocurrido dirigirse en sus caminatas anteriores.
Entre todas las cosas que poblaban el paisaje, muy pronto descubrieron un objeto animado; era un hombre a caballo, que venía en dirección hacia ellas. En pocos minutos pudieron apreciar que era un caballero; y un instante después, arrobada, Marianne exclamó:
-¡Es él! Seguro que es... ¡Sé que es! -y se apresuraba a ir a su encuentro cuando Elinor la llamó:
-No, Marianne, creo que te equivocas. No es Willoughby. Esa persona no es lo suficientemente alta, y no tiene su aspecto.
-Sí lo tiene, sí lo tiene -exclamó Marianne-. ¡Estoy segura de que lo tiene! Su aspecto, su abrigo, su caballo... Yo sabía que iba a llegar así de rápido.
Caminaba llena de excitación mientras hablaba; y Elinor, para proteger a Marianne de sus propias peculiaridades, ya que estaba casi segura de que no era Willoughby, apresuró el paso y se mantuvo a la par de ella. Pronto estuvieron a treinta yardas del caballero. Marianne lo miró de nuevo; sintió que se le caía el alma a los pies, se dio media vuelta y comenzaba a devolverse por donde había venido cuando en su prisa se vio detenida por las voces de sus hermanas, a la que se unía una tercera casi tan conocida como la de Willoughby, rogándole que se detuviera, y se volvió sorprendida para ver y dar la bienvenida a Edward Ferrars.
Era la única persona del mundo a quien en ese momento podía perdonar no ser Willoughby; la única que podía haberla hecho sonreír; pero ella borró sus lágrimas para sonreírle a él, y en la felicidad de su hermana olvidó por un momento su propia decepción.
Edward desmontó y, entregándole el caballo a su sirviente, caminó de vuelta con ellas hacia Barton, adonde se dirigía con el propósito de visitarlas.
Todas le dieron la bienvenida con gran cordialidad, pero especialmente Marianne, que fue más calurosa en sus demostraciones de afecto que incluso la misma Elinor. Para Marianne, sin embargo, el encuentro entre Edward y su hermana no fue sino la continuación de esa inexplicable frialdad que tan a menudo había observado en el comportamiento de ambos en Norland. En Edward, especialmente, faltaba todo aquello que un enamorado debiera parecer y decir en ocasiones como ésta. Estaba confundido, apenas mostraba placer alguno en verlas, no se veía ni exaltado ni alegre, habló escasamente y sólo cuando se veía obligado a responder preguntas, y no distinguió a Elinor a través de ninguna señal de afecto. Marianne miraba y escuchaba con creciente sorpresa. Casi comenzó a sentir desagrado por Edward; y esta sensación terminó, como terminaban obligatoriamente todos sus sentimientos, llevando sus pensamientos de vuelta a Willoughby, cuyos modales contrastaban de tal manera con los de aquel que había sido elegido como hermano.
Tras un corto silencio que siguió a la sorpresa y preguntas iniciales, Marianne inquirió de Edward si había venido directamente desde Londres. No, había estado en Devonshire durante quince días.
-¡Quince días! -repitió Marianne, sorprendida de saber que había estado en el mismo condado que Elinor sin haberla visto antes.
Edward se mostró algo incómodo mientras agregaba que se había estado quedando con algunos amigos cerca de Plymouth.
-¿Ha estado últimamente en Sussex? -le preguntó Elinor.
-Estuve en Norland hace un mes.
-¿Y cómo está el querido, querido Norland? -exclamó Marianne.
-El querido, querido Norland -dijo Elinor- probablemente esté bastante parecido a como siempre está en esta época del año... los bosques y senderos cubiertos de una gruesa capa de hojas secas.
-¡Ah! -exclamó Marianne-. ¡Cuán transportada de emoción me solía sentir entonces al verlas caer! ¡Cómo me he deleitado en mis caminatas viéndolas caer en torno a mí como una lluvia impelida por el viento! ¡Qué de emociones me han inspirado, y la estación, el aire, todo! Hoy no hay nadie que las contemple. Ven en ellas tan sólo un fastidio, rápidamente las barren, y las hacen desaparecer de la vista como mejor pueden.
-No todos -dijo Elinor- tienen tu pasión por las hojas secas.
-No, mis sentimientos no suelen ser compartidos, ni tampoco comprendidos. Pero a veces lo son -mientras decía esto, se entregó por un instante a un breve ensueño; pero saliendo de él, continuó-: Ahora, Edward -le dijo llamando su atención al paisaje-, éste es el valle de Barton. Contémplalo, Y manténte en calma si es que puedes. ¡Mira esas colinas! ¿Alguna vez viste algo igual? Hacia la izquierda está la finca, Barton Park, entre esos bosques y plantíos. Puedes ver una esquina de la casa. Y allá, bajo esa colina lejana que se eleva con tal grandeza, está nuestra cabaña.
-Es una hermosa región -replicó él-; pero estas hondonadas deben estar llenas de lodo en invierno.
-¿Cómo puedes pensar en el lodo, con tales cosas frente a ti?
-Porque -replicó él, sonriendo- entre todas las cosas frente a mí, veo un sendero muy enfangado.
“¡Qué persona curiosa!”, se dijo Marianne mientras continuaba su camino.
-¿Es agradable el vecindario acá? ¿Son los Middleton gente grata?
-No, en absoluto -respondió Marianne -, no podríamos estar peor ubicadas.
-Marianne -exclamó su hermana-, ¿cómo puedes decir eso? ¿Cómo puedes ser tan injusta? Son una familia muy respetable, señor Ferrars, y con nosotras se han portado de la manera más amistosa posible. ¿Es que has olvidado, Marianne, cuántos días placenteros les debemos?
-No -dijo Marianne en voz baja-, y tampoco cuántos momentos dolorosos.
Elinor no escuchó sus palabras y, dirigiendo la atención a su visitante, se esforzó en mantener con él algo que pudiera parecer una conversación, para lo que recurrió a hablar de su residencia actual, sus ventajas, y cosas así, con lo que logró sacarle a la fuerza alguna ocasional pregunta u observación. Su frialdad y reserva la mortificaban gravemente; se sentía molesta y algo enojada; pero decidida a guiar su conducta más por el pasado que por el presente, evitó toda apariencia de resentimiento o disgusto y lo trató como pensaba que debía ser tratado, dados los vínculos familiares.
La sorpresa de la señora Dashwood al verlo duró sólo un momento; la venida de Edward a Barton era, en su opinión, la cosa más natural del mundo. Su alegría y manifestaciones de afecto sobrepasaron en mucho el asombro que pudo haber sentido. Recibió el joven la más gentil de las bienvenidas de parte de ella; su timidez, frialdad, reserva, no pudieron resistir tal recibimiento. Ya habían comenzado a abandonarlo antes de entrar a la casa, y el encanto del trato de la señora Dashwood terminó por vencerlas. En verdad un hombre no podía enamorarse de ninguna de sus hijas sin hacerla a ella también partícipe de su amor; y Elinor tuvo la satisfacción de ver cómo muy pronto volvía a comportarse como en realidad era. Su cariño hacia ellas y su interés por el bienestar de todas parecieron cobrar nueva vida y hacerse otra vez manifiestos. No estaba, sin embargo, en el mejor de los ánimos; alabó la casa, admiró el panorama, se mostró atento y gentil; pero aun así no estaba animado. Toda la familia lo advirtió, y la señora Dashwood, atribuyéndolo a alguna falta de generosidad de su madre, se sentó a la mesa indignada contra todos los padres egoístas.
¿Cuáles son los planes de la señora Ferrars para usted actualmente? -le preguntó tras haber terminado de cenar y una vez que se encontraron reunidos alrededor del fuego-. ¿Todavía se espera que sea un gran orador, a pesar de lo que usted pueda desear?
-No. Espero que mi madre se haya convencido ya de que mis dotes para la vida pública son tan escasas como mi inclinación a ella.
-Pero, entonces, ¿cómo alcanzará la fama? Porque tiene que ser famoso para contentar a toda su familia; y sin ser propenso a una vida de grandes gastos, sin interés por la gente que no conoce, sin profesión y sin tener el futuro asegurado, le puede ser difícil lograrlo.
-Ni siquiera lo intentaré. No tengo deseo alguno de ser distinguido, y tengo todas las razones imaginables para confiar en que nunca lo seré. ¡Gracias a Dios! No se me puede obligar al genio y la elocuencia.
-Carece de ambición, eso lo sé bien. Todos sus deseos son moderados.
-Creo que tan moderados como los del resto del mundo. Deseo, al igual que todos los demás, ser totalmente feliz; pero, al igual que todos los demás, tiene que ser a mi manera. La grandeza no me hará feliz.
-¡Seria raro que lo hiciera! -exclamó Marianne-. ¿Qué tienen que ver la riqueza o la grandeza con la felicidad?
-La grandeza, muy poco -dijo Elinor-; pero la riqueza, mucho.
-¡Elinor, qué vergüenza! -dijo Marianne-. El dinero sólo puede dar felicidad allí donde no hay ninguna otra cosa que pueda darla. Más allá de un buen pasar, no puede dar real satisfacción, por lo menos en lo que se refiere al ser más íntimo.
-Quizá -dijo Elinor, sonriendo-, lleguemos a lo mismo. Tu buen pasar y mi riqueza son muy semejantes, diría yo; y tal como van las cosas hoy en día, estaremos de acuerdo en que, sin ellos, faltará también todo lo necesario para el bienestar físico. Tus ideas sólo son más nobles que las mías. Vamos, ¿en cuánto calculas un buen pasar?
-Alrededor de mil ochocientas o dos mil libras al año; no más que eso.
-¡Dos mil al año! ¡Mil es lo que yo llamo riqueza! Ya sospechaba yo en qué terminaríamos.
-Aun así, dos mil anuales es un ingreso muy moderado -dijo Marianne-. Una familia no puede mantenerse con menos. Y creo que no estoy siendo extravagante en mis demandas. Una adecuada dotación de sirvientes, un carruaje, quizá dos, y perros y caballos de caza, no se pueden mantener con menos.
Elinor sonrió nuevamente al escuchar a su hermana describiendo con tanta exactitud sus futuros gastos en Combe Magna.
-¡Perros y caballos cazadores! -repitió Edward-. Pero, ¿por qué habrías de tenerlos? No todo el mundo caza.
Marianne se ruborizó mientras le respondía:
-¡Cómo quisiera -dijo Margaret, poniendo en marcha su fantasía- que alguien nos regalara a cada una gran fortuna!
-¡Ah! ¡Si eso ocurriera! -exclamó Marianne brillándole los ojos de animación, y con las mejillas resplandecientes con la dicha de esa felicidad imaginaria.
-Supongo que todas lo deseamos -dijo Elinor-, pese a que la riqueza no basta.
-¡Ay, cielos! -exclamó Margaret-. ¡Qué feliz sería! ¡No me imagino qué haría con ese dinero!
Marianne parecía no tener ninguna duda al respecto.
-Por mi parte, yo no sabría cómo gastar una gran fortuna -dijo la señora Dashwood- si todas mis hijas fueran ricas sin mi ayuda.
-Debería comenzar con las mejoras a esta casa -observó Elinor-, y todas sus dificultades desaparecerían de inmediato.
-¡Qué magníficas órdenes de compra saldrían desde esta familia a Londres -dijo Edward- si ello ocurriera! ¡Qué feliz día para los libreros, los vendedores de música y las tiendas de grabados! Usted, señorita Dashwood, haría un encargo general para que se le enviara todo nuevo grabado de calidad; y en cuanto a Marianne, conozco su grandeza de alma: no habría música suficiente en Londres para satisfacerla. ¡Y libros! Thomson, Cowper, Scott... los compraría todos una y otra vez; compraría cada copia, creo, para evitar que cayeran en manos indignas de ellos; y tendría todos los libros que le pudieran enseñar a admirar un viejo árbol retorcido. ¿No es verdad, Marianne? Perdóname si he sonado algo cáustico. Pero quería mostrarte que no he olvidado nuestras antiguas discusiones.
-Me encanta que me recuerden el pasado, Edward; no importa que sea melancólico o alegre, me encanta que me lo recuerden; y jamás me ofenderás hablándome de tiempos pasados. Tienes toda la razón al suponer cómo gastaría mi dinero... parte de él, al menos mi dinero suelto, de todas maneras lo usaría para enriquecer mi colección de música y libros.
-Y el grueso de tu fortuna iría a pensiones anuales para los autores o sus herederos. -No, Edward, haría otra cosa.
-Quizá, entonces, la donarías como un premio a la persona que escribiera la mejor defensa de tu máxima favorita, ésa según la cual nadie puede enamorarse más de una vez en la vida: porque supongo que no has cambiado de opinión en ese punto, ¿verdad?
-Sin ninguna duda. A mi edad, las opiniones son tolerablemente sólidas. No parece probable que vaya a ver o escuchar nada que me haga cambiarlas.
-Puede ver que Marianne sigue tan resuelta como siempre- dijo Elinor-; no ha cambiado en nada.
-Sólo está un poco más grave que antes.
-No, Edward -dijo Marianne-, tú no tienes nada que reprocharme. Tampoco tú estás muy alegre.
-¡Qué te hace pensar eso! -replicó el joven, con un suspiro-. Pero la alegría nunca formó parte de mí carácter.
-Tampoco la creo parte del de Marianne -dijo Elinor-. Difícilmente la llamaría una muchacha de gran vivacidad; es muy intensa, muy vehemente en todo lo que hace; a veces habla mucho, y siempre con gran animación..., pero no es frecuente verla realmente alegre.
-Creo que tiene usted razón -replicó Edward-; y, sin embargo, siempre la he tenido por una muchacha muy vivaz.
-A menudo me he descubierto cometiendo esa clase de equivocaciones -dijo Elinor-, con ideas totalmente falsas sobre el carácter de alguien en algún punto u otro; imaginando a la gente mucho más alegre o seria, más ingeniosa o estúpida de lo que realmente es, y me es difícil decir por qué, o en qué se originó el engaño. A veces uno se deja guiar por lo que las personas dicen de sí mismas, y muy a menudo por lo que otros dicen de ellas, sin darse tiempo para deliberar y discernir.
-Pero yo creía que estaba bien, Elinor –dijo Marianne- dejarse guiar cabalmente por la opinión de otras personas. Creía que se nos daba el discernimiento simplemente para subordinarlo al de nuestros vecinos. Estoy segura de que ésta ha sido siempre tu doctrina.
-No, Marianne, nunca. Mi doctrina nunca ha apuntado a la sujeción del entendimiento. El comportamiento es lo único sobre lo que he querido influir. No debes confundir el sentido de lo que digo. Me confieso culpable de haber deseado a menudo que trataras a nuestros conocidos en general con mayor cortesía; pero, ¿cuándo te he aconsejado adoptar sus sentimientos o conformarte a su manera de juzgar las cosas en asuntos serios?
-Entonces no ha podido incorporar a su hermana a su plan de cortesía general -dijo Edward a Elinor-. ¿No ha conquistado ningún terreno?
-Muy por el contrario -replicó Elinor, con una expresiva mirada a Marianne.
-Mi pensamiento -respondió él- está en todo de acuerdo con el suyo; pero me temo que mis acciones concuerdan mucho más con las de su hermana. Nunca es mi deseo ofender, pero soy tan neciamente tímido que a menudo parezco desatento, cuando sólo me retiene mi natural torpeza. Con frecuencia he pensado que, por naturaleza, debo haber estado destinado a gustar de la gente de baja condición, ¡pues me siento tan poco cómodo entre personas de buena cuna cuando me son extrañas!
-Marianne no puede escudarse en la timidez por las desatenciones en que puede incurrir -dijo Elinor.
-Ella conoce demasiado bien su propio valer para falsas vergüenzas -replicó Edward-. La timidez es únicamente efecto de una sensación de inferioridad en uno u otro aspecto. Si yo pudiera convencerme de que mis modales son perfectamente naturales y elegantes, no sería tímido.
-Pero aun así, sería reservado -dijo Marianne-, y eso es peor.
Edward la quedó mirando fijamente.
-¿Reservado? ¿Soy reservado, Marianne?
-No te comprendo -replicó él, enrojeciendo-. ¡Reservado...! ¿Cómo, en qué sentido? ¿Qué debería haberles dicho? ¿Qué es lo que supones?
Elinor pareció sorprendida ante una respuesta tan cargada de emoción, pero intentando quitarle seriedad al asunto, le dijo:
-¿Es que acaso no conoce lo suficiente a mi hermana para entender lo que dice? ¿No sabe acaso que ella llama reservado a todo aquel que no habla tan rápido como ella ni admira lo que ella admira, y con idéntico éxtasis?
Edward no respondió. Retornó a él ese aire grave y meditabundo que le era tan propio, y durante un rato se mantuvo allí sentado, silencioso y sombrío.
Elinor contempló con gran inquietud el ánimo decaído de su amigo. La satisfacción que le ofrecía su visita era bastante parcial, puesto que el placer que él mismo obtenía parecía tan imperfecto. Era evidente que era desdichado, y ella habría deseado que fuera igualmente evidente que aún la distinguía por el mismo afecto que alguna vez estaba segura de haberle inspirado; pero hasta el momento parecía muy dudoso que continuara prefiriéndola, y su actitud reservada hacia ella contradecía en un instante lo que una mirada más animada había insinuado el minuto anterior.
A la mañana siguiente las acompañó a ella y a Marianne en la mesa del desayuno antes de que las otras hubieran bajado; y Marianne, siempre ansiosa de impulsar, en lo que le era posible, la felicidad de ambos, pronto los dejó solos. Pero no iba aún por la mitad de las escaleras cuando escuchó abrirse la puerta de la sala y, volviéndose, quedó estupefacta al ver que también Edward salía.
Voy al pueblo a ver mis caballos -le dijo-, ya que todavía no estás lista para desayunar; volveré muy luego.
Edward regresó con renovada admiración por la región circundante; su caminata a la aldea había sido ocasión favorable para ver gran parte del valle; y la aldea misma, ubicada mucho más alto que la casa, ofrecía una visión general de todo el lugar que le había agradado sobremanera. Este era un tema que aseguraba la atención de Marianne, y comenzaba a describir su propia admiración por estos paisajes y a interrogarlo más en detalle sobre las cosas que lo habían impresionado de manera especial, cuando Edward la interrumpió diciendo:
-No debes preguntar demasiado, Marianne; recuerda, no sé nada de lo pintoresco, y te ofenderé con mi ignorancia y falta de gusto si entramos en detalles. ¡Llamaré empinadas a las colinas que debieran ser escarpadas! Superficies inusuales y toscas, a las que debieran ser caprichosas y ásperas; y de los objetos distantes diré que están fuera de la vista, cuando sólo debieran ser difusos a través del suave cristal de la brumosa atmósfera. Tienes que contentarte con el tipo de admiración que honestamente puedo ofrecer. La llamo una muy hermosa región: las colinas son empinadas, los bosques parecen llenos de excelente madera, y el valle se ve confortable y acogedor, con ricos prados y varias pulcras casas de granjeros diseminados aquí y allá. Corresponde exactamente a mi idea de una agradable región campestre, porque une belleza y utilidad... y también diría que es pintoresca, porque tú la admiras; fácilmente puedo creer que está llena de roqueríos y promontorios, musgo gris y zarzales, pero todo eso se pierde conmigo. No sé nada de pintoresquismo.
-Me temo que hay demasiada verdad en eso -dijo Marianne-; pero, ¿por qué hacer alarde de ello?
-Sospecho -dijo Elinor- que para evitar caer en un tipo de afectación, Edward cae aquí en otra. Como cree que tantas personas pretenden mucho mayor admiración por las bellezas de la naturaleza de la que de verdad sienten, y le desagradan tales pretensiones, afecta mayor indiferencia ante el paisaje y menos discernimiento de los que realmente posee. Es exquisito y quiere tener una afectación sólo de él.
-Es muy cierto -dijo Marianne- que la admiración por los paisajes naturales se ha convertido en una simple jerigonza. Todos pretenden admirarse e intentan hacer descripciones con el gusto y la elegancia del primero que definió lo que era la belleza pintoresca. Detesto las jergas de cualquier tipo, y en ocasiones he guardado para mí misma mis sentimientos porque no podía encontrar otro lenguaje para describirlos que no fuera ese que ha sido gastado y manoseado hasta perder todo sentido y significado.
-Estoy convencido -dijo Edward- de que frente a un hermoso panorama realmente sientes todo el placer que dices sentir. Pero, a cambio, tu hermana debe permitirme no sentir más del que declaro. Me gusta una hermosa vista, pero no según los principios de lo pintoresco. No me gustan los árboles contraídos, retorcidos, marchitos. Mi admiración es mucho mayor cuando son altos, rectos y están en flor. No me gustan las cabañas en ruinas, destartaladas. No soy aficionado a las ortigas o a los cardos o a los brezales. Me da mucho más placer una acogedora casa campesina que una atalaya; y un grupo de aldeanos pulcros y felices me agrada mucho más que los mejores bandidos del mundo.
Marianne miró a Edward con ojos llenos de sorpresa, y a su hermana con piedad. Elinor se limitó a reír.
Abandonaron el tema, y Marianne se mantuvo en un pensativo silencio hasta quede súbito un objeto capturó su atención. Estaba sentada junto a Edward, y cuando él tomó la taza de té que le- ofrecía la señora Dashwood, su mano le pasó tan cerca que no pudo dejar de observar, muy visible en uno de sus dedos, un anillo que en el centro llevaba unos cabellos entretejidos.
-Nunca vi que usaras un anillo antes, Edward -exclamó-. ¿Pertenecen a Fanny esos cabellos? Recuerdo que prometió darte algunos. Pero habría pensado que su pelo era más oscuro.
Marianne había manifestado sin mayor reflexión lo que en verdad sentía; pero cuando vio cuánto había turbado a Edward, su propio fastidio ante su falta de consideración fue mayor que la molestia que él sentía. El enrojeció vivamente y, lanzando una rápida mirada a Elinor, replicó:
-Sí, es cabello de mi hermana. El engaste siempre le da un matiz diferente, ya sabes.
La mirada de Elinor se había cruzado con la de él, y también pareció turbarse. De inmediato ella pensó, al igual que Marianne, que el cabello le pertenecía; la única diferencia entre ambas conclusiones era que lo que Marianne creía un regalo dado voluntariamente por su hermana, para Elinor había sido obtenido mediante algún robo o alguna maniobra de la que ella no estaba consciente. Sin embargo, no estaba de humor para considerarlo una afrenta, y mientras cambiaba de conversación pretendiendo así no haber notado lo ocurrido, en su fuero interno resolvió aprovechar de ahí en adelante toda oportunidad que se le presentara para mirar ese cabello y convencerse, más allá de toda duda, de que era del mismo color que el suyo.
La turbación de Edward se alargó durante algún tiempo, y terminó llevándolo a un estado de abstracción aún más pronunciado. Estuvo especialmente serio durante toda la mañana. Marianne se reprochaba de la manera más severa por lo que había dicho; pero se habría perdonado con mucho mayor rapidez si hubiera sabido cuán poco había ofendido a su hermana.
Antes de mediodía recibieron la visita de sir John y la señora Jennings, que habiendo sabido de la visita de un caballero a la cabaña, vinieron a echar una mirada al huésped. Con la ayuda de su suegra, sir John no tardó en descubrir que el nombre de Ferrars comenzaba con F, y esto dejó abierta para el futuro una veta de chanzas contra la recta Elinor que únicamente porque recién conocían a Edward no explotaron de inmediato. En el momento, tan sólo las expresivas miradas que se cruzaron dieron un indicio a Elinor de cuán lejos había llegado su perspicacia, a partir de las indicaciones de Margaret.
Sir John nunca llegaba a casa de las Dashwood sin invitarlas ya fuera a cenar en la finca al día siguiente, o tomar té con ellos esa misma tarde. En la ocasión actual, para distracción de su huésped a cuyo esparcimiento se sentía obligado a contribuir, quiso comprometerlos para ambos.
-Tienen que tomar té con nosotros hoy día -les dijo-, porque estaremos completamente solos; y mañana de todas maneras deben cenar con nosotros, porque seremos un grupo bastante grande.
La señora Jennings reforzó lo imperioso de la situación, diciendo:
-¿Y cómo saben si no organizan un baile? Y eso sí la tentará a usted, señorita Marianne.
-¡Un baile!- protestó Marianne-. ¡Imposible! ¿Quién va a bailar?
-¡Quién! Pero, ustedes, y los Carey y los Whitaker, con toda seguridad. ¡Cómo! ¿Acaso creía que nadie puede bailar porque una cierta persona a quien no nombraremos se ha ido?
-Con todo el corazón -exclamó sir John- querría que Willoughby estuviera entre nosotros de nuevo.
Esto, y el rubor de Marianne, despertaron nuevas sospechas en Edward.
-¿Y quién es Willoughby? -le preguntó en voz baja a la señorita Dashwood, a cuyo lado se encontraba.
Elinor le respondió en pocas palabras. El semblante de Marianne era mucho más comunicativo. Edward vio en él lo suficiente para comprender no sólo el significado de lo que los otros decían, sino también las expresiones de Marianne que antes lo habían confundido; y cuando sus visitantes se hubieron ido, de inmediato se dirigió a ella y, en un susurro, le dijo:
-He estado haciendo conjeturas. ¿Te digo lo que me parece adivinar?
-Pues bien, adivino que el señor Willoughby practica la caza.
Marianne se sintió sorprendida y turbada, pero no pudo dejar de sonreír ante tan tranquila sutileza y, tras un momento de silencio, le dijo:
-¡Ay, Edward! ¿Cómo puedes...? Pero llegará el día, espero... Estoy segura de que te gustará.
-No lo dudo -replicó él, con un cierto asombro ante la intensidad y calor de sus palabras; pues si no hubiera imaginado que se trataba de una broma hecha para diversión de todos sus conocidos, basada nada más que en un algo o una nada entre el señor Willoughby y ella, no habría osado mencionarlo.
Edward permaneció una semana en la cabaña; la señora Dashwood lo urgió a que se quedara más tiempo, pero como si sólo deseara mortificarse a sí mismo, pareció decidido a partir cuando mejor lo estaba pasando entre sus amigos. Su estado de ánimo en los últimos dos o tres días, aunque todavía bastante inestable, había mejorado mucho; día a día parecía aficionarse más a la casa y a su entorno, nunca hablaba de irse sin acompañar de suspiros sus palabras, afirmaba que disponía de su tiempo por completo, incluso dudaba de hacia dónde se dirigiría cuando se marchara..., pero aun así debía irse. Nunca una semana había pasado tan rápido, apenas podía creer que ya se hubiera ido. Lo dijo una y otra vez; dijo también otras cosas, que indicaban el rumbo de sus sentimientos y se contradecían con sus acciones. Nada le complacía en Norland, detestaba la ciudad, pero o a Norland o a Londres debía ir. Valoraba por sobre todas las cosas la gentileza que había recibido de todas ellas y su mayor dicha era estar en su compañía. Y aun así debía dejarlas a fines de esa semana, a pesar de los deseos de ambas partes y sin ninguna restricción en su tiempo.
Elinor cargaba a cuenta de la madre de Edward todo lo que había de sorprendente en su manera de actuar; y era una suerte para ella que él tuviera una madre cuyo carácter le fuera conocido de manera tan imperfecta como para servirle de excusa general frente a todo lo extraño que pudiera haber en su hijo. Sin embargo, desilusionada y molesta como estaba, y a veces disgustada con el vacilante comportamiento del joven hacia ella, aun así tenía la mejor disposición general para otorgar a sus acciones las mismas sinceras concesiones y generosas calificaciones que le habían sido arrancadas con algo más de dificultad por la señora Dashwood cuando se trataba de Willoughby. Su falta de ánimo, de franqueza y de congruencia, era atribuida en general a su falta de independencia y a un mejor conocimiento de las disposiciones y planes de la señora Ferrars. La brevedad de su visita, la firmeza de su propósito de marcharse, se originaban en el, mismo atropello a sus inclinaciones, en la misma inevitable necesidad de transigir con su madre. La antigua y ya conocida disputa entre el deber y el deseo, los padres contra los hijos, era la causa de todo. A Elinor le habría alegrado saber cuándo iban a terminar estas dificultades, cuándo iba a terminar esa oposición..., cuándo iba a cambiar la señora Ferrars, dejando a su hijo en libertad para ser feliz. Pero, de tan vanos deseos estaba obligada a volver, para encontrar consuelo, a la renovación de su confianza en el afecto de Edward; al recuerdo de todas las señales de interés que sus miradas o palabras habían dejado escapar mientras estaban en Barton; y, sobre todo, a esa halagadora prueba de ello que él usaba constantemente en torno a su dedo.
-Creo, Edward -dijo la señora Dashwood mientras desayunaban la última mañana-, que serías más feliz si tuvieras una profesión que ocupara tu tiempo y les diera interés a tus planes y acciones. Ello podría no ser enteramente conveniente para tus amigos: no podrías entregarles tanto de tu tiempo. Pero -agregó con una sonrisa- te verías beneficiado en un aspecto al menos: sabrías adónde ir cuando los dejas.
-De verdad le aseguro -respondió él- que he pensado mucho en este punto en el mismo sentido en que usted lo hace ahora. Ha sido, es y probablemente siempre será una gran desgracia para mí no haber tenido ninguna ocupación a la cual obligatoriamente dedicarme, ninguna profesión que me dé empleo o me ofrezca algo en la línea de la independencia. Pero, por desgracia, mi propia capacidad de comportarme de manera gentil, y la gentileza de mis amigos, han hecho de mí lo que soy: un ser ocioso, incompetente. Nunca pudimos Ponemos de acuerdo en la elección de una profesión. Yo siempre preferí la iglesia, como lo sigo haciendo. Pero eso no era bastante elegante para mi familia. Ellos recomendaban una carrera militar. Eso era demasiado, demasiado elegante para mí. En cuanto al ejercicio de las leyes, le concedieron la gracia de considerarla una profesión bastante decorosa; muchos jóvenes con despachos en alguna Asociación de Abogados de Londres han logrado una muy buena llegada a los círculos más importantes, y se pasean por la ciudad conduciendo calesas muy a la moda. Pero yo no tenía ninguna inclinación por las leyes, ni siquiera en esta forma harto menos abstrusa de ellas que mi familia aprobaba. En cuanto a la marina, tenía la ventaja de ser de buen tono, pero yo ya era demasiado mayor para ingresar a ella cuando se empezó a hablar del tema; y, a la larga, como no había verdadera necesidad de que tuviera una profesión, dado que podía ser igual de garboso y dispendioso con una chaqueta roja sobre los hombros o sin ella, se terminó por decidir que el ocio era lo más ventajoso y honorable; y a los dieciocho años los jóvenes por lo general no están tan ansiosos de tener una ocupación como para resistir las invitaciones de sus amigos a no hacer nada. Ingresé, por tanto, a Oxford, y desde entonces he estado de ocioso, tal como hay que estar.
-La consecuencia de todo ello será, supongo -dijo la señora Dashwood-, ya que la indolencia no te ha traído ninguna felicidad, que criarás a tus hijos para que tengan tantos intereses, empleos, profesiones y quehaceres como Columella.
-Serán criados -respondió con tono grave- para que sean tan diferentes de mí como sea posible, en sentimientos, acciones, condición, en todo.
-Vamos, vamos, todo eso no es más que producto de tu desánimo, Edward. Estás de humor, y te imaginas que cualquiera que no sea como tú debe ser feliz. Pero recuerda que en algún momento todos sentirán la pena de separarse de los amigos, sin importar cuál sea su educación o estado. Toma conciencia de tu propia felicidad. No careces de nada sino de paciencia... o, para darle un nombre más atractivo, llámala esperanza. Con el tiempo tu madre te garantizará esa independencia que tanto ansías; es su deber, y muy pronto su felicidad será, deberá ser, impedir que toda tu juventud se desperdicie en el descontento. ¡Cuánto no podrán hacer unos pocos meses!
-Creo -replicó Edward- que se necesitarán muchos meses para que me ocurra algo bueno.
Este desaliento, aunque no pudo ser contagiado a la señora Dashwood, aumentó el dolor de todos ellos por la partida de Edward, que muy pronto tuvo lugar, y dejó una incómoda sensación especialmente en Elinor, que necesitó de tiempo y trabajo para apaciguarse. Pero como había decidido sobreponerse a ella y evitar parecer que sufría más que el resto de su familia ante la partida del joven, no utilizó los medios tan juiciosamente empleados por Marianne en una ocasión similar, cuando se entregó a la búsqueda del silencio, la soledad y el ocio para aumentar y hacer permanente su sufrimiento. Sus métodos moran tan diferentes como sus particulares objetivos, e igualmente adecuados al logro de ellos.
Apenas partió Edward, Elinor se sentó a su mesa de dibujo, se mantuvo ocupada durante todo el día, no buscó ni evitó mencionar su nombre, Pareció prestar el mismo interés de siempre a las Preocupaciones generales de la familia, y si con esta conducta no hizo disminuir su propia congoja, al menos evitó que aumentara de manera innecesaria, y su madre y hermanas se vieron libres de muchos afanes por su causa.
Tal comportamiento, tan exactamente opuesto al de ella, no le parecía a Marianne más meritorio que criticable le había parecido el propio. Del asunto del dominio sobre sí misma, dio cuenta con toda facilidad: si era imposible cuando los sentimientos eran fuertes, con los apacibles no tenía ningún mérito. Que los sentimientos de su hermana eran apacibles, no osaba negarlo, aunque le avergonzaba reconocerlo; y de la fuerza de los propios tenía una prueba incontrovertible, puesto que seguía amando y respetando a esa hermana a pesar de este humillante convencimiento.
Sin rehuir a su familia o salir de la casa en voluntaria soledad para evitarla o quedarse despierta toda la noche para abandonarse a sus cavilaciones, Elinor descubrió que cada día le ofrecía tiempo suficiente para pensar en Edward, y en el comportamiento de Edward, de todas las maneras posibles que sus diferentes estados de ánimo en momentos distintos podían producir: con ternura, piedad, aprobación, censura y duda. Abundaban los momentos cuando, si no por la ausencia de su madre y hermanas, al menos por la naturaleza de sus ocupaciones, se imposibilitaba toda conversación entre ellas y sobrevenían todos los efectos de la soledad. Su mente quedaba inevitablemente en libertad; sus pensamientos no podían encadenarse a ninguna otra cosa; y el pasado y el futuro relacionados con un tema tan interesante no podían sino hacérsele presentes, forzar su atención y absorber su memoria, sus reflexiones, su imaginación.
De una ensoñación de este tipo a la que se había entregado mientras se encontraba sentada ante su mesa de dibujo, la despertó una mañana, poco después de la partida de Edward, la llegada de algunas visitas. Por casualidad se encontraba sola. El ruido que la puertecilla a la entrada del jardín frente a la casa hacía al cerrarse atrajo su mirada hacia la ventana, y vio un gran grupo de personas encaminándose a la puerta. Entre ellas estaban sir John y lady Middleton y la señora Jennings; pero había otros dos, un caballero y una dama, que le eran por completo desconocidos. Estaba sentada cerca de la ventana y tan pronto la vio sir John, dejó que el resto de la partida cumpliera con la ceremonia de golpear la puerta y, cruzando por el césped, le hizo abrir el ventanal para conversar en privado, aunque el espacio entre la puerta y la ventana era tan pequeño como para hacer casi imposible hablar en una sin ser escuchado en la otra.
-Bien--le dijo-, le hemos traído algunos desconocidos. ¿Le gustan?
-Qué importa si lo hacen. Sólo son los Palmer. Puedo decirle que Charlotte es muy bonita. Alcanzará a verla si mira hacia acá.
Como Elinor estaba segura de que la vería en un par de minutos sin tener que tomarse tal libertad, le pidió que la excusara de hacerlo.
-¿Dónde está Marianne? ¿Ha huido al vernos venir? Veo que su instrumento está abierto.
En ese momento se les unió la señora Jennings, que no tenía paciencia suficiente para esperar que le abrieran la puerta antes de que ella contara su historia. Se acercó a la ventana con grandes saludos:
-¿Cómo se encuentra, querida? ¿Cómo está la señora Dashwood? ¿Y dónde están sus hermanas? ¡Cómo! ¡La han dejado sola! Le agradará tener a alguien que le haga compañía. He traído a mi otro hijo e hija para que se conozcan. ¡Imagínese que llegaron de repente! Anoche pensé haber escuchado un carruaje mientras tomábamos el té, pero nunca se me pasó por la mente que pudieran ser ellos. Lo único que se me ocurrió fue que podía ser el coronel Brandon que llegaba de vuelta; así que le dije a sir John: “Creo que escucho un carruaje; quizá es el coronel Brandon que llega de vuelta...”
En la mitad de su historia, Elinor se vio obligada a volverse para recibir al resto de la concurrencia; lady Middleton le presentó a los dos desconocidos; la señora Dashwood y Margaret bajaban las escaleras en ese mismo momento, y todos se sentaron a mirarse mutuamente mientras la señora Jennings continuaba con su historia a la vez que cruzaba por el corredor hasta la salita, acompañada por sir John.
La señora Palmer era varios años más joven que lady Middleton, y completamente diferente a ella en diversos aspectos. Era de corta estatura y regordeta, con un rostro muy bonito y la mayor expresión de buen humor que pueda imaginarse. Sus modales no eran en absoluto tan elegantes como los de su hermana, pero sí mucho más agradables. Entró con una sonrisa, sonrió durante todo el tiempo que duró su visita, excepto cuando reía, y seguía sonriendo al irse. Su esposo era un joven de aire serio, de veinticinco o veintiséis años, con aire más citadino y más juicioso que su esposa, pero menos deseoso de complacer o dejarse complacer. Entró a la habitación con aire de sentirse muy importante, hizo una leve inclinación ante las damas sin pronunciar palabra y, tras una breve inspección a ellas y a sus aposentos, tomó un periódico de la mesa y permaneció leyéndolo durante toda la visita.
La señora Palmer, por el contrario, a quien la naturaleza había dotado con la disposición a ser invariablemente cortés y feliz, apenas había tomado asiento cuando prorrumpió en exclamaciones de admiración por la sala y todo lo que había en ella.
-¡Miren! ¡Qué cuarto tan delicioso es éste! ¡Nunca había visto algo tan encantador! ¡Tan sólo piense, mamá, cuánto ha mejorado desde la última vez que estuve aquí! ¡Siempre me pareció un sitio tan exquisito, señora -dijo volviéndose a la señora Dashwood-, pero usted le ha dado tanto encanto! ¡Tan sólo observa, hermana, que delicia es todo! Cómo me gustaría tener una casa así. ¿Y a usted, señor Palmer?
El señor Palmer no le respondió, y ni siquiera levantó la vista del periódico.
-El señor Palmer no me escucha -dijo ella riendo-. A veces nunca lo hace. ¡Es tan cómico!
Esta era una idea absolutamente nueva para la señora Dashwood; no estaba acostumbrada a encontrar ingenio en la falta de atención de nadie, y no pudo evitar mirar con sorpresa a ambos.
La señora Jennings, entre tanto, seguía hablando a todo volumen y continuaba con el relato de la sorpresa que se habían llevado la noche anterior al ver a sus amigos, y no cesó de hacerlo hasta que hubo contado todo. La señora Palmer se reía con gran entusiasmo ante el recuerdo del asombro que les habían producido, y todos estuvieron de acuerdo dos o tres veces en que había sido una agradable sorpresa.
-Puede imaginar lo contentos que estábamos todos de verlos -agregó la señora Jennings, inclinándose hacia Elinor y hablándole en voz baja, como si pretendiera que nadie más la escuchara, aunque estaban sentadas en diferentes extremos de la habitación-, pero, así y todo, no puedo dejar de desear que no hubieran viajado tan rápido ni hecho una travesía tan larga, porque dieron toda la vuelta por Londres a causa de ciertos negocios, porque, usted sabe -indicó a su hija con una expresiva inclinación de la cabeza-, es inconveniente en su condición. Yo quería que se quedara en casa y descansara ahora en la mañana, pero insistió en venir con nosotros; ¡tenía tantos deseos de verlas a todas ustedes!
La señora Palmer se rió y dijo que no le haría ningún daño.
-Ella espera estar de parto en febrero -continuó la señora Jennings.
La señora Middleton no pudo seguir soportando tal conversación, y se esforzó en preguntarle al señor Palmer si había alguna noticia en el periódico.
-No, ninguna -replicó, y continuó leyendo.
-Aquí viene Marianne -exclamó sir John-. Ahora, Palmer, verás a una muchacha monstruosamente bonita.
Se dirigió de inmediato al corredor, abrió la puerta del frente y él mismo la escoltó. Apenas apareció, la señora Jennings le preguntó si no había estado en Allenham; y la señora Palmer se rió con tantas ganas por la pregunta como si la hubiese entendido. El señor Palmer la miró cuando entraba en la habitación, le clavó la vista durante algunos instantes, y luego volvió a su periódico. En ese momento llamaron la atención de la señora Palmer los dibujos que colgaban en los muros. Se levantó a examinarlos.
-¡Ay, cielos! ¡Qué hermosos son éstos! ¡Vaya, qué preciosura! Mírelos, mamá, ¡qué adorables! Le digo que son un encanto; podría quedarme contemplándolos para siempre -y volviendo a sentarse, muy pronto olvidó que hubiera tales cosas en la habitación.
Cuando lady Middleton se levantó para marcharse, el señor Palmer también lo hizo, dejó el periódico, se estiró y los miró a todos alrededor.
-Amor mío, ¿has estado durmiendo? -dijo su esposa, riendo.
El no le respondió y se limitó a observar, tras examinar de nuevo la habitación, que era de techo muy bajo y que el cielo raso estaba combado. Tras lo cual hizo una inclinación de cabeza, y se marchó con el resto.
Sir John había insistido en que pasaran el día siguiente en Barton Park. La señora Dashwood, que prefería no cenar con ellos más a menudo de lo que ellos lo hacían en la casita, por su parte rehusó absolutamente; sus hijas podían hacer lo que quisieran. Pero éstas no tenían curiosidad alguna en ver cómo cenaban el señor y la señora Palmer, y la perspectiva de estar con ellos tampoco prometía ninguna otra diversión. Intentaron así excusarse también; el clima estaba inestable y no prometía mejorar. Pero sir John no se dio por satisfecho: enviaría el carruaje a buscarlas, y debían ir. Lady Middleton también, aunque no presionó a la señora Dashwood, lo hizo con las hilas. La señora Jennings y la señora Palmer se unieron a sus ruegos; todos parecían igualmente ansiosos de evitar una reunión familiar, y las jóvenes se vieron obligadas a ceder.
-¿Por qué tienen que invitarnos? -dijo Marianne apenas se marcharon-. El alquiler de esta casita es considerado bajo; pero las condiciones son muy duras, si tenemos que ir a cenar a la finca cada vez que alguien se está quedando con ellos o con nosotras.
-No pretenden ser menos corteses y gentiles con nosotros ahora, con estas continuas invitaciones -dijo Elinor- que con las que recibimos hace unas pocas semanas. Si sus reuniones se han vuelto tediosas e insulsas, no son ellos los que han cambiado. Debemos buscar ese cambio en otro lugar.
Al día siguiente, en el momento en que las señoritas Dashwood ingresaban a la sala de Barton Park por una puerta, la señora Palmer entró corriendo por la otra, con el mismo aire alegre y festivo que le habían visto antes. Les tomó las manos con grandes muestras de afecto y manifestó gran placer en verlas nuevamente.
-¡Estoy feliz de verlas! -dijo, sentándose entre Elinor y Marianne- porque el día está tan feo que temía que no vinieran, lo que habría sido terrible, ya que mañana nos vamos de aquí. Tenemos que irnos, ya saben, porque los Weston llegan a nuestra casa la próxima semana. Nuestra venida acá fue algo muy repentino y yo no tenía idea de que lo haríamos hasta que el carruaje iba llegando a la puerta, y entonces el señor Palmer me preguntó si iría con él a Barton. ¡Es tan gracioso! ¡Jamás me dice nada! Siento tanto que no podamos permanecer más tiempo; pero espero que muy pronto nos encontraremos de nuevo en la ciudad.
Elinor y Marianne se vieron obligadas a frenar tales expectativas.
-¡Que no van a ir a la ciudad! -exclamó la señora Palmer con una sonrisa-. Me desilusionará enormemente si no lo hacen. Podría conseguirles la casa más linda del mundo junto a la nuestra, en Hanover Square. Tienen que ir, de todas maneras. Créanme que me sentiré feliz de acompañarlas en cualquier momento hasta que esté por dar a luz, si a la señora Dashwood no le gusta salir a, lugares públicos.
Le agradecieron, pero se vieron obligadas a resistir sus ruegos.
-¡Ay, mi amor! -exclamó la señora Palmer dirigiéndose a su esposo, que acababa de entrar en la habitación-. Tienes que ayudarme a convencer a las señoritas Dashwood para que vayan a la ciudad este invierno.
Su amor no le respondió; y tras inclinarse ligeramente ante las damas, comenzó a quejarse del clima.
-¡Qué horrible es todo esto! -dijo-. Un clima así hace desagradable todo y a todo el mundo. Con la lluvia, el aburrimiento invade todo, tanto bajo techo como al aire libre. Hace que uno deteste a todos sus conocidos. ¿Qué demonios pretende sir John no teniendo una sala de billar en esta casa? ¡Qué pocos saben lo que son las comodidades! Sir John es tan estúpido como el clima.
No pasó mucho rato antes de que llegara el resto de la concurrencia.
-Temo, señorita Marianne -dijo sir John-, que no haya podido realizar su habitual caminata hasta Allenham hoy día.
Marianne puso una cara muy seria, y no dijo nada.
-Ah, no disimule tanto con nosotros -dijo la señora Palmer-, porque le aseguro que sabemos todo al respecto; y admiro mucho su gusto, pues pienso que él es extremadamente apuesto. Sabe usted, no vivimos a mucha distancia de él en el campo; me atrevería a decir que a no más de diez millas.
-Mucho más, cerca de treinta -dijo su esposo.
-¡Ah, bueno! No hay mucha diferencia. Nunca he estado en la casa de él, pero dicen que es un lugar delicioso, muy lindo.
-Uno de los lugares más detestables que he visto en mi vida -dijo el señor Palmer.
Marianne se mantuvo en perfecto silencio, aunque su semblante traicionaba su interés en lo que decían.
-¿Es muy feo? -continuó la señora Palmer-. Entonces supongo que debe ser otro lugar el que es tan bonito.
Cuando se sentaron a la mesa, sir John observó con pena que entre todos llegaban sólo a ocho.
-Querida -le dijo a su esposa-, es muy molesto que seamos tan pocos. ¿Por qué no invitaste a los Gilbert a cenar con nosotros hoy?
-¿No le dije, sir John, cuando me lo mencionó antes, que era imposible? La última vez fueron ellos los que vinieron acá.
-Usted y yo, sir John -dijo la señora Jennings- no nos andaríamos con tantas ceremonias.
-Entonces sería muy mal educada -exclamó el señor Palmer.
-Mi amor, contradices a todo el mundo -dijo su esposa, con su risa habitual-. ¿Sabes que eres bastante grosero?
-No sabía que estuviera contradiciendo a nadie al llamar a tu madre mal educada.
-Ya, ya, puede tratarme todo lo mal que quiera -exclamó con su habitual buen humor la señora Jennings-. Me ha sacado a Charlotte de encima, y no puede devolverla. Así es que ahora se desquita conmigo.
Charlotte se rió con gran entusiasmo al pensar que su esposo no podía librarse de ella, y alegremente dijo que no le importaba cuán irascible fuera él hacia ella, igual debían vivir juntos. Nadie podía tener tan absoluto buen carácter o estar tan decidido a ser feliz como la señora Palmer. La estudiada indiferencia, insolencia y contrariedad de su esposo no la alteraban; y cuando él se enfadaba con ella o la trataba mal, parecía enormemente divertida.
-¡El señor Palmer es tan chistoso! -le susurró a Elinor-. Siempre está de mal humor.
Tras observarlo durante un breve lapso, Elinor no estaba tan dispuesta a darle a él crédito por ser tan genuina y naturalmente de mal talante y mal educado como deseaba aparecer. Puede que su temperamento se hubiera agriado algo al descubrir, como tantos otros de su sexo, que por un inexplicable prejuicio en favor de la belleza, se encontraba casado con una mujer muy tonta; pero ella sabía que esta clase de desatino era demasiado común para que un hombre sensato se sintiera afectado por mucho tiempo. Más bien era un deseo de distinción, creía, lo que lo inducía a ser tan displicente con todo el mundo y a su generalizado desprecio por todo lo que se le ponía por delante. Era el deseo de parecer superior a los demás. El motivo era demasiado corriente para que causara sorpresa; pero los medios, aunque tuvieran éxito en establecer su superioridad en mala crianza, no parecían adecuados para ganarle el aprecio de nadie que no fuera su mujer.
-¡Ah! Mi querida señorita Dashwood -le dijo la señora Palmer poco después-, tengo un favor tan grande que pedirles, a usted y a su hermana. ¿Irían a Cleveland a pasar un tiempo estas Navidades? Por favor, acepten, y vayan mientras los Weston están con nosotros. ¡No pueden imaginar lo feliz que me harán! Mi amor -dijo, dirigiéndose a su marido-, ¿no te encantaría recibir a las señoritas Dashwood en Cleveland?
-Por supuesto -respondió él con tono despectivo-, fue mi único propósito al venir a Devonshire.
-Ahí tienen -dijo su esposa-, ya ven que el señor Palmer las espera; así que no pueden negarse.
Las dos, Elinor y Marianne, declinaron la invitación de manera clara y decidida.
-Pero no, deben ir y van a ir. Estoy segura de que les gustará por sobre todas las cosas. Los Weston estarán con nosotros, y será sumamente agradable. No pueden imaginarse la delicia de lugar que es Cleveland; y lo pasamos tan bien ahora, porque el señor Palmer está todo el tiempo recorriendo la región en la campaña electoral; y vienen a cenar con nosotros muchas personas a las que nunca he visto antes, lo que es absolutamente encantador. Pero, ¡pobre!, es muy fatigoso para él, porque tiene que hacerse agradable a todo el mundo.
A duras penas pudo Elinor mantenerse seria mientras concordaba en la dificultad de tal empresa.
-¡Qué delicia será -dijo Charlotte- cuando él esté en el Parlamento! ¿Verdad? ¡Cómo me voy a reír! Será tan cómico ver que sus cartas le llegan dirigidas con las iniciales M.P.Pero, saben, dice que nunca enviará mis cartas con las franquicias que él tendrá por ser parlamentario. Ha dicho que no lo hará, ¿no es verdad, señor Palmer?
El señor Palmer la ignoró por completo.
-El no soporta escribir -continuó-, dice que es espantoso.
-No -dijo él-, nunca he dicho algo tan irracional. No me hagas cargar a mí con todos los agravios que le haces tú al lenguaje.
-Mírenlo, vean qué divertido es. ¡Siempre es así! En ocasiones pasa la mitad del día sin hablarme, y después sale con algo tan divertido... y por cualquier cosa que se le ocurra.
Al volver a la sala, la señora Palmer sorprendió a Elinor al preguntarle si su esposo no le gustaba enormemente.
-Por supuesto -respondió Elinor-, parece una persona muy amena.
-Bueno... me alegra tanto que sea así. Me imaginé que le gustaría, pues es tan agradable; puedo asegurarle que al señor Palmer le gustan enormemente usted y sus hermanas, y no se imaginan qué desilusionado se sentirá si no vienen a Cleveland. No logro imaginarme por qué rehúsan hacerlo.
De nuevo Elinor se vio obligada a declinar la invitación; y mediante un cambio de tema, puso fin a sus ruegos. Pensaba en la probabilidad de que, por vivir en la misma región, la señora Palmer pudiera darles referencias sobre Willoughby más detalladas que las que se podían deducir del limitado conocimiento que de él tenían los Middleton, y estaba ansiosa de obtener de cualquier persona una confirmación de los méritos del joven que permitiéra eliminar toda posibilidad de temor por Mariana. Comenzó preguntándole si veía mucho al señor Willoughby en Cleveland y si estaban íntimamente relacionados con él.
-¡Ah! Sí, querida; lo conozco sumamente bien -respondió la señora Palmer-. No es que alguna vez haya hablado con él, por cierto que no; pero siempre lo veo en la ciudad. Por una u otra causa, nunca me ha ocurrido estar quedándome en Barton al mismo tiempo que él en Allenham. Mamá lo vio acá una vez antes; pero yo estaba con mi tío en Weymouth. Sin embargo, puedo decir que me habría encontrado innumerables veces con él en Somersetshire, si por desgracia no hubiese ocurrido que nunca hayamos estado allí al mismo tiempo. El pasa muy poco en Combe, según creo; pero si alguna vez lo hiciese, no creo que el señor Palmer lo visitara, porque, como usted sabe, el señor Willoughby está en la oposición, y además está tan lejos. Sé muy bien por qué pregunta: su hermana va a casarse con él. Me alegra horrores, porque así, sabe usted, la tendré de vecina.
-Le doy mi palabra -dijo Elinor- de que usted sabe mucho más que yo de ese asunto, si alguna razón la asiste para esperar tal unión.
-No intente negarlo, porque usted sabe que todo el mundo habla de ello. Le aseguro que lo escuché cuando pasaba por la ciudad.
-Por mi honor que lo hice... El lunes en la mañana me encontré con el coronel Brandon en Bond Street, justo antes de que saliéramos de la ciudad, y él me lo contó personalmente.
-Me sorprende usted mucho. ¡Que el coronel Brandon se lo contó! Con toda seguridad se equivoca usted. Dar tal información a una persona a quien no podía interesarle, incluso si fuera verdadera, no es lo que yo esperaría del coronel Brandon.
-Pero le aseguro que ocurrió así, tal como se lo dije, y le contaré cómo fue. Cuando nos encontramos con él, se devolvió y caminó un trecho con nosotros; y comenzamos a hablar de mi cuñado y de mi hermana, y de una cosa y otra, y yo le dije: “Entonces, coronel, he oído que hay una nueva familia en la casita de Barton, y mamá me ha contado que son muy bonitas y que una de ellas se va a casar con el señor Willoughby, de Combe Magna. Cuénteme, ¿es verdad? Porque por supuesto usted debe saberlo, como ha estado en Devonshire hace tan poco”.
-Oh, no dijo mucho; pero parecía saber que era verdad, así que a partir de ese momento lo tomé como cosa cierta. ¡Será maravilloso, le digo! ¿Cuándo tendrá lugar?
-¿El señor Brandon se encontraba bien, espero?
-Ah, sí, muy bien; y lleno de elogios hacia usted; todo lo que hizo fue decir buenas cosas sobre usted.
-Me halagan sus alabanzas. Parece un hombre excelente; y lo creo extraordinariamente agradable.
-Yo también... Es un hombre tan encantador, que es una lástima que sea tan serio y apático. Mamá dice que también él estaba enamorado de su hermana. Le aseguro que sería un gran cumplido si lo estuviera, porque casi nunca se enamora de nadie.
-¿Es muy conocido el señor Willoughby en su parte de Somersetshire? -dijo Elinor.
-¡Oh, sí, mucho! Quiero decir, no creo que mucha gente lo trate, porque Combe Magna está tan lejos; pero le aseguro que todos lo creen sumamente agradable. Nadie es más apreciado que el señor Willoughby en cualquier lugar al que vaya, Y puede decírselo así a su hermana. Qué monstruosa buena suerte la suya al haberlo conquistado, palabra de honor; y no es que la suerte de él no sea mayor, porque su hermana es tan bien parecida y encantadora que nada puede ser lo bastante bueno para ella. Sin embargo, para nada creo que sea más guapa que usted, le aseguro; creo que las dos son extremadamente bonitas, y estoy segura de que lo mismo piensa el señor Palmer, aunque anoche no logramos que lo reconociera.
La información de la señora Palmer sobre Willoughby no era demasiado sustanciosa; pero cualquier testimonio en su favor, por pequeño que fuese, le era grato a Elinor.
-Estoy tan contenta de que finalmente nos hayamos conocido -continuó Charlotte-. Y ahora espero que siempre seamos buenas amigas. ¡No puede imaginarse cuánto quería conocerla! ¡Es tan maravilloso que vivan en la cabaña! ¡Nada puede igualárselo, se lo aseguro! ¡Y me alegra tanto que su hermana vaya a casarse bien! Espero que pase mucho tiempo en Combe Magna. Es un sitio delicioso, desde todo punto de vista.
-Hace mucho tiempo que se conocen con el coronel Brandon, ¿verdad?
-Sí, mucho; desde que mi hermana se casó. Era amigo de sir John. Creo -agregó en voz baja- que le habría gustado bastante tenerme como esposa, si hubiera podido. Sir John y lady Middleton también lo deseaban. Pero mamá no creyó que esa unión fuera suficientemente buena para mí; de no haber sido así, sir John habría hablado con el coronel y nos habríamos casado de inmediato.
-¿El coronel Brandon no sabía de la proposición de sir John a su madre antes de que la hiciera? ¿Alguna vez le había manifestado a usted su afecto?
-¡Oh, no! Pero si mamá no se hubiera opuesto a ello, diría que a él nada le habría gustado más. En ese entonces no me había visto más de dos veces, porque fue antes de que yo dejara el colegio. Pero soy mucho más feliz tal como estoy. El señor Palmer es exactamente la clase de hombre que me gusta.
Los Palmer volvieron a Cleveland al día siguiente, y en Barton sólo quedaron las dos familias para invitarse mutuamente. Pero esto no duró mucho; Elinor todavía no se sacaba bien de la cabeza a sus últimos visitantes -no terminaba de asombrarse de ver a Charlotte tan feliz sin mayor motivo; al señor Palmer actuando de manera tan simplona, siendo un hombre capaz; y la extraña discordancia que a menudo existía entre marido y mujer-, antes de que el activo celo de sir John y de la señora Jennings en pro de la vida social le ofrecieran un nuevo grupo de conocidos de ellos a quienes ver y observar.
Durante un paseo matutino a Exeter se habían encontrado con dos jovencitas a quienes la señora Jennings tuvo la alegría de reconocer como parientes, y esto bastó para que sir John las invitara de inmediato a ir a Barton Park tan pronto hubieran cumplido con sus compromisos del momento en Exeter. Sus compromisos en Exeter fueron cancelados de inmediato ante tal invitación, y cuando sir John volvió a la casa indujo una no despreciable alarma en lady Middleton al decirle que pronto iba a recibir la visita de dos muchachas a las que no había visto en su vida, y de cuya elegancia.. incluso de que su trato fuera aceptable, no tenía prueba alguna; porque las garantías que su esposo y su madre podían ofrecerle al respecto no le servían de nada. Que fueran parientes empeoraba las cosas; y los intentos de la señora Jennings de consolar a su hija con el argumento de que no se preocupara de si eran distinguidas, porque eran primas y debían tolerarse mutuamente, no fueron entonces muy afortunados.
Como ya era imposible evitar su venida, lady Middleton se resignó a la idea de la visita con toda la filosofía de una mujer bien criada, que se contenta simplemente con una amable reprimenda al esposo cinco o seis veces al día sobre el mismo tema.
Llegaron las jovencitas, y su apariencia no resultó ser en absoluto poco distinguida o sin estilo. Su vestimenta era muy elegante, sus modales eran corteses, se mostraron encantadas con la casa y extasiadas ante el mobiliario, y como ocurrió que los niños les gustaban hasta el embeleso, antes de una hora de su llegada a la finca ya contaban con la aprobación de lady Middleton. Afirmó que realmente eran unas muchachas muy agradables, lo que para su señoría implicaba una entusiasta admiración. Ante tan vivos elogios creció la confianza de sir John en su propio juicio, y partió de inmediato a informar a las señoritas Dashwood sobre la llegada de las señoritas Steele y asegurarles que eran las muchachas más dulces del mundo. De recomendaciones de esta clase, sin embargo, no era mucho lo que se podía deducir; Elinor sabía que en todas partes de Inglaterra se podía encontrar a las chicas más dulces del mundo, bajo todos los distintos aspectos, rostros, temperamentos e inteligencias posibles. Sir John quería que toda la familia se dirigiera de inmediato a la finca y echara una mirada a sus invitadas. ¡Qué hombre benévolo y filantrópico! Hasta una prima tercera le costaba guardarla sólo para él.
-Vengan ahora -les decía-, se lo ruego; deben venir... no aceptaré una negativa: ustedes sí vendrán. No se imaginan cuánto les gustarán. Lucy es terriblemente bonita, ¡y tan alegre y de buen carácter! Los niños ya están apegados a ella como si fuera una antigua conocida. Y las dos se mueren de deseos de verlas a ustedes, porque en Exeter escucharon que eran las criaturas más bellas del mundo; les he dicho que era absolutamente cierto, y mucho más. Estoy seguro de que a ustedes les encantarán ellas. Han traído el coche lleno de juguetes para los niños. ¡Cómo pueden ser tan esquivas y pensar en no venir! Si de alguna manera son primas suyas, ¿verdad? Porque ustedes son primas mías y ellas lo son de mi esposa, así es que tienen que estar emparentadas.
Pero sir John no logró su objetivo. Tan sólo pudo arrancarles la promesa de ir a la finca dentro de uno o dos días, y luego partió asombradísimo ante su indiferencia, para dirigirse a su casa y alardear nuevamente de las cualidades de las Dashwood ante las señoritas Steele, tal como había alardeado de las señoritas Steele ante las Dashwood.
Cuando cumplieron con la prometida visita a la finca y les fueron presentadas las jovencitas, no encontraron en la apariencia de la mayor, que casi rozaba los treinta y tenía un rostro poco agraciado y para nada despierto, nada que admirar; pero en la otra, que no tenía más de veintidós o veintitrés años, encontraron sobrada belleza; sus facciones eran bonitas, tenía una mirada aguda y sagaz y una cierta airosidad en su aspecto que, aunque no le daba verdadera elegancia, sí la hacía distinguirse. Los modales de ambas eran especialmente corteses, y pronto Elinor tuvo que reconocer algo de buen juicio en ellas, al ver las constantes y oportunas atenciones con que se hacían agradables a lady Middleton. Con los niños se mostraban en continuo arrobamiento, ensalzando su belleza, atrayendo su atención y complaciéndolos en todos sus caprichos; y el poco tiempo que podían quitarle a las inoportunas demandas a que su gentileza las exponía, lo dedicaban a admirar lo que fuera que estuviera haciendo su señoría, en caso de que estuviera haciendo algo, o a copiar el modelo de algún nuevo vestido elegante que, al verle usar el día antes, las había hecho caer en interminable éxtasis. Por fortuna para quienes buscan adular tocando este tipo de puntos flacos, una madre cariñosa, aunque es el más voraz de los seres humanos cuando se trata de ir a la caza de alabanzas para sus hijos, también es el más crédulo; sus demandas son exorbitantes, pero se traga cualquier cosa; y así, lady Middleton aceptaba sin la menor sorpresa o desconfianza las exageradas muestras de afecto y la paciencia de las señoritas Steele hacia sus hijos. Veía con materna complacencia todas las tropelías e impertinentes travesuras a las que se sometían sus primas. Observaba cómo les desataban sus cintos, les tiraban el cabello que llevaban suelto alrededor de las orejas, les registraban sus costureros y les sacaban sus cortaplumas y tijeras, y no le cabía ninguna duda acerca de que el placer era mutuo. Parecía indicar que lo único que la sorprendía era que Elinor y Marianne estuvieran allí sentadas, tan compuestas, sin pedir que las dejaran formar parte de lo que ocurría.
-John está tan animado hoy! -decía, al ver cómo tomaba el pañuelo de la señorita Steele y lo arrojaba por la ventana-. No deja de hacer travesuras.
Y poco después, cuando el segundo de sus hijos pellizcó violentamente a la misma señorita en un dedo, comentó llena de cariño:
-¡Qué juguetón es William! ¡Y aquí está mi dulce Annamaria -agregó, acariciando tiernamente a una niñita de tres años que se había mantenido sin hacer ni un ruido durante los últimos dos minutos-. Siempre es tan gentil y tranquila; ¡jamás ha existido una chiquita tan tranquila!
Pero por desgracia, al llenarla de abrazos, un alfiler del tocado de su señoría rasguñó levemente a la niña en el cuello, provocando en este modelo de gentileza tan violentos chillidos que a duras penas podrían haber sido superados por ninguna criatura reconocidamente ruidosa. La consternación de su madre fue enorme, pero no pudo superar la alarma de las señoritas Steele, y entre las tres hicieron todo lo que en una emergencia tan crítica el afecto indicaba que debía hacerse para mitigar las agonías de la pequeña doliente. La sentaron en el regazo de su madre, la cubrieron de besos; una de las señoritas Steele, arrodillada para atenderla, enjugó su herida con agua de lavanda, y la otra le llenó la boca con ciruelas confitadas. Con tales recompensas a sus lágrimas, la niña tuvo la sabiduría suficiente para no dejar de llorar. Siguió chillando y sollozando vigorosamente, dio de patadas a sus dos hermanos cuando intentaron tocarla, Y nada de lo que hacían para calmarla tuvo el menor resultado, hasta que felizmente lady Middleton recordó que en una escena de similar congoja, la semana anterior, le habían puesto un poco de mermelada de damasco en una sien que se había magullado; se propuso insistentemente el mismo remedio para este desdichado rasguño, y el ligero intermedio en los gritos de la jovencita al escucharlo les dio motivos para esperar que no sería rechazado. Salió entonces de la sala en brazos de su madre a la búsqueda de esta medicina, y como los dos chicos quisieron seguirlas, aunque su madre les rogó afanosamente que se quedaran, las cuatro jóvenes se encontraron a solas en una quietud que la habitación no había conocido en muchas horas.
-¡Pobre criaturita! -dijo la señorita Steele apenas salieron-. Pudo haber sido un accidente muy triste.
-Aunque difícilmente puedo imaginármelo -exclamó Marianne-, a no ser que hubiera ocurrido en circunstancias muy diferentes. Pero ésta es la manera habitual de incrementar la alarma, cuando en realidad no hay nada de qué alarmarse.
-Qué mujer tan dulce es lady Middleton -dijo Lucy Steele.
Marianne se quedó callada. Le era imposible decir algo que no sentía, por trivial que fuera la ocasión; y de esta forma siempre caía sobre Elinor toda la tarea de decir mentiras cuando la cortesía así lo requería. Hizo lo mejor posible, cuando el deber la llamó a ello, por hablar de lady Middleton con más entusiasmo del que sentía, aunque fue mucho menor que el de la señorita Lucy.
-Y sir John también -exclamó la hermana mayor-. ¡Qué hombre tan encantador!
También en este caso, como la buena opinión que de él tenía la señorita Dashwood no era más que sencilla y justa, se hizo presente sin grandes exageraciones. Tan sólo observó que era de muy buen talante y amistoso.
-¡Y qué encantadora familia tienen! En toda mi vida había visto tan magníficos niños. Créanme que ya los adoro, y eso que en verdad me gustan los niños con locura.
-Me lo habría imaginado -dijo Elinor con una sonrisa-, por lo que he visto esta mañana.
-Tengo la idea -dijo Lucy- de que usted cree a los pequeños Middleton demasiado consentidos; quizá estén al borde de serlo, pero es tan natural en lady Middleton; y por mi parte, me encanta ver niños llenos de vida y energía; no los soporto si son dóciles y tranquilos.
-Confieso -replicó Elinor-, que cuando estoy en Barton Park nunca pienso con horror en niños dóciles y tranquilos.
A estas palabras siguió una breve pausa, rota primero por la señorita Steele, que parecía muy inclinada a la conversación y que ahora dijo, de manera algo repentina:
-Y, ¿le gusta Devonshire, señorita Dashwood? Supongo que lamentó mucho dejar Sussex.
Algo sorprendida ante la familiaridad de esta pregunta, o al menos ante la forma en que fue hecha, Elinor respondió que sí le había costado.
-Norland es un sitio increíblemente hermoso, ¿verdad? -agregó la señorita Steele.
-Hemos sabido que sir John tiene una enorme admiración por él -dijo Lucy, que parecía creer que se necesitaba alguna excusa por la libertad con que había hablado su hermana.
-Creo que todos lo que han estado allí tienen que admirarlo -respondió Elinor-, aunque es de suponer que nadie aprecia sus bellezas tanto como nosotras.
-¿Y tenían allá muchos admiradores distinguidos? Me imagino que en esta parte del mundo no tienen tantos; en cuanto a mí, pienso que siempre son un gran aporte.
-Pero, ¿por qué -dijo Lucy, con aire de sentirse avergonzada de su hermana- piensas que en Devonshire no hay tantos jóvenes guapos como en Sussex?
-No, querida, por supuesto no es mi intención decir que no los hay. Estoy segura de que hay una gran cantidad de galanes muy distinguidos en Exeter; pero, ¿cómo crees que podría saber si hay jóvenes agradables en Norland? Y yo sólo temía que las señoritas Dashwood encontraran aburrido Barton si no encuentran acá tantos como los que acostumbraban tener. Pero quizá a ustedes, jovencitas, no les importen los pretendientes, y estén tan a gusto sin ellos como con ellos. Por mi parte, pienso que son enormemente agradables, siempre que se vistan de manera elegante y se comporten con urbanidad. Pero no soporto verlos cuando son sucios o antipáticos. Vean, por ejemplo, al señor Rose, de Exeter, un joven maravillosamente elegante, bastante apuesto, que trabaja para el señor Simpson, como ustedes saben; y, sin embargo, si uno lo encuentra en la mañana, no se lo puede ni mirar. Me imagino, señorita Dashwood, que su hermano era un gran galán antes de casarse, considerando que era tan rico, ¿no es verdad?
-Le prometo -replicó Elinor- que no sabría decírselo, porque no entiendo bien el significado de la palabra. Pero esto sí puedo decirle: que si alguna vez él fue un galán antes de casarse, lo es todavía, porque no ha habido el menor cambio en él.
-¡Ay, querida! Una nunca piensa en los hombres casados como galanes... Tienen otras cosas que hacer.
-¡Por Dios, Anne! -exclamó su hermana-. Sólo hablas de galanes. Harás que la señorita Dashwood crea que no piensas sino en eso.
Luego, para cambiar de tema, comenzó a manifestar su admiración por la casa y el mobiliario.
Esta muestra de lo que eran las señoritas Steele fue suficiente. Las vulgares libertades que se tomaba la mayor y sus insensateces la dejaban sin nada a favor, y como a Elinor ni la belleza ni la sagaz apariencia de la menor le habían hecho perder de vista su falta de real elegancia y naturalidad, se marchó de la casa sin ningún deseo de conocerlas más.
No ocurrió lo mismo con las señoritas Steele. Venían de Exeter, bien provistas de admiración por sir John, su familia y todos sus parientes, y ninguna parte de ella le negaron mezquinamente a las hermosas primas del dueño de casa, de quienes afirmaron ser las muchachas más hermosas, elegantes, completas y perfectas que habían visto, y a las cuales estaban particularmente ansiosas de conocer mejor. Y en consecuencia, pronto Elinor descubrió que conocerlas mejor era su inevitable destino; como sir John estaba por completo de parte de las señoritas Steele, su lado iba a ser demasiado fuerte para presentarle alguna oposición e iban a tener que someterse a ese tipo de intimidad que consiste en sentarse todos juntos en la misma habitación durante una o dos horas casi a diario. No era más lo que podía hacer sir John, pero no sabía que se necesitara algo más; en su opinión, estar juntos era gozar de intimidad, y mientras sus continuos planes para que todos se reunieran fueran eficaces, no le cabía duda alguna de que fueran verdaderos amigos.
Para hacerle justicia, hizo todo lo que estaba en su poder para impulsar una relación sin reservas entre ellas, y con tal fin dio a conocer a las señoritas Steele todo lo que sabía o suponía respecto de la situación de sus primas en los aspectos más delicados; y así Elinor no las había visto más de un par de veces antes de que la mayor de ellas la felicitara por la suerte de su hermana al haber conquistado a un galán muy distinguido tras su llegada a Barton.
-Seguro será una gran cosa haberla casado tan joven -dijo-, y me han dicho que es un gran galán, y maravillosamente apuesto. Y espero que también usted tenga pronto la misma buena suerte... aunque quizá ya tiene a alguien listo por ahí.
Elinor no podía suponer que sir John fuera más comedido en proclamar sus sospechas acerca de su afecto por Edward, de lo que había sido respecto de Marianne; de hecho, entre las dos situaciones, la suya era la que prefería para sus chanzas, por su mayor novedad y porque daba mayor pábulo a conjeturas: desde la visita de Edward, nunca habían cenado juntos sin que él brindara a la salud de las personas queridas de ella, con una voz tan cargada de significados, tantas cabezadas y guiños, que no podía menos de alertar a todo el mundo. Invariablemente se sacaba a colación la letra F, y con ella se habían nutrido tan incontables bromas, que hacía ya tiempo se le había impuesto a Elinor su calidad de ser la letra más ingeniosa del alfabeto.
Las señoritas Steele, tal como había imaginado que ocurriría, eran las destinatarias de todas estas bromas, y en la mayor despertaron una gran curiosidad por saber el nombre del caballero al que aludían, curiosidad que, aunque a menudo expresada con impertinencia, era perfectamente consistente con sus constantes indagaciones en los asuntos de la familia Dashwood. Pero sir John no jugó demasiado tiempo con el interés que había gozado en despertar, porque decir el nombre le era tan placentero como escucharlo era para la señorita Steele.
-Su nombre es Ferrars -dijo, en un murmullo muy audible-, pero le ruego no decirlo, porque es un gran secreto.
-¡Ferrars! -repitió la señorita Steele-. El señor Ferrars es el tan dichoso personaje, ¿verdad? ¡Vaya! ¿El hermano de su cuñada, señorita Dashwood? Un joven muy agradable, con toda seguridad. Lo conozco muy bien.
-¿Cómo puedes decir tal cosa, Anne? -exclamó Lucy, que generalmente corregía todas las declaraciones de su hermana-. Aunque lo hemos visto una o dos veces en la casa de mi tío, es excesivo pretender conocerlo bien.
Elinor escuchó con atención y sorpresa todo lo anterior. “¿Y quién era este tío? ¿Dónde vivía? ¿Cómo fue que se conocieron?” Tenía grandes deseos de que continuaran con el tema, aunque prefirió no unirse a la conversación; pero nada más se dijo al respecto y, por primera vez en su vida, pensó que a la señora Jennings le faltaba o curiosidad tras tan mezquina información, o deseo de manifestar su interés. La forma en que la señorita Steele había hablado de Edward aumentó su curiosidad, porque sintió que lo hacía con algo de malicia y plantaba la sospecha de que ella sabía, o se imaginaba saber, algo en desmerecimiento del joven. Pero su curiosidad fue en vano, porque la señorita Steele no prestó más atención al nombre del señor Ferrars cuando sir John aludía a él o lo mencionaba abiertamente.
Marianne, que nunca había sido demasiado tolerante de cosas como la impertinencia, la vulgaridad, la inferioridad de índole o incluso las diferencias de gusto respecto de los suyos, en esta ocasión estaba particularmente renuente, dado su estado de ánimo, a encontrar agradables a las señoritas Steele o fomentar sus avances; y a esta invariable frialdad en su comportamiento, que frustraba todos los intentos que hacían por establecer una relación de intimidad, atribuía Elinor en primer lugar la preferencia por ella que se hizo evidente en el trato de ambas hermanas, especialmente de Lucy, que no perdía oportunidad de entablar conversación o de intentar un mayor acercamiento mediante una fácil y abierta comunicación de sus sentimientos.
Lucy era naturalmente lista; a menudo sus observaciones eran justas y entretenidas, y como compañía durante una media hora, con frecuencia Elinor la encontraba agradable. Pero sus capacidades innatas en nada habían sido complementadas por la educación; era ignorante e inculta, y la insuficiencia de todo refinamiento intelectual en ella, su falta de información en los asuntos más corrientes, no podían pasar inadvertidas a la señorita Dashwood, a pesar de todos los esfuerzos que hacía la joven por parecer superior. Elinor percibía el descuido de capacidades que la educación habría hecho tan respetables, y la compadecía por ello; pero veía con sentimientos mucho menos tiernos la total falta de delicadeza, de rectitud y de integridad de espíritu que traicionaban sus laboriosas y permanentes atenciones y lisonjas a los Middleton; y no podía encontrar satisfacción duradera en la compañía de una persona que a la ignorancia unía la insinceridad, cuya falta de instrucción impedía una conversación entre ellas en condiciones de igualdad, y cuya conducta hacia los demás quitaba todo valor a cualquier muestra de atención o deferencia hacia ella.
-Temo que mi pregunta le pueda parecer extraña -le dijo Lucy un día mientras caminaban juntas desde la finca a la cabaña-, pero, si me disculpa, ¿conoce personalmente a la madre de su cuñada, la señora Ferrars?
A Elinor la pregunta sí le pareció bastante extraña, y así lo reveló su semblante al responder que nunca había visto a la señora Ferrars.
-¡Vaya! -replicó Lucy-. Qué curioso, pensaba que la debía haber visto alguna vez en Norland. Entonces quizá no pueda decirme qué clase de mujer es.
-No -respondió Elinor, cuidándose de dar su verdadera opinión de la madre de Edward, y sin grandes deseos de satisfacer lo que parecía una curiosidad impertinente-, no sé nada de ella.
-Con toda seguridad pensará que soy muy extraña, por preguntar así por ella -dijo Lucy, observando atentamente a Elinor mientras hablaba-; pero quizá haya motivos... Ojalá me atreviera; pero, así y todo, confío en que me hará la justicia de creer que no es mi intención ser impertinente.
Elinor le dio una respuesta cortés, y caminaron durante algunos minutos en silencio. Lo rompió Lucy, que retomó el tema diciendo de modo algo vacilante:
-No soporto que me crea impertinentemente curiosa; daría cualquier cosa en el mundo antes que parecerle así a una persona como usted, cuya opinión me es tan valiosa. Y por cierto no tendría el menor temor de confiar en usted; en verdad apreciaría mucho su consejo en una situación tan incómoda como ésta en que me encuentro; no se trata, sin embargo, de preocuparla a usted. Lamento que no conozca a la señora Ferrars.
-También yo lo lamentaría -dijo Elinor, atónita-, si hubiera sido de alguna utilidad para usted conocer mi opinión sobre ella. Pero, en verdad, nunca pensé que tuviera usted relación alguna con esa familia y, por tanto, confieso que me sorprende algo que indague tanto sobre el carácter de la señora Ferrars.
-Supongo que sí le extraña, y debo decir que no me admira que así sea. Pero si osara explicarle, no estaría tan sorprendida. La señora Ferrars no es en realidad nada para mí en la actualidad..., pero puede que llegue el momento..., cuán pronto llegue, por fuerza depende de ella..., en que nuestra relación sea muy estrecha.
Bajó los ojos al decir esto, dulcemente pudibunda, con sólo una mirada de reojo a su compañera para observar el efecto que tenía sobre ella.
-¡Santo cielo! -exclamó Elinor-, ¿a qué se refiere? ¿Conoce usted al señor Robert Ferrars? ¿Lo conoce? -y no se sintió demasiado complacida con la idea de tal cuñada.
-No -replicó Lucy-, no al señor Robert Fernars..., no lo he visto en mi vida; pero sí -agregó fijando su mirada en Elinor- a su hermano mayor.
¿Qué sintió Elinor en ese momento? Estupor, que habría sido tan doloroso como agudo era, si no hubiese estado acompañado de una inmediata duda respecto de la declaración que lo originaba. Se volvió hacia Lucy en un silencioso asombro, incapaz de adivinar el motivo o finalidad de tal afirmación; y aunque cambió el color de su rostro, se mantuvo firme en la incredulidad, fuera de todo peligro de un ataque histérico o un desvanecimiento.
-Es natural que se sienta sorprendida -continuó Lucy-, pues con toda seguridad no podría haberlo sabido antes; apostaría a que él nunca les dio ni el menor indicio de ello, ni a usted ni a su familia, ya que se suponía era un gran secreto, y puedo asegurar que de mí no ha salido ni una sola palabra hasta este momento. Ni una sola persona de mi familia lo sabe, a excepción de Anne, y jamás se lo habría mencionado a usted si no tuviera la mayor confianza del mundo en su discreción; pensaba que mi comportamiento al hacer tantas preguntas sobre la señora Ferrars debe haber parecido tan fuera de lugar que ameritaba una explicación. Y no creo que el señor Ferrars se sienta tan disgustado cuando sepa que he confiado en usted, porque me consta que tiene la mejor opinión del mundo respecto de toda su familia, y las considera a usted y a la otra señorita Dashwood como si fueran verdaderas hermanas -hizo una pausa.
Elinor permaneció en silencio durante algunos momentos. Su estupor ante lo que oía fue al comienzo demasiado grande para ser puesto en palabras; pero después de un rato, obligándose a hablar, y a hablar cautelosamente, dijo con un modo tranquilo que ocultaba de manera casi aceptable su sorpresa y ansiedad:
-¿Puedo preguntarle si su compromiso es de larga data?
-Hemos estado comprometidos desde hace cuatro años.
Aunque tales palabras la sacudieron profundamente, Elinor seguía sin poder creerlas.
-Hasta el otro día -dijo- ni siquiera sabía que se conocieran.
-Sin embargo, nos conocemos desde hace muchos años. El estuvo bajo la tutela de mi tío, sabe usted, bastante tiempo.
-Sí, el señor Pratt. ¿Nunca le escuchó mencionar al señor Pratt?
-Creo que sí -respondió Elinor, haciendo un esfuerzo cuya intensidad aumentaba a la par de la intensidad de su emoción.
-Estuvo cuatro años con mi tío, que vive en Longstaple, cerca de Plymouth. Fue allí donde nos conocimos, porque mi hermana y yo a menudo nos quedábamos con mi tío, y fue allí que nos comprometimos, aunque no hasta un año después de que él había dejado de ser pupilo; pero después estaba casi siempre con nosotros. Como podrá imaginar, yo era bastante reacia a iniciar tal relación sin el conocimiento y aprobación de su madre; pero también era demasiado joven y lo amaba demasiado para haber actuado con la prudencia que. debí tener... Aunque usted no lo conoce tan bien como yo, señorita Dashwood, debe haberlo visto lo suficiente para darse cuenta de que es muy capaz de despertar en una mujer un muy sincero afecto.
-Por cierto -respondió Elinor, sin saber lo que decía; pero tras un instante de reflexión, agregó con una renovada seguridad en el honor y amor de Edward, y en la falsedad de su compañera-: ¡Comprometida con el señor Ferrars! Me confieso tan absolutamente sorprendida frente a lo que dice, que en verdad... le ruego me disculpe; pero con toda seguridad debe haber algún equívoco en cuanto a la persona o el nombre. No podemos estar hablando del mismo señor Ferrars.
-No podemos estar hablando de ningún otro -exclamó Lucy sonriendo-. El señor Edward Ferrars, el hijo mayor de la señora Ferrars de Park Street, y hermano de su cuñada, la señora de John Dashwood, es la persona a la cual me refiero; debe concederme que es bastante poco probable que yo me equivoque respecto del nombre del hombre de quien depende toda mi felicidad.
-Es extraño -replicó Elinor, sumida en una dolorosa perplejidad- que nunca le haya escuchado ni siquiera mencionar su nombre.
-No; considerando nuestra situación, no es extraño. Nuestro principal cuidado ha sido mantener este asunto en secreto... Usted no sabía nada de mí o de mi familia, y por ello en ningún momento podía darse la oportunidad de mencionarle mi nombre; y como siempre él estaba tan temeroso de que su hermana sospechara algo, tenía motivo suficiente para no mencionarlo.
Guardó silencio. Zozobró la seguridad de Elinor, pero el dominio sobre sí misma no se hundió con ella.
-Cuatro años han estado comprometidos -dijo con voz firme.
-Sí; y sabe Dios cuánto tiempo más deberemos esperar. ¡Pobre Edward! Se siente bastante descorazonado -y sacando una pequeña miniatura de su bolsillo, agregó: Para evitar la posibilidad de error, tenga la bondad de mirar este rostro. Por cierto no le hace justicia, pero aun así pienso que no puede 'equivocarse respecto de la persona allí dibujada. Estos tres años lo he llevado encima.
Mientras decía lo anterior, puso la miniatura en manos de Elinor; y cuando ésta vio la pintura, si había podido seguir aferrándose a cualesquiera otras dudas por temor a una decisión demasiado apresurada o su deseo de detectar una falsedad, ahora no podía tener ninguna respecto de que si era el rostro de Edward. Devolvió la miniatura casi de inmediato, reconociendo el parecido.
-Nunca he podido -continuó Lucy- darle a cambio mi retrato, lo que me fastidia enormemente; ¡él siempre ha querido tanto tenerlo! Pero estoy decidida a que me lo hagan en la primera oportunidad que tenga.
-Tiene usted toda la razón -respondió Elinor tranquilamente. Avanzaron algunos pasos en silencio. Lucy habló primero.
-Estoy segura -dijo-, no me cabe ninguna duda en absoluto, de que guardará fielmente ese secreto, porque se imaginará cuán importante es para nosotros que no llegue a oídos de su madre, pues, debo decirlo, ella nunca lo aprobaría. Yo no recibiré fortuna alguna, y creo saber que es una mujer notablemente orgullosa.
-En ningún momento he buscado ser su confidente -dijo Elinor-, pero usted no me hace sino justicia al imaginar que soy de confiar. Su secreto está a salvo conmigo; pero excúseme si manifiesto alguna sorpresa ante tan innecesaria revelación. Al menos debe haber sentido que el enterarme a mí de ese secreto no lo hacía estar más protegido.
Mientras decía esto, miraba a Lucy con gran fijeza, con la esperanza de descubrir algo en su semblante... quizá la falsedad de la mayor parte de lo que venía diciendo; pero el rostro de Lucy se mantuvo inmutable.
-Temía haberla hecho pensar que me estaba tomando grandes libertades con usted -le dijo- al contarle todo esto. Es cierto que no la conozco desde hace mucho, personalmente al menos, pero durante bastante tiempo he sabido de usted y de toda su familia por oídas; y tan pronto como la vi, sentí casi como si fuera una antigua conocida. Además, en el caso actual, realmente pensé que le debía alguna explicación tras haberla interrogado de manera tan detallada sobre la madre de Edward; y por desgracia no tengo un alma a quien pedir consejo. Anne es la única persona que está enterada de ello, y no tiene criterio en absoluto; en verdad, me hace mucho más daño que bien, porque vivo en el constante temor de que traicione mi secreto. No sabe mantener la boca cerrada, como se habrá dado .cuenta; y no creo haber tenido jamás tanto pavor como el otro día, cuando sir John mencionó el nombre de Edward, de que fuera a contarlo todo. No puede imaginar por las cosas que paso con todo esto. Ya me sorprende seguir viva después de lo que he sufrido a causa de Edward estos cuatro años. Tanto suspenso e incertidumbre, y viéndolo tan poco... a duras penas nos podemos encontrar más de dos veces al año. No sé cómo no tengo destrozado el corazón.
En ese instante sacó su pañuelo; pero Elinor no se sentía demasiado compasiva.
-A veces -continuó Lucy tras enjugarse los ojos-, pienso si no sería mejor para nosotros dos terminar con todo el asunto por completo -al decir esto, miraba directamente a su compañera-. Pero, otras veces, no tengo la fuerza de voluntad suficiente para ello. No puedo soportar la idea de hacerlo tan desdichado, como sé que lo haría la sola mención de algo así. Y también por mi parte, con lo querido que me es... no me creo capaz de ello. ¿Qué me aconsejaría hacer en un caso así, señorita Dashwood.? ¿Qué haría usted?
-Perdóneme -replicó Elinor, sobresaltada ante la pregunta-, pero no puedo darle consejo alguno en tales circunstancias. Es su propio juicio el que debe guiarla.
-Con toda seguridad -continuó Lucy tras unos minutos de silencio por ambas partes-, tarde o temprano su madre tendrá que proporcionarle medios de vida; ¡pero el pobre Edward se siente tan abatido con todo eso! ¿No le pareció terriblemente desanimado cuando estaba en Barton? Se sentía tan desdichado cuando se marchó de Longstaple para ir donde ustedes, que temí que lo creyeran muy enfermo.
-¿Venía de donde su tío cuando nos visitó?
-¡Oh, sí! Había estado quince días con nosotros. ¿Creyeron que venía directamente de la ciudad?
-No -respondió Elinor, dolorosamente sensible a cada nueva circunstancia que respaldaba la veracidad de Lucy-. Recuerdo que nos dijo haber estado quince días con unos amigos cerca de Plymouth.
Recordaba también su propia sorpresa en ese entonces, cuando él no agregó nada más sobre esos amigos y guardó silencio total incluso respecto de sus nombres.
-¿No pensaron que estaba terriblemente desanimado? -repitió Lucy.
-En realidad sí, en especial cuando recién llegó.
-Le supliqué que hiciera un esfuerzo, temiendo que ustedes sospecharan lo que ocurría; pero le entristeció tanto no poder pasar más de quince días con nosotros, y viéndome tan afectada... ¡Pobre hombre! Temo le ocurra lo mismo ahora, pues sus cartas revelan un estado de ánimo tan desdichado. Supe de él justo antes de salir de Exeter -dijo, sacando de su bolsillo una carta y mostrándole la dirección a Elinor sin mayores miramientos-. Usted conoce su letra, me imagino; una letra encantadora; pero no está tan bien hecha como acostumbra. Estaba cansado, me imagino, porque había llenado la hoja al máximo escribiéndome.
Elinor vio que sí era su letra, y no .pudo seguir dudando. El retrato, se había permitido creer, podía haber sido obtenido de manera fortuita; podía no haber sido regalo de Edward; pero una correspondencia epistolar entre ellos sólo podía existir dado un compromiso real; nada sino eso podía autorizarla. Durante algunos instantes se vio casi derrotada... el alma se le fue a los pies y apenas podía sostenerse; pero era obligatoriamente necesario sobreponerse, y luchó con tanta decisión contra la congoja de su espíritu que el éxito fue rápido y, por el momento, completo.
-Escribirnos -dijo Lucy, devolviendo la carta a su bolsillo- es nuestro único consuelo durante estas prolongadas separaciones. Sí, yo tengo otro consuelo en su retrato; pero el pobre Edward ni siquiera tiene eso. Si al menos tuviera mi retrato, dice que le sería más fácil. La última vez que estuvo en Longstaple le di un mechón de mis cabellos engarzado en un anillo, y eso le ha servido de algún consuelo, dice, pero no es lo mismo que un retrato. ¿Quizá le notó ese anillo cuando lo vio?
-Sí lo noté -dijo Elinor, con una voz serena tras la cual se ocultaba una emoción y una congoja mayores de cuanto hubiera sentido antes. Se sentía mortificada, turbada, confundida.
Por fortuna para ella habían llegado ya a su tea, y la conversación no pudo continuar. Tras Permanecer con ellas unos minutos, las señoritas Steele volvieron a la finca y Elinor quedó en libertad para pensar y sentirse desdichada.
Por pequeña que fuese la confianza de Elinor en la veracidad de Lucy, le era imposible, pensándolo con seriedad, sospechar de ella en las circunstancias actuales, donde difícilmente algo podía inducir a inventar mentiras como las anteriores. Frente a lo que Lucy afirmaba ser verdad, por tanto, Elinor no podría, no osaría seguir dudando, respaldado como estaba de manera tan absoluta por tantas probabilidades y pruebas, e impugnado tan sólo por sus propios deseos. El haber tenido la oportunidad de conocerse en casa del señor Pratt era la base para todo lo demás, una base a la vez indiscutible y alarmante; y la visita de Edward a algún lugar cercano a Plymouth, su melancolía, su insatisfacción con las perspectivas que se le presentaban, el conocimiento íntimo que mostraban las señoritas Steele respecto de Norland y de sus relaciones familiares, que a menudo la habían sorprendido; el retrato, la carta, el anillo, sumados constituían un conjunto de pruebas tan sólido que anulaba todo temor a condenar a Edward injustamente y ratificaba como un hecho que ninguna parcialidad por él podía pasar por alto, su desconsideración hacia ella. Su resentimiento ante tal proceder, su indignación por haber sido víctima de él, durante un breve lapso la hicieron centrarse sólo en sus propios sentimientos; pero pronto se abrieron paso otros pensamientos, otras consideraciones. ¿La había estado engañando Edward intencionalmente? ¿Había fingido un afecto por ella que no sentía? ¿Era su compromiso con Lucy un compromiso de corazón? No; sin importar lo que alguna vez pudo haber sido, no podía creer tal cosa en la actualidad. El afecto de Edward le pertenecía a ella. No podía engañarse en eso. Su madre, sus hermanas, Fanny, todos se habían dado cuenta del interés que él había mostrado por ella en Norland; no era una ilusión de su propia vanidad. Con certeza, él la amaba. ¡Cómo apaciguó su corazón este convencimiento! ¡Cuántas cosas más la tentaba a perdonar! El había sido culpable, enormemente culpable de permanecer en Norland tras haber sentido por primera vez que la influencia que ella tenía sobre él era mayor que la debida. En eso, no se lo podía defender; pero si él la había herido, ¡cuánto más se había herido a sí mismo! Si el caso de ella era digno de compasión, el de él era sin esperanza. Si durante un tiempo la imprudencia de él la había hecho desdichada, a él parecía haberlo privado de toda posibilidad de ser de otra forma. A la larga, ella podría reconquistar la tranquilidad; pero él, ¿en qué podía colocar sus esperanzas? ¿Podría alguna vez alcanzar una pasable felicidad con Lucy Steele? Si el afecto por ella fuera imposible, ¿podría él, con su integridad, su delicadeza e inteligencia cultivada, sentirse satisfecho con una esposa como ésa: inculta, artera y egoísta?
El encandilamiento propio de un joven de diecinueve años bien pudo cegarlo a todo lo que no fuera la belleza y buen carácter de Lucy; pero los cuatro años siguientes -años que, si se los vive racionalmente, enriquecen tanto el entendimiento debían haberle abierto los ojos a las carencias de su educación; y el mismo período de tiempo, que ella vivió en compañía de personas de inferior condición y entregada a intereses más frívolos, quizá la había despojado de esa sencillez que alguna vez pudo haberle dado un sesgo interesante a su belleza.
Si cuando se suponía que era con Elinor que él quería casarse los obstáculos puestos por su madre habían parecido grandes, ¡cuánto mayores no debían ser ahora, cuando la persona con quien estaba comprometido era indudablemente inferior a ella en conexiones y, con toda probabilidad, inferior en fortuna! En verdad, estando el corazón de Edward tan desapegado de Lucy, quizá las exigencias sobre su paciencia no fueran demasiado grandes; ¡pero la melancolía no puede ser sino el estado natural de una persona que se siente aliviada ante las expectativas de oposición y la dureza de parte de la familia!
A medida que se sucedían dolorosamente en ella estos pensamientos, lloraba por él más que por sí misma. Apoyada en la convicción de no haber hecho nada que la hiciera merecedora de su actual desdicha, y consolada por la creencia de que Edward no había hecho nada que le enajenara su afecto, Elinor pensó que incluso ahora, en medio del punzante dolor tras el duro golpe recibido, podía dominarse lo suficiente para esconder de su madre y hermanas toda sospecha de la verdad. Y tan bien cumplió sus propias expectativas, que cuando se les unió en el momento de la cena tan sólo dos horas después de haber asistido a la muerte de sus más caras esperanzas, nadie podría haber sospechado, por la apariencia de las hermanas, que Elinor vivía un secreto duelo frente a las barreras que para siempre la separarían del objeto de su amor, y que Marianne se solazaba en su interior en las perfecciones de un hombre de cuyo corazón se sentía enteramente prisionera, y a quien esperaba ver en cada carruaje que se acercaba a su casa.
La necesidad de ocultar de su madre y de Marianne lo que le había sido confiado como un secreto, aunque la obligaba a un incesante esfuerzo, no agravaba el dolor de Elinor. Al contrario, era un alivio para ella ahorrarse el tener que comunicar algo que las habría afligido tanto, y liberarse al mismo tiempo de escuchar cómo su excesiva y afectuosa parcialidad por ella probablemente se habría desatado en condenas a Edward, algo que era más de lo que se sentía capaz de soportar.
Elinor sabía que no podría recibir ayuda alguna de los consejos o de la conversación de su familia; la ternura y pena que manifestarían sólo iban a aumentar el dolor que sentía, en tanto que el dominio sobre sí misma no recibiría estímulo ni de su ejemplo ni de sus elogios. La soledad la hacía más fuerte y su propio buen juicio le ofreció un tan buen apoyo, que su firmeza se mantuvo sin flaquear y su apariencia de alegría todo lo invariable que podía estar en medio de padecimientos tan punzantes y recientes.
A pesar de lo mucho que había sufrido en su primera conversación con Lucy sobre el tema, pronto sintió un vivo deseo de reanudarla, y esto por más de una razón. Deseaba escuchar otra vez muchos detalles de su compromiso; deseaba entender con mayor claridad lo que Lucy realmente sentía por Edward, si era en verdad sincera en sus declaraciones de tierno afecto por él; y muy en especial quería convencer a Lucy, por su presteza en incursionar en el asunto de nuevo y su tranquilidad al conversar sobre él, que no le interesaba más que como amiga, algo que temía haber dejado al menos en duda con su involuntaria agitación durante su conversación matinal. Que Lucy se inclinara a sentirse celosa de ella parecía bastante probable; era evidente que Edward siempre la había alabado mucho, y evidente no sólo por lo que Lucy decía, sino por su atreverse a confiarle, tras tan poco tiempo de conocerse en persona, un secreto tan reconocida y obviamente importante. E incluso los comentarios jocosos de sir John podían haber pesado en ello. Pero, en verdad, mientras Elinor siguiera sintiéndose tan segura en su interior de que Edward realmente la amaba, no se requería de más cálculos de probabilidades para considerar natural que Lucy se sintiera celosa; y de sus celos, su misma confidencia era prueba suficiente. ¿Qué otra razón podía haber para revelar su historia, sino que Elinor supiera de los mayores derechos que Lucy tenía sobre Edward y aprendiera a evitarlo en el futuro? No le costaba mucho comprender hasta este punto las intenciones de su rival, y en tanto estaba firmemente decidida a actuar según lo exigían todos los principios de honor y honestidad para luchar contra su propio afecto por Edward y verlo lo menos posible, no podía negarse el consuelo de intentar convencer a Lucy de que su corazón estaba indemne. Y como nada podían agregar sobre el tema más doloroso que lo ya escuchado, no dudó de su propia capacidad para soportar tranquilamente una repetición de los pormenores. .
Pero la oportunidad de hacer lo planeado tardó en llegar, aunque Lucy estaba tan bien dispuesta como ella a aprovechar cualquier ocasión que se presentase, pues un clima bastante variable les impidió salir a caminar, actividad que fácilmente les habría permitido separarse de los demás; y aunque se encontraban al menos día por medio en la finca o en la cabaña, y en especial en la primera, no se suponía que el objetivo de reunirse fuera conversar. Tal idea jamás se les pasaría por la mente ni a sir John ni a lady Middleton, y así dejaban muy poco tiempo para una charla en la que participaran todos, y ninguno en absoluto para diálogos personales. Se reunían para comer, beber y reírse juntos, jugar a las cartas o a las adivinanzas o a cualquier otro entretenimiento que produjera la suficiente algarabía.
Una o dos de este tipo de reuniones habían pasado ya sin darle a Elinor oportunidad alguna de encontrarse con Lucy en privado, cuando una mañana apareció sir John en la casa para rogarles encarecidamente que fueran a cenar con lady Middleton ese día, ya que él debía asistir al club en Exeter y ella podría quedar totalmente sola, a excepción de su madre y las dos señoritas Steele. Elinor, que previó se le ofrecía una buena oportunidad para el asunto que tenía en mente en una reunión como ésta, donde estarían más a sus anchas bajo la tranquila y bien educada dirección de lady Middleton que en las ocasiones en que su esposo las juntaba para sus ruidosas tertulias, aceptó de inmediato la invitación. Margaret, con el permiso de su madre, también aceptó, y a Marianne, aunque siempre reacia a asistir a estas reuniones, la convenció su madre de hacer lo mismo, pues no soportaba verla aislarse de toda oportunidad de diversión.
Fueron las jóvenes, y lady Middleton se vio felizmente a salvo de la terrible soledad que la había amenazado. La reunión transcurrió tan insulsa como había previsto Elinor; no produjo ni una sola idea o expresión novedosa, y nada pudo ser menos interesante que la totalidad de la conversación tanto en el comedor como en la sala; los niños las acompañaron a esta última, y mientras ellos permanecían allí, era demasiado evidente la imposibilidad de atraer la atención de Lucy como para intentarlo. Sólo se marcharon cuando retiraron las cosas del té. Se colocó entonces la mesa para jugar a los naipes, y Elinor comenzó a preguntarse cómo había podido tener la esperanza de que iba a encontrar tiempo para conversar en la finca. Todas se levantaron, preparándose para una partida de cartas.
-Me alegro -le dijo lady Middleton a Lucy- de que no vaya a terminar la canastilla de mi pobrecita Annamaria esta noche, porque estoy segura de que le dañaría los ojos hacer trabajos de filigrana a la luz de las velas. Y ya encontraremos mañana cómo compensar la desilusión de mi preciosa chiquita y, así, espero que no le va a importar demasiado.
Bastó con esta insinuación; Lucy volvió a sus cabales de manera instantánea y replicó:
-Pero, se equivoca absolutamente, lady Middleton; tan sólo estaba esperando saber si pueden realizar su partida sin mí, o ya me habría puesto a trabajar en la filigrana. Por nada del mundo desilusionaría al angelito; y si usted me quiere en la mesa de naipes ahora, estoy decidida a terminar la canastilla después de cenar.
-Es usted muy buena; espero que no le haga daño a los ojos... ¿podría tocar la campanilla para que traigan velas para trabajar? Sé que mi pobre niñita se sentiría terriblemente desilusionada si la cesta no estuviera terminada mañana, pues aunque le dije que de ninguna manera iba a estar lista, estoy segura de que confía en que lo estará.
Lucy acercó su mesa de trabajo y se sentó a ella con una presteza y buen ánimo que parecían insinuar que su mayor placer era hacer una cesta de filigrana para una niña consentida.
Lady Middleton les propuso a las demás una partida de “casino”. Nadie hizo ninguna objeción, excepto Marianne, que con su habitual incumplimiento de las normas de cortesía generales, exclamó:
-Su señoría tendrá la bondad de excusarme... usted sabe que detesto los naipes. Iré al piano; no lo he tocado desde que lo afinaron.
Y sin más ceremonia, se alejó hacia el instrumento.
Lady Middleton pareció estar agradeciendo al cielo por no haber hecho jamás ella una observación tan descortés.
-Usted sabe, señora, que Marianne nunca se puede mantener demasiado tiempo alejada de ese instrumento -dijo Elinor, esforzándose en mitigar la ofensa-; y no me extraña, porque es el piano mejor templado que me haya tocado escuchar.
Las cinco restantes se disponían ahora a repartir las cartas.
-Quizá -continuó Elinor-, si yo me saliera del juego, podría ser de alguna utilidad a la señorita Lucy, enrollando los papeles para ella; y queda todavía tanto por hacer con la canastilla que, según creo, va a ser imposible que con su solo trabajo pueda terminarla esta noche. Me encantará ese trabajo, si ella me permite tomar parte en él.
-Por supuesto que estaré muy agradecida de su ayuda -exclamó Lucy-, pues me he dado cuenta de que todavía falta por hacer más de lo que creí; Y sería algo terrible desilusionar a la querida Annamaria después de todo.
-¡Oh! Eso sería espantoso, por supuesto -dijo la señorita Steele-. Pobre corazoncito, ¡cómo la quiero!
-Es usted muy amable -le dijo lady Middleton a Elinor-; y como de verdad le gusta el trabajo, quizá igual prefiera no incorporarse al juego sino hasta otra partida, ¿o quiere hacerlo ahora?
Elinor aprovechó gustosamente el primer ofrecimiento, y así, con un poco de ese buen trato al que Marianne nunca podía condescender, al mismo tiempo logró su propio objetivo y complació a lady Middleton. Lucy le hizo lugar con presteza, y las dos buenas rivales se sentaron así lado a lado en la misma mesa, y con la máxima armonía se empeñaron en llevar adelante la misma labor. El piano, frente al cual Marianne, absorta en su música y en sus pensamientos, había olvidado la presencia de otras personas en el cuarto, afortunadamente estaba tan cerca de ellas que la señorita Dashwood juzgó que, protegida por su sonido, podía plantear el tema que le interesaba sin riesgo de ser escuchada en la mesa de naipes.
En un tono firme, aunque cauteloso, Elinor comenzó así:
-No sería merecedora de la confidencia de que me ha hecho depositaria si no deseara prolongarla, o no sintiera mayor curiosidad sobre ese tema. No me disculparé, entonces, por traerlo nuevamente a colación.
-Gracias -exclamó Lucy cálidamente- por romper el hielo; con ello me ha tranquilizado el corazón, pues temía haberla ofendido de alguna manera con lo que le dije el lunes.
-¡Ofenderme! ¿Cómo pudo pensar tal cosa? Créame -y Elinor habló con total sinceridad-, nada podría estar más ajeno a mi voluntad que producirle tal idea. ¿Acaso pudo haber un motivo tras su confianza que no fuera honesto y halagador para mi?
-Y, sin embargo, le aseguro -replicó Lucy, sus ojillos agudos cargados de intención-, me pareció percibir una frialdad y disgusto en su trato que me hizo sentir muy incómoda. Estaba segura de que se habría enojado conmigo; y desde entonces me he reprochado por haberme tomado la libertad de preocuparla con mis asuntos. Pero me alegra enormemente descubrir que era sólo mi imaginación, y que, usted no me culpa por ello. Si supiera qué gran consuelo, qué alivio para mi corazón fue hablarle de aquello en que siempre, cada instante de mi vida, estoy pensando, estoy segura de que su compasión le haría pasar por alto todo lo demás.
-Ciertamente me es fácil creer que fue un gran alivio para usted contarme lo que le ocurre, y puede estar segura de que nunca tendrá motivos para arrepentirse de ello. Su caso es muy desafortunado; la veo rodeada de dificultades, y tendrán necesidad de todo el afecto que mutuamente se profesen para poder resistirlas. El señor Ferrars, según creo, depende enteramente de su madre.
-Sólo tiene dos mil libras de su propiedad; sería locura casarse sobre esa base, aunque por mi parte podría renunciar a toda otra perspectiva sin un suspiro. He estado siempre acostumbrada a un ingreso muy pequeño, y por él podría luchar contra cualquier pobreza; pero lo amo demasiado para ser el instrumento egoísta a través del cual, quizá, se le robe todo lo que su madre le podría dar si se casara a gusto de ella. Debemos esperar, puede ser por muchos años. Con casi cualquier otro hombre en el mundo sería una temible perspectiva; pero sé que nada puede despojarme del afecto y fidelidad de Edward.
-Tal convicción debe ser todo para usted; y sin duda él se sostiene apoyado en idéntica confianza en los sentimientos que usted le profesa. Si hubiera flaqueado la fuerza de su mutuo afecto, como naturalmente ocurriría con tanta gente en tantas circunstancias a lo largo de un compromiso de cuatro años, su situación sería sin duda lamentable.
Lucy levantó la vista; pero Elinor tuvo cuidado de que su rostro no mostrara ninguna expresión que pudiera dar un cariz sospechoso a sus palabras.
-El amor de Edward -dijo Lucy- ya ha sido puesto a prueba por nuestra larga, larga separación desde nuestro compromiso, y él ha resistido tan bien sus cuitas que sería imperdonable de mi parte si ahora lo pusiera en duda. Puedo decir sin riesgo de equivocarme que jamás, desde el primer día, me ha dado un momento de alarma al respecto.
A duras penas Elinor sabía si sonreír o suspirar ante tal aserto.
-Por naturaleza, también soy de temperamento algo celoso, y debido a la diferencia de nuestras situaciones, considerando que él conoce tanto más el mundo que yo, y por nuestra constante separación, tenía bastante tendencia a la suspicacia, lo que me habría permitido descubrir rápidamente la verdad si hubiera habido el menor cambio en su conducta hacia mí cuando nos encontrábamos, o cualquier decaimiento de ánimo para el cual no tuviese explicación, o si hubiera hablado más de una dama que de otra, o pareciera en cualquier aspecto menos feliz en Longstaple de lo que solía estar. No es mi propósito decir que soy particularmente observadora o perspicaz en general, pero en un caso así estoy segura de que no podrían embaucarme.
“Todo esto”, pensó Elinor, “suena muy bonito, pero no nos puede engañar a ninguna de las dos”.
-Pero -dijo después de un breve silencio-, ¿qué planes tiene? ¿O no tiene ninguno, sino esperar que la señora Ferrars se muera, lo que es una medida tan extrema, terrible y triste? ¿Es que su hijo está decidido a someterse a esto, y a todo el tedio de los muchos años de espera en que puede involucrarla a usted, antes que correr el riesgo de disgustar a su madre durante algún tiempo admitiendo la verdad?
-¡Si pudiéramos estar seguros de que sería sólo durante un tiempo! Pero la señora Ferrars es una mujer muy obstinada y orgullosa, y sería muy probable que, en su primer ataque de ira al escucharlo, legara todo a Robert; y esa posibilidad, pensando en el bien de Edward, ahuyenta en mí toda tentación de incurrir en medidas precipitadas.
-Y también por su propio bien, o está llevando su desinterés más allá de todo lo razonable.
Lucy miró nuevamente a Elinor, y guardó silencio.
¿Conoce al señor Robert Ferrars? -le preguntó Elinor.
-En absoluto... jamás lo he visto; pero me lo imagino muy distinto a su hermano: tonto y un gran fanfarrón.
-¡Un gran fanfarrón! -repitió la señorita Steele, que había alcanzado a escuchar estas palabras durante una repentina pausa en la música de Marianne-. ¡Ah! Me parece que están hablando de sus galanes favoritos.
-No, hermana -exclamó Lucy-, te equivocas en eso, nuestros galanes favoritos no son grandes fanfarrones.
Doy fe de que el de la señorita Dashwood no lo es -dijo la señora Jennings riendo con ganas ; es uno de los jóvenes más sencillos, de más lindos modales que yo haya visto. Pero en cuanto a Lucy, esta criatura sabe disimular tan bien que no hay manera de saber quién le gusta.
-¡Ah! -exclamó la señorita Steele lanzándoles una mirada sugestiva-, puedo decir que el pretendiente de Lucy es tan sencillo y de lindos modales como el de la señorita Dashwood.
Elinor se sonrojó sin querer. Lucy se mordió los labios y miró muy enojada a su hermana. Un silencio generalizado se posó en la habitación durante un rato. Lucy fue la primera en romperlo al decir en un tono más bajo, aunque en ese momento Marianne les prestaba la poderosa protección de un magnífico concierto:
-Le expondré sin tapujos un plan que se me ha ocurrido ahora último para manejar este asunto; en verdad, estoy obligada a hacerla participar del secreto, porque es una de las partes interesadas. Me atrevería a decir que ha visto a Edward lo suficiente para saber que él preferiría la iglesia antes que cualquier otra profesión. Ahora, mi plan es que se ordene tan pronto como pueda y entonces que usted interceda ante su hermano, lo que estoy segura tendrá la generosidad de hacer por amistad a él y, espero, algún afecto por mí, para convencerlo de que le dé el beneficio de Norland; según entiendo, es muy bueno y no es probable que el titular actual viva mucho tiempo. Eso nos bastaría para casarnos, y dejaríamos al tiempo y las oportunidades para que proveyeran el resto.
-Siempre será un placer para mí -respondió Elinor- entregar cualquier señal de afecto y amistad por el señor Ferrars; pero, ¿no advierte que mi intervención en esta oportunidad sería completamente innecesaria? El es hermano de la señora de John Dashwood... eso debería bastar como recomendación para su esposo.
-Pero la señora de John Dashwood no aprueba realmente que Edward tome las órdenes.
-Entonces sospecho que mi intervención tendría escaso efecto.
Nuevamente guardaron silencio durante varios minutos. Por fin Lucy exclamó, con un gran suspiro:
-Creo que lo más sabio sería poner fin a todo el asunto de una vez, deshaciendo el compromiso. Pareciera que son tantas las dificultades que nos acosan por todos lados, que aunque nos haga desdichados por algún tiempo, a la larga quizá estemos mejor. Pero, ¿no me aconsejaría usted, señorita Dashwood?
-No -respondió Elinor, con una sonrisa que ocultaba una gran agitación-, sobre tal tema por supuesto que no lo haré. Sabe perfectamente que mi opinión no tendría peso alguno en usted, a no ser que respaldara sus deseos.
-En verdad es injusta conmigo -respondió Lucy con gran solemnidad-; no sé de nadie cuyo juicio respete tanto como el suyo; y realmente creo que si usted fuera a decirme “Le aconsejo que, cueste lo que cueste, ponga fin a su compromiso con Edward Ferrars, será lo mejor para la felicidad de ambos”, no vacilaría en hacerlo de inmediato.
Elinor se sonrojó ante la falta de sinceridad de la futura esposa de Edward, y replicó:
-Tal cumplido sería absolutamente eficaz para ahuyentar en mí toda posibilidad de dar mi opinión en esta materia, si es que tuviera alguna. Da demasiado valor a mi influencia; el poder de separar a dos personas unidas tan tiernamente es demasiado para alguien que no es parte interesada.
-Es precisamente porque no es parte interesada -dijo Lucy, con una cierta inquina y acentuando de manera especial esas palabras- que su parecer podría tener, con toda justicia, tal influencia en mí. Si pudiera suponerse que su opinión estaría sesgada en cualquier sentido por sus propios sentimientos, no valdría la pena tenerla.
Elinor creyó más sabio no responder a esto, no fuera a ocurrir que se empujaran mutuamente a hablar con una libertad y franqueza que no podían ser convenientes, e incluso estaba en parte decidida a no mencionar nunca más el tema. Así, a esta conversación siguió una pausa de varios minutos, y de nuevo fue Lucy quien le puso fin.
-¿Estará en la ciudad este invierno, señorita Dashwood? -le dijo, con su habitual amabilidad.
-Cuánto lo siento -respondió la otra, brillándole los ojos ante la información-. ¡Me habría gustado tanto verla allí! Pero apostaría que va a ir de todas maneras. Con toda seguridad, su hermano y su hermana la invitarán a su casa.
-No podré aceptar su invitación, si es que la hacen.
-¡Qué pena! Estaba tan confiada en que nos encontraríamos allá. Anne y yo iremos a fines de enero donde unos parientes que hace años nos están pidiendo que los visitemos. Pero voy únicamente por ver a Edward. El estará allá en febrero; si no fuera así, Londres no tendría ningún atractivo para mí; no tengo ánimo para eso.
No transcurrió mucho tiempo antes de que terminara la primera ronda de naipes y llamaran a Elinor a la mesa, lo que puso fin a la conversación privada de las dos damas, algo a que ni una ni otra opuso gran resistencia, porque nada se había dicho en esa ocasión que les hiciera sentir un desagrado por la otra menor al que habían sentido antes. Elinor se sentó a la mesa con el -triste convencimiento de que Edward no sólo no quena a la persona que iba a ser su esposa, sino que no tenía la menor oportunidad de alcanzar ni siquiera una aceptable felicidad en el matrimonio, algo que podría haber tenido si ella, su prometida, lo hubiera amado con sinceridad, pues tan sólo el propio interés podía inducir a que una mujer atara a un hombre a un compromiso que claramente lo agobiaba.
Desde ese momento Elinor nunca volvió a tocar el tema; y cuando lo mencionaba Lucy, que no dejaba pasar la oportunidad de introducirlo en la conversación y se preocupaba especialmente de hacer saber a su confidente su felicidad cada vez que recibía una carta de Edward, la primera lo trataba con tranquilidad y cautela y lo despachaba apenas lo permitían las buenas maneras, pues sentía que tales conversaciones eran una concesión que Lucy no se merecía, y que para ella era peligrosa.
La visita de las señoritas Steele a Barton Park se alargó bastante más allá de lo que había supuesto la primera invitación. Aumentó el aprecio que les tenían, no podían prescindir de ellas; sir John no aceptaba escuchar que se iban; a pesar de los numerosos compromisos que tenían en Exeter y de que hubieran sido contraídos hacía tiempo, a pesar de su absoluta obligación de volver a cumplirlos de inmediato, que se hacía sentir imperativamente cada fin de semana, se las persuadió a quedarse casi dos meses en la finca, y ayudar en la adecuada celebración de esas festividades que requieren de una cantidad más que usual de bailes privados y grandes cenas para proclamar su importancia.
Aunque la señora Jennings acostumbraba pasar gran parte del año en las casas de sus hijos y amigos, no carecía de una vivienda permanente de su propiedad. Desde la muerte de su esposo, que había comerciado con éxito en una parte menos elegante de la ciudad, pasaba todos los inviernos en una casa ubicada en una de las calles cercanas a Portman Square. Hacia ella comenzó a dirigir sus pensamientos al aproximarse enero, y a ella un día, repentinamente y sin que se lo hubieran esperado, invitó a las dos señoritas Dashwood mayores para que la acompañaran. Elinor, sin observar los cambios de color en el rostro de su hermana y la animada expresión de sus ojos, que revelaban que el plan no le era indiferente, rehusó de inmediato, agradecida pero terminantemente, a nombre de las dos, creyendo estar haciéndose cargo de un deseo compartido. El motivo al que recurrió fue su firme decisión de no dejar a su madre en esa época del año. La señora Jennings recibió el rechazo de su invitación con algo de sorpresa, y la repitió de inmediato.
-¡Ay, Dios! Estoy segura de que su madre puede pasarse muy bien sin ustedes, y les ruego me concedan el favor de su compañía, porque he puesto todas mis esperanzas en ello. No se imaginen que van a ser ninguna molestia para mí, porque no haré nada fuera de lo que acostumbro para atenderlas. Sólo significará enviar a Betty en el coche de posta, y confío en que eso sí puedo permitirmelo. Nosotras tres iremos muy cómodas en mi calesín; y cuando estemos en la ciudad, si no desean ir a donde yo voy, santo y bueno, siempre pueden salir con alguna de mis hijas. Estoy segura de que su madre no se opondrá a ello, pues he tenido tanta suerte en sacarme a mis hijos de las manos, que me considerará una persona muy adecuada para estar a cargo de ustedes; y si no consigo casar bien al menos a una de ustedes antes de dar por terminado el asunto, no será por causa mía. Les hablaré bien de ustedes a todos los jóvenes, pueden estar seguras.
-Tengo la idea -dijo sir John- de que la señorita Marianne no se opondría a tal plan, si su hermana mayor accediera a él. Es muy duro, en verdad, que no pueda distraerse un poco, sólo porque la señorita Dashwood no lo desea. Así que les recomendaría a ustedes dos que partan a la ciudad cuando se cansen de Barton, sin decirle una palabra sobre ello a la señorita Dashwood.
-No -exclamó la señora Jennings-, estoy segura de que estaré terriblemente contenta de la compañía de la señorita Marianne, vaya o no vaya la señorita Dashwood, sólo que mientras más, mayor es la alegría, digo yo, y pensé que sería más cómodo para ellas estar juntas; porque si se cansan de mí, pueden hablar entre ellas, y reírse de mis rarezas a mis espaldas. Pero una u otra, si no ambas, debo tener. ¡Que Dios me bendiga! Cómo pueden imaginarse que puedo vivir andando por ahí sola, yo que hasta este invierno siempre he estado acostumbrada a tener a Charlotte conmigo. Vamos, señorita Marianne, démonos las manos para sellar este trato, y si la señorita Dashwood cambia de opinión luego, tanto mejor.
-Le agradezco, señora, de todo corazón le agradezco -dijo Marianne calurosamente-; su invitación ha comprometido mi gratitud para siempre, y poder aceptarla me haría tan feliz... sí, sería casi la máxima felicidad que puedo imaginar. Pero mi madre, mi queridísima, bondadosa madre... creo que es muy justo lo que Elinor ha planteado, y si nuestra ausencia la fuera a hacer menos feliz, le fuera a restar comodidad... ¡Oh, no! Nada podría inducirme a dejarla. Esto no puede significar, no debe significar un conflicto.
La señora Jennings volvió a repetir cuán segura estaba de que la señora Dashwood podría pasarse muy bien sin ellas; y Elinor, que ahora comprendía a su hermana y veía cuán indiferente a casi todo lo demás la hacía su ansiedad por volver a ver a Willoughby, no planteó ninguna otra objeción directa al plan; se limitó a referirlo a la voluntad de su madre, de quien, sin embargo, no esperaba recibir gran apoyo en su esfuerzo por impedir una visita que tan inconveniente le parecía para Marianne, y que también por su propio bien tenía especial interés en evitar. En todo lo que Mariana deseaba, su madre estaba ansiosa por complacerla; no podía esperar inducir a esta última a comportarse con cautela en un asunto respecto del cual nunca había podido inspirarle desconfianza, y no se atrevía a explicar la causa de su propia renuencia a ir a Londres. Que Marianne, quisquillosa como era, perfectamente al tanto de la forma de conducirse de la señora Jennings que tanto la desagradaba, en sus esfuerzos por lograr su objetivo estuviera dispuesta a pasar por alto todas las molestias de ese tipo y a ignorar lo que más la irritaba en su sensibilidad, era una prueba tal, tan fuerte, tan plena, de la importancia que daba a ese objetivo, que a pesar de todo lo ocurrido sorprendió a Elinor, como si nada la hubiera preparado para presenciarlo.
Cuando le contaron sobre la invitación, la señora Dashwood, convencida de que tal salida podría significar muchas diversiones para sus dos hijas y percibiendo a través de todas las cariñosas atenciones de Marianne cuán ilusionada estaba con el viaje, no quiso ni oír que rehusaran el ofrecimiento por causa de ella; insistió en que aceptaran de inmediato y comenzó a imaginar, con su habitual alegría, las diversas ventajas que para todas ellas resultarían de esta separación.
-Me encanta este plan -exclamó-, es exactamente lo que yo habría deseado. A Margaret y a mí nos beneficiará tanto como a ustedes. Cuando ustedes y los Middleton se hayan ido, ¡qué tranquilas y felices lo pasaremos juntas, con nuestros libros y nuestra música! ¡Encontrarán tan crecida a Margaret cuando vuelvan! Y también tengo un pequeño plan de arreglo de los dormitorios de ustedes, que ahora podré llevar a cabo sin incomodarlas. Me parece que tienen que ir a la ciudad; a mi juicio, todas las jóvenes en las condiciones de vida que ustedes tienen deben conocer las costumbres y diversiones de Londres. Estarán al cuidado de una buena mujer, muy maternal, de cuya bondad no me cabe la menor duda. Y lo más probable es que vean a su hermano, y cualesquiera sean sus defectos, o los de su esposa, cuando pienso de quién es hijo, no quisiera verlos tan alejados unos de otros.
-Aunque con su habitual preocupación por nuestra felicidad -dijo Elinor- ha estado obviando todos los obstáculos a este plan que ha podido imaginar, persiste una objeción que, en mi opinión, no puede ser despachada tan fácilmente.
Un enorme desaliento apareció en el rostro de Marianne.
-¿Y qué es -dijo la señora Dashwood- lo que mi querida y prudente Elinor va a sugerir? ¿Qué obstáculo formidable es el que nos va a poner por delante? No quiero escuchar ni una palabra sobre el costo que tendrá.
-Mi objeción es ésta: aunque tengo muy buena opinión de la bondad de la señora Jennings, no es el tipo de mujer cuya compañía vaya a sernos placentera, o cuya protección eleve nuestro rango.
-Eso es muy cierto -respondió su madre-, pero en su sola compañía, sin otras personas, casi no estarán, y casi siempre aparecerán en público con lady Middleton.
-Si Elinor desiste de ir por el desagrado que le produce la señora Jennings -dijo Marianne-, al menos que eso no impida que yo acepte su invitación. No tengo tales escrúpulos y estoy segura de que puedo tolerar sin mayor esfuerzo todos los inconvenientes de ese tipo.
Elinor no pudo evitar sonreír ante este despliegue de indiferencia respecto del comportamiento social de una persona hacia la cual tantas veces le había costado conseguir de Marianne al menos una aceptable cortesía, y en su interior decidió que si su hermana se empeñaba en ir, también ella iría, pues no creía correcto dejar a Marianne en situación de guiarse únicamente por su propio juicio, o dejar a la señora Jennings a merced de Mariana como todo solaz en sus horas hogareñas. Tal decisión le fue más fácil de aceptar al recordar que Edward Ferrars, según lo informado por Lucy, no iba a estar en la ciudad antes de febrero, y que para ese entonces la permanencia de ella y de su hermana, sin tener que acortarla de ninguna manera absurda, ya habría terminado.
-Quiero que las dos vayan -dijo la señora Dashwood-; estas objeciones son un disparate. Se entretendrán mucho en Londres, y más aún si están juntas; y si Elinor alguna vez condescendiera a aceptar de antemano la posibilidad de disfrutar, vería que en la ciudad podría hacerlo de innumerables maneras; incluso hasta podría agradarle la oportunidad de mejorar sus relaciones con la familia de su cuñada.
A menudo Elinor había deseado que se le presentase la ocasión de ir debilitando la confianza que tenía su madre en las relaciones entre ella y Edward, de manera que el golpe fuera menor cuando toda la verdad saliera a luz; y ahora, frente a esta acometida, aunque casi sin ninguna esperanza de lograrlo, se obligó a dar inicio a sus planes diciendo con toda la tranquilidad que le fue posible:
-Me gusta mucho Edward Ferrars y siempre me alegrará verlo; pero en cuanto al resto de la familia, me es completamente indiferente si alguna vez llegan a conocerme o no.
La señora Dashwood sonrió y no dijo nada. Marianne levantó la mirada llena de asombro, y Elinor pensó que habría sido mejor mantener la boca cerrada.
Tras dar vueltas al asunto muy poco más, se decidió finalmente que aceptarían plenamente la invitación. Al enterarse, la señora Jennings dio grandes muestras de alegría y les ofreció todo tipo de seguridades sobre su afecto y el cuidado que tendría de las jóvenes. Y no sólo ella estaba contenta; sir John se mostró encantado, porque para un hombre cuya mayor ansiedad era el temor a estar solo, agregar dos más a los habitantes de Londres no era algo de despreciar. Incluso lady Middleton se dio el trabajo de estar encantada, lo que para ella era salirse un poco de su camino habitual; en cuanto a las señoritas Steele, en especial Lucy, nunca habían estado más felices en toda su vida que al saber esta noticia.
Elinor se sometió a los preparativos que contrariaban sus deseos con mucho menos disgusto del que había esperado sentir. En lo que a ella concernía, ir o no a la ciudad ya no era asunto que le preocupase; y cuando vio a su madre tan plenamente contenta con el plan, y la dicha en el rostro, en la voz y el comportamiento de su hermana; cuando la vio recuperar su animación habitual e ir incluso más allá de lo que había sido su alegría acostumbrada, no pudo sentirse insatisfecha de la causa de todo ello y no quiso permitirse desconfiar de las consecuencias.
El júbilo de Marianne ya casi iba más allá de la felicidad, tan grande era la turbación de su ánimo y su impaciencia por partir. Lo único que la hacía recuperar la calma era sus pocos deseos de dejar a su madre; y al momento de partir su aflicción por ello fue enorme. La tristeza de su madre fue apenas menor, y Elinor fue la única de las tres que parecía considerar la separación como algo menos que eterna.
Partieron la primera semana de enero. Los Middleton las seguirían alrededor de una semana después. Las señoritas Steele seguían en la finca, que abandonarían sólo con el resto de la familia.
Al verse en el carruaje con la señora Jennings, e iniciando un viaje a Londres bajo su protección y como su huésped, Elinor no pudo dejar de cavilar sobre su propia situación: ¡tan breve era el tiempo que la conocían, tan poco compatibles en edad y temperamento, y tantas objeciones había levantado ella contra este viaje tan sólo unos días antes! Pero todas estas objeciones habían sucumbido, avasalladas ante ese feliz entusiasmo juvenil que tanto Marianne como su madre compartían; y Elinor, a pesar de sus ocasionales dudas sobre la constancia de Willoughby, no podía contemplar el arrobamiento de la maravillosa espera a que estaba entregada Marianne, desbordándole en el alma e iluminándole los ojos, sin sentir cuán vacías eran sus propias perspectivas, cuán falto de alegría su propio estado de ánimo comparado con el de ella, y cuán gustosamente viviría igual ansiedad que Marianne si con ello pudiese tener igual vivificante objetivo, igual posibilidad de esperanza. Pero ahora faltaba poco, muy poco tiempo, para saber cuáles eran las intenciones de Willoughby: con toda seguridad ya se encontraba en la ciudad. La ansiedad por partir que mostraba Marianne era clara señal de su confianza en encontrarlo allí; y Elinor estaba decidida no sólo a averiguar todo lo que pudiera sobre el carácter del joven, ya fuera a través de sus propias observaciones o de lo que otros pudieran informarle, sino también a vigilar su conducta hacia su hermana con atención tan celosa que le permitiera estar segura de lo que él era y de sus propósitos antes de que se hubieran reunido muchas veces. Si el resultado de sus observaciones fuera desfavorable, estaba decidida a abrirle los ojos a su hermana del modo que fuese; si no era así, la tarea que tendría por delante sería diferente: debería aprender a evitar las comparaciones egoístas y desterrar de ella todo pesar que pudiera menguar su satisfacción por la felicidad de Marianne.
El viaje duró tres días, y el comportamiento de Marianne durante todo el recorrido constituyó una buena muestra de lo que podría esperarse en el futuro de su deferencia y afabilidad hacia la señora Jennings. Guardó silencio durante casi todo el camino, envuelta en sus propias cavilaciones y no hablando casi nunca por propia voluntad, excepto cuando algún objeto de belleza pintoresca aparecía ante su vista arrancándole alguna expresión de gozo, que dirigía exclusivamente a su hermana. Para compensar esta conducta, sin embargo, Elinor asumió de inmediato el deber de cortesía que se había impuesto como tarea, fue extremadamente atenta con la señora Jennings, conversó con ella, se rió con ella y la escuchó siempre que le era posible; y la señora Jennings, por su parte, las trató a ambas con toda la bondad imaginable, se preocupó en todo momento de que estuvieran cómodas y entretenidas, y sólo la disgustó no lograr que eligieran su propia cena en la posada ni poder obligarlas a confesar si preferían el salmón o el bacalao, el pollo cocido o las chuletas de ternera. Llegaron a la ciudad alrededor de las tres de la tarde del tercer día, felices de liberarse, tras un viaje tan prolongado, del encierro del carruaje, y listas a disfrutar del lujo de un buen fuego.
La casa era hermosa y estaba hermosamente equipada, y de inmediato pusieron a disposición de las jóvenes una habitación muy confortable.
Había pertenecido a Charlotte, y sobre la repisa de la chimenea aún colgaba un paisaje hecho por ella en sedas de colores, prueba de haber pasado siete años en un gran colegio de la ciudad, con algunos resultados.
Como la cena no iba a estar lista antes de dos horas después de su llegada, Elinor quiso ocupar ese lapso en escribirle a su madre, y se sentó dispuesta a ello. Poco minutos después Marianne hizo lo mismo.
-Yo estoy escribiendo a casa, Marianne -le dijo Elinor-; ¿no sería mejor que dejaras tu carta para uno o dos días más?
-No le voy a escribir a mi madre -replicó Marianne apresuradamente, y como queriendo evitar más preguntas.
Elinor no le dijo nada más; en seguida se le ocurrió que debía estarle escribiendo a Willoughby y de inmediato concluyó que, sin importar el misterio en que pudieran querer envolver sus relaciones, debían estar comprometidos. Esta convicción, aunque no por completo satisfactoria, la complació, y continuó su carta con la mayor presteza. Marianne terminó la suya en unos pocos minutos; en extensión, no podía ser más de una nota; la dobló, la selló y escribió las señas con ansiosa rapidez. Elinor pensó que podía distinguir una gran W en la dirección, y acababa de terminar cuando Marianne, tocando la campanilla, pidió al criado que la atendió que hiciera llegar esa carta al correo de dos peniques. Con esto se dio por terminado el asunto.
Marianne seguía de muy buen ánimo, pero aleteaba en ella una inquietud que impedía que su hermana se sintiera completamente satisfecha, y esta inquietud aumentó con el correr de la tarde.
Apenas pudo probar bocado durante la cena, y cuando después volvieron a la sala parecía escuchar con enorme ansiedad el ruido de cada carruaje que pasaba.
Fue una gran tranquilidad para Elinor que la señora Jennings, por estar ocupada en sus habitaciones, no pudiera ver lo que ocurría. Trajeron las cosas para el té, y ya Marianne había tenido más de una decepción ante los golpes en alguna puerta vecina, cuando de repente se escuchó uno muy fuerte que no podía confundirse con alguno en otra casa. Elinor se sintió segura de que anunciaba la llegada de Willoughby, y Marianne, levantándose de un salto, se dirigió hacia la puerta. Todo estaba en silencio; no duró más de algunos segundos, ella abrió la puerta, avanzó unos pocos pasos hacia la escalera, y tras escuchar durante medio minuto volvió a la habitación en ese estado de agitación que la certeza de haberlo oído naturalmente produciría. En medio del éxtasis alcanzado por sus emociones en ese instante, no pudo evitar exclamar:
-¡Oh, Elinor, es Willoughby, estoy segura de que es él!
Parecía casi a punto de arrojarse en los brazos de él, cuando apareció el coronel Brandon.
Fue un golpe demasiado grande para soportarlo con serenidad, y de inmediato Marianne abandonó la habitación. Elinor también estaba decepcionada; pero, al mismo tiempo, su aprecio por el coronel Brandon le permitió darle la bienvenida, y le dolió de manera muy especial que un hombre que mostraba un interés tan grande en su hermana advirtiera que todo lo que ella experimentaba al verlo era pesar y desilusión. En seguida observó que para él no había pasado inadvertido, que incluso había mirado a Marianne cuando abandonaba la habitación con tal asombro y preocupación, que casi le habían hecho olvidar lo que la cortesía exigía hacia ella.
-¿Está enferma su hermana? -le preguntó.
Elinor respondió con algo de turbación que sí lo estaba, y luego se refirió a dolores de cabeza, desánimo y excesos de fatiga, y a todo lo que decentemente pudiera explicar el comportamiento de su hermana.
La escuchó él con la más intensa atención, pero, aparentando tranquilizarse, no habló más del asunto y comenzó a explayarse en torno a su placer de verlas en Londres, con las usuales preguntas sobre el viaje y los amigos que habían dejado atrás.
Así, de manera sosegada, sin gran interés por ninguna de las partes, siguieron hablando, ambos desalentados y con la cabeza puesta en otras cosas. Elinor tenía grandes deseos de preguntar si Willoughby se encontraba en la ciudad, pero temía apenarlo con preguntas sobre su rival; hasta que finalmente, por decir algo, le preguntó si había estado en Londres desde la última vez que se habían visto.
-Sí -replicó él, ligeramente turbado-, casi todo el tiempo desde entonces; he estado una o dos veces en Delaford por unos pocos días, pero nunca he podido volver a Barton.
Esto, y el modo en que fue dicho, de inmediato le recordó a Elinor todas las circunstancias de su partida de ese sitio, con la inquietud y sospechas que habían despertado en la señora Jennings, y temió que su pregunta hubiera dado a entender una curiosidad por ese tema mucho mayor de la que alguna vez hubiera sentido.
La señora Jennings no tardó en aparecer en la sala.
-¡Ay, coronel! -le dijo, con su ruidosa alegría habitual-, estoy terriblemente feliz de verlo... discúlpeme si no vine antes... le ruego me excuse, pero he tenido que revisar un poco por aquí y arreglar mis asuntos, porque hace mucho que no estaba en casa, y usted sabe que siempre hay un mundo de pequeños detalles que atender cuando uno ha estado alejada por un tiempo; y luego he tenido que ver las cosas de Cartwright. ¡Cielos, he estado trabajando como una hormiga desde la hora de la cena! Pero, cuénteme, coronel, ¿cómo fue a adivinar que estaría en la ciudad hoy día?
-Tuve el placer de escucharlo en la casa del señor Palmer, donde he estado cenando.
-¡Ah, así fue! Y, ¿cómo están todos ahí? ¿Cómo está Charlotte? Podría asegurarle que ya debe estar de un buen tamaño a estas alturas.
-La señora Palmer se veía muy bien, y me encargó decirle que de todas maneras la verá mañana.
-Claro, seguro, así lo pensé. Bien, coronel, he traído a dos jóvenes conmigo, como puede ver... quiero decir, puede ver sólo a una de ellas, pero hay otra en alguna parte. Su amiga, la señorita Marianne, también... como me imagino que no lamentará saber. No sé cómo se las arreglarán entre usted y el señor Willoughby respecto de ella. Sí, es una gran cosa ser joven y guapa. Bueno, alguna vez fui joven, pero nunca fui muy guapa... mala suerte para mí. No obstante, me conseguí un muy buen esposo, y vaya a saber usted si la mayor de las bellezas puede hacer más que eso. ¡Ah, pobre hombre! Ya lleva muerto ocho años, y está mejor así. Pero, coronel, ¿dónde ha estado desde que dejamos de vemos? ¿Y cómo van sus asuntos? Vamos, vamos, que no haya secretos entre amigos.
El coronel respondió con su acostumbrada mansedumbre a todas sus preguntas, pero sin satisfacer su curiosidad en ninguna de ellas. Elinor había comenzado a preparar el té, y Marianne se vio obligada a volver a la habitación.
Tras su entrada el coronel Brandon se puso más pensativo y silencioso que antes, y la señora Jennings no pudo convencerlo de que se quedara más rato. Esa tarde no llegó ningún otro visitante, y las damas estuvieron de acuerdo en irse a la cama temprano.
Marianne se levantó al día siguiente con renovados ánimos y aire contento. Parecía haber olvidado la decepción de la tarde anterior ante las expectativas de lo que podía ocurrir ese día. No hacía mucho que habían terminado su desayuno cuando el birlocho de la señora Palmer se detuvo ante la puerta, y pocos minutos después entró riendo a la habitación, tan encantada de verlos a todos, que le era difícil decir si su placer era mayor por ver a su madre o de nuevo a las señoritas Dashwood. ¡Tan sorprendida de su llegada a la ciudad, aunque más bien era lo que había estado esperando todo ese tiempo! ¡Tan enojada porque habían aceptado la invitación de su madre tras rehusar la de ella, aunque al mismo tiempo jamás las habría perdonado si no hubieran venido!
-El señor Palmer estará tan contento de verlas -dijo-; ¿qué creen que dijo cuando supo que venían con mamá? En este momento no recuerdo qué fue, ¡pero fue algo tan gracioso!
Tras una o dos horas pasadas en lo que su madre llamaba una tranquila charla o, en otras palabras, innumerables preguntas de la señora Jennings sobre todos sus conocidos, y risas sin motivo de la señora Palmer, la última propuso que todas la acompañaran a algunas tiendas donde tenía que hacer esa mañana, a lo cual la señora Jennings y Elinor accedieron prontamente, ya que también tenían algunas compras que hacer; y Marianne, aunque declinó la invitación en un primer momento, se dejó convencer de ir también.
Era evidente que, dondequiera fuesen, ella estaba siempre alerta. En Bond Street, especialmente, donde se encontraba la mayor parte de los lugares que debían visitar, sus ojos se mantenían en constante búsqueda; y en cualquier tienda a la que entrara el grupo, ella, absorta en sus pensamientos, no lograba interesarse en nada de lo que tenía enfrente y que ocupaba a las demás. Inquieta e insatisfecha en todas partes, su hermana no logró que le diera su opinión sobre ningún artículo que quisiera comprar, aunque les atañera a ambas; no disfrutaba de nada; tan sólo estaba impaciente por volver a casa de nuevo, y a duras penas logró controlar su molestia ante el tedio que le producía la señora Palmer, cuyos ojos quedaban atrapados por cualquier cosa bonita, cara o novedosa; que se enloquecía por comprar todo, no podía decidirse por nada, y perdía el tiempo entre el éxtasis y la indecisión.
Ya estaba avanzada la mañana cuando volvieron a casa; y no bien entraron, Marianne corrió ansiosamente escaleras arriba, y cuando Elinor la siguió, la encontró alejándose de la mesa con desconsolado semblante, que muy a las claras decía que Willoughby no había estado allí.
-¿No han dejado ninguna carta para mí desde que salimos? -le preguntó al criado que en ese momento entraba con los paquetes. La respuesta fue negativa-. ¿Está seguro? -le dijo-. ¿Está seguro de que ningún criado, ningún conserje ha dejado ninguna carta, ninguna nota?
El hombre le respondió que no había venido nadie.
-¡Qué extraño! -dijo Marianne en un tono bajo y lleno de desencanto, a tiempo que se alejaba hacia la ventana.
“¡En verdad, qué extraño!”, dijo Elinor para sí, mirando a su hermana con gran inquietud. “Si ella no supiera que él está en la ciudad, no le habría escrito como lo hizo; le habría escrito a Combe Magna; y si él está en la ciudad, ¡qué extraño que no haya venido ni escrito! ¡Ah, madre querida, debes estar equivocada al permitir un compromiso tan dudoso y oscuro entre una hija tan joven y un hombre tan poco conocido! ¡Me muero por preguntar, pero cómo tomarán que yo me entrometa!”
Decidió, tras algunas consideraciones, que si las apariencias se mantenían durante muchos días tan ingratas como lo eran en ese momento, le haría ver a su madre con la mayor fuerza posible la necesidad de investigar seriamente el asunto.
La señora Palmer y dos damas mayores, conocidas íntimas de la señora Jennings, a quienes había encontrado e invitado en la mañana, cenaron con ellas. La primera las dejó poco después del té para cumplir sus compromisos de la noche; y Elinor se vio obligada a completar una mesa de whist para las demás. Marianne no aportaba nada en estas ocasiones, pues nunca había aprendido ese juego, pero aunque así quedaron las horas de la tarde a su entera disposición, no le fueron de mayor provecho en cuanto a distracción de lo que fueron para Elinor, porque transcurrieron para ella cargadas de toda la ansiedad de la espera y el dolor de la decepción. A ratos intentaba leer durante algunos minutos; pero pronto arrojaba a un lado el libro y se entregaba nuevamente a la más interesante ocupación de recorrer la habitación de un lado a otro, una y otra vez, deteniéndose un momento cada vez que llegaba a la ventana, con la esperanza de escuchar el tan ansiado toque en la puerta.
-Si se mantiene este buen tiempo -dijo la señora Jennings cuando se encontraron al desayuno la mañana siguiente sir John no querrá abandonar Barton la próxima semana; es triste cosa para un deportista perderse un día de placer. ¡Pobrecitos! Los compadezco cuando eso les ocurre... parecen tomárselo tan a pecho.
-Es verdad -exclamó Marianne alegremente, y se encaminó hacia la ventana mientras hablaba, para ver cómo estaba el día-. No había pensado en eso. Este clima hará que muchos deportistas se queden en el campo.
Fue un recuerdo afortunado, que le devolvió todo su buen ánimo.
-En verdad es un tiempo maravilloso para ellos -continuó, mientras se sentaba a la mesa con aire de felicidad-. ¡Cómo estarán disfrutándolo! Pero -otra vez con algo de ansiedad-, no puede esperarse que dure demasiado. En esta época del año, y después de tantas lluvias, seguramente no seguirá así de bueno. Pronto llegarán las heladas, y lo más probable es que sean severas. Quizá en uno o dos días; este clima tan suave no puede seguir mucho más... no, ¡quizá hiele esta noche!
-En todo caso -dijo Elinor, con la intención de impedir que la señora Jennings pudiera descifrar los pensamientos de su hermana tan claramente como ella-, diría que tendremos a sir John y a lady Middleton en la ciudad a fines de la próxima semana.
-Claro, querida, te aseguro que así será. Mary siempre se sale con la suya.
“Y ahora”, conjeturó en silencio Elinor, “Marianne escribirá a Combe en el correo de hoy”.
Pero si fue que lo hizo, la reserva con que la carta fue escrita y enviada logró eludir la vigilancia de Elinor, que no pudo constatar el hecho. Cualquiera fuese la verdad, y lejos como estaba Elinor de sentirse completamente satisfecha al respecto, mientras viera a Marianne de buen ánimo, ella tampoco podía sentirse muy a disgusto. Y Marianne estaba de buen ánimo, feliz por la suavidad del clima y más contenta aún con sus expectativas de una helada.
Pasaron la mañana principalmente repartiendo tarjetas de visita en las casas de los conocidos de la señora Jennings para informarles de su vuelta a la ciudad; y todo el tiempo Marianne se mantenía ocupada observando la dirección del viento, vigilando las mudanzas del cielo e imaginando que cambiaba la temperatura del aire.
¿No encuentras que está más frío que en la mañana, Elinor? A mí me parece que hay una marcada diferencia. Apenas puedo mantener las manos calientes ni siquiera en el manguito. Creo que ayer no estuvo así. Parece que está aclarando también, luego saldrá el sol y tendremos una tarde despejada.
Elinor se sentía a ratos divertida, a ratos apenada; pero Marianne no se daba por vencida y cada noche en el resplandor del fuego, y cada mañana en el aspecto de la atmósfera, veía los indudables signos de una cada vez más próxima helada.
Las señoritas Dashwood no tenían más motivos para estar descontentas con la forma de vida y el grupo de relaciones de la señora Jennings que con su comportamiento hacia ellas, que siempre era bondadoso. Todos sus arreglos domésticos se hacían según las más generosas disposiciones, y a excepción de unos pocos amigos antiguos de la ciudad, a los cuales, para disgusto de lady Middleton, nunca había dejado de tratar, no se visitaba con nadie cuyo conocimiento pudiera en absoluto turbar a sus jóvenes acompañantes. Contenta de encontrarse en ese aspecto en mejores condiciones que las que había previsto, Elinor se mostraba muy dispuesta a transigir con lo poco entretenidas que resultaban sus reuniones nocturnas, las cuales tanto en casa como fuera de ella se organizaban sólo para jugar a los naipes, algo que le ofrecía escasa diversión.
El coronel Brandon, invitado permanente a la casa, las acompañaba casi todos los días; venía a contemplar a Marianne y a hablar con Elinor, que a menudo disfrutaba más de la conversación con él que con ningún otro suceso diario, pero al mismo tiempo veía con gran preocupación cómo persistía el interés que mostraba por su hermana. Temía incluso que fuera cada vez más intenso. Le apenaba ver la ansiedad con que solía observar a Marianne y cómo parecía realmente más desalentado que en Barton.
Alrededor de una semana después de su llegada, fue evidente que también Willoughby se encontraba en la ciudad. Cuando llegaron de la salida matinal, su tarjeta se encontraba sobre la mesa.
-¡Ay, Dios! -exclamó Marianne-. Estuvo aquí mientras habíamos salido.
Elinor, regocijándose al saber que Willoughby estaba en Londres, se animó a decir:
-Puedes confiar en que mañana vendrá de nuevo.
Marianne apenas pareció escucharla, y al entrar la señora Jennings, huyó con su preciosa tarjeta.
Este suceso, junto con levantarle el ánimo a Elinor, le devolvió al de su hermana toda, y más que toda su anterior agitación. A partir de ese momento su mente no conoció un momento de tranquilidad; sus expectativas de verlo en cualquier momento del día la inhabilitaron para cualquier otra cosa. A la mañana siguiente insistió en quedarse en casa cuando las otras salieron.
Elinor no pudo dejar de pensar en lo que estaría pasando en Berkeley Street durante su ausencia; pero una rápida mirada a su hermana cuando volvieron fue suficiente para informarle que Willoughby no había aparecido por segunda vez. En ese preciso instante trajeron una nota, que dejaron en la mesa.
-¡Para mí! -exclamó Marianne, yendo apresuradamente hacia ella.
-No, señorita; para mi señora.
Pero Marianne, no convencida, la tomó de inmediato.
-En verdad es para la señora Jennings. ¡Qué pesadez!
-Entonces, ¿esperas una carta? -dijo Elinor, incapaz de seguir guardando silencio.
-No confías en mí -dijo Elinor, tras una corta pausa.
-¡Vamos, Elinor! ¡Tú haciendo tal reproche... tú, que no confías en nadie!
-¡Yo! -replicó Elinor, algo confundida-. Es que, Marianne, no tengo nada que decir.
-Tampoco yo -respondió enérgicamente Marianne-; estamos entonces en las mismas condiciones. Ninguna de las dos tiene nada que contar; tú porque no comunicas nada, y yo porque nada escondo.
Elinor, consternada por esta acusación de exagerada reserva que no se sentía capaz de ignorar, no supo, en tales circunstancias, cómo hacer que Marianne se le abriera.
No tardó en aparecer la señora Jennings, y al dársele la nota, la leyó en voz alta. Era de lady Middleton, y en ella anunciaba su llegada a Conduit Street la noche anterior y solicitaba el placer de la compañía de su madre y sus primas esa tarde. Ciertos negocios en el caso de sir John, y un fuerte resfrío de su lado, les impedían ir a Berkeley Street. Fue aceptada la invitación, pero cuando se acercaba la hora de la cita, aunque la cortesía más básica hacia la señora Jennings exigía que ambas la acompañaran en esa visita, a Elinor se le hizo difícil convencer a su hermana de ir, porque aún no sabía nada de Willoughby y, por lo tanto, estaba tan poco dispuesta a salir a distraerse como renuente a correr el riesgo de que él viniera en su ausencia.
Al terminar la tarde, Elinor había descubierto que la naturaleza de una persona no se modifica materialmente con un cambio de residencia; pues aunque recién se habían instalado en la ciudad, sir John había conseguido reunir a su alrededor a cerca de veinte jóvenes y entretenerlos con un baile. Lady Middleton, sin embargo, no aprobaba esto. En el campo, un baile improvisado era muy aceptable; pero en Londres, donde la reputación de elegancia era más importante y más difícil de ganar, era arriesgar mucho, para complacer a unas pocas muchachas, que se supiera que lady Middleton había ofrecido un pequeño baile para ocho o nueve parejas, con dos violines y un simple refrigerio en el aparador.
El señor y la señora Palmer formaban parte de la concurrencia; el primero, al que no habían visto antes desde su llegada a la ciudad dado que él evitaba cuidadosamente cualquier apariencia de atención hacia su suegra y así jamás se le acercaba, no dio ninguna señal de haberlas reconocido al entrar. Las miró apenas, sin parecer saber quiénes eran, y a la señora Jennings le dirigió una mera inclinación de cabeza desde el otro lado de la habitación. Marianne echó una mirada a su alrededor no bien entró; fue suficiente: él no estaba ahí... y luego se sentó, tan poco dispuesta a dejarse entretener como a entretener a los demás. Tras haber estado reunidos cerca de una hora, el señor Palmer se acercó distraídamente hacia las señoritas Dashwood para comunicarles su sorpresa de verlas en la ciudad, aunque era en su casa que el coronel Brandon había tenido la primera noticia de su llegada, y él mismo había dicho algo muy gracioso al saber que iban a venir.
-Creía que las dos estaban en Devonshire -les dijo.
Y así terminó la conversación. Nunca en toda su vida había estado Marianne tan poco deseosa de bailar como esa noche, y nunca el ejercicio la había fatigado tanto. Se quejó de ello cuando volvían a Berkeley Street.
-Ya, ya -dijo la señora Jennings-, sabemos muy bien a qué se debe eso; si una cierta persona a quien no nombraremos hubiera estado allí, no habría estado ni pizca de cansada; y para decir verdad, no fue muy bonito de su parte no haber venido a verla, después de haber sido invitado.
-¡Invitado! -exclamó Marianne.
-Así me lo ha dicho mi hija, lady Middleton, porque al parecer sir John se encontró con él en alguna parte esta mañana.
Marianne no dijo nada más, pero pareció estar extremadamente herida. Viéndola así y deseosa de hacer algo que pudiera contribuir a aliviar a su hermana, Elinor decidió escribirle a su madre al día siguiente, con la esperanza de despertar en ella algún temor por la salud de Marianne y, de esta forma, conseguir que hiciera las averiguaciones tan largamente pospuestas; y su determinación se hizo más fuerte cuando en la mañana, después del desayuno, advirtió que Marianne le estaba escribiendo de nuevo a Willoughby, pues no podía imaginar que fuera a ninguna otra persona.
Cerca del mediodía, la señora Jennings salió sola por algunas diligencias y Elinor comenzó de inmediato la carta, mientras Marianne, demasiado inquieta para concentrarse en ninguna ocupación, demasiado ansiosa para cualquier conversación, paseaba de una a otra ventana o se sentaba junto al fuego entregada a tristes cavilaciones. Elinor puso gran esmero en su apelación a su madre, contándole todo lo que había pasado, sus sospechas sobre la inconstancia de Willoughby, y apelando a su deber y a su afecto la urgió a que exigiera de Marianne una explicación de su verdadera situación con respecto al joven.
Apenas había terminado su carta cuando una llamada a la puerta las previno de la llegada de un visitante, y a poco les anunciaron al coronel Brandon. Marianne, que lo había visto desde la ventana y que en ese momento odiaba cualquier compañía, abandonó la habitación antes de que él entrara. Se veía el coronel más grave que de costumbre, y aunque manifestó satisfacción por encontrar a la señorita Dashwood sola, como si tuviera algo especial que decirle, se sentó durante un rato sin emitir palabra. Elinor, convencida de que tenía algo que comunicarle que le concernía a su hermana, esperó con impaciencia que él se franqueara. No era la primera vez que sentía el mismo tipo de certeza, pues más de una vez antes, iniciando su comentario con la observación “Su hermana no tiene buen aspecto hoy”, o “Su hermana tiene aspecto desanimado”, había parecido estar a punto de revelar, o de indagar, algo en particular acerca de ella. Tras una pausa de varios minutos, el coronel rompió el silencio preguntándole, en un tono que revelaba una cierta agitación, cuándo tendría que felicitarla por la adquisición de un hermano. Elinor no estaba preparada para tal pregunta, y al no tener una pronta respuesta, se vio obligada a recurrir al simple pero común expediente de preguntarle a qué se refería. El intentó sonreír al responderle: “El compromiso de su hermana con el señor Willoughby es algo sabido por todos”.
-No pueden saberlo todos -respondió Elinor-, porque su propia familia no lo sabe.
El pareció sorprenderse, y le dijo:
-Le ruego me disculpe, temo que mi pregunta haya sido impertinente; pero no pensé que se quisiera mantener nada en secreto, puesto que se corresponden abiertamente y todos hablan de su boda.
-¿Cómo es posible? ¿A quién se lo ha oído mencionar?
-A muchos... a algunos a quienes usted no conoce, a otros que le son muy cercanos: la señora Jennings, la señora Palmer y los Middleton. Pero aun así no lo habría creído (porque cuando la mente no quiere convencerse, siempre encontrará algo en qué sustentar sus dudas), si hoy no hubiera visto accidentalmente en manos del criado que me abrió, una carta dirigida al señor Willoughby, con letra de su hermana. Yo venía a preguntar, pero me convencí antes de poder plantear la pregunta. ¿Está todo ya resuelto finalmente? ¿Es posible que...? Pero no tengo ningún derecho, y ninguna posibilidad de éxito. Perdóneme, señorita Dashwood. Creo que no ha sido correcto de mi parte decir tanto, pero no sé qué hacer y confío absolutamente en su prudencia. Dígame que todo es ya irrevocable, que cualquier intento... que, en suma, disimular, si es que el disimulo es posible, es todo lo que queda.
Estas palabras, que fueron para Elinor una tan directa confesión del amor del coronel por su hermana, la afectaron profundamente. En el momento no fue capaz de decir nada, y aun cuando recobró el ánimo, se debatió durante un breve tiempo intentando descubrir cuál sería la respuesta más adecuada. El verdadero estado de las cosas entre Willoughby y su hermana le era tan desconocido, que al intentar explicarlo bien podía decir demasiado, o demasiado poco. Sin embargo, como estaba convencida de que el afecto de Marianne por Willoughby, sin importar cuál fuese el resultado de ese afecto, no dejaba al coronel Brandon esperanza alguna de triunfo, y al mismo tiempo deseaba protegerla de toda censura, después de pensarlo un rato decidió que sería más prudente y considerado decir más de lo que realmente creía o sabía. Admitió, entonces, que aunque ellos nunca le habían informado sobre qué tipo de relaciones tenían, a ella no le cabía duda alguna sobre su mutuo afecto y no le extrañaba saber que se escribían.
El coronel la escuchó en atento silencio, y al terminar ella de hablar, de inmediato se levantó de su asiento y tras decir con voz emocionada, “Le deseo a su hermana toda la felicidad imaginable; y a Willoughby, que se esfuerce por merecerla...”, se despidió y se fue.
Esta conversación no logró dar alivio a Elinor ni menguar la inquietud de su mente en relación con otros aspectos; al contrario, quedó con una triste impresión de la desdicha del coronel y ni siquiera pudo desear que esa infelicidad desapareciera, dada su ansiedad por que se diera el acontecimiento mismo que iba a corroborarla.
Nada ocurrió en los tres o cuatro días siguientes que hiciera a Elinor lamentar haber recurrido a su madre, pues Willoughby no se presentó ni escribió. Hacia el final de ese período, ella y su hermana debieron acompañar a lady Middleton a una fiesta, a la cual la señora Jennings no podía asistir por la indisposición de su hija menor; y para esta fiesta, Marianne, completamente abatida, sin preocuparse por su aspecto y como si le fuera indiferente ir o quedarse, se preparó sin una mirada de esperanza, sin una manifestación de placer. Después del té se sentó junto a la chimenea de la sala hasta la llegada de lady Middleton, sin moverse ni una sola vez de su asiento o cambiar de actitud, perdida en sus pensamientos y sin prestar atención a la presencia de su hermana; y cuando finalmente les dijeron que lady Middleton las esperaba en la puerta, se sobresaltó como si hubiera olvidado que esperaban a alguien.
Llegaron a tiempo a su destino, y apenas la fila de carruajes frente a ellos lo permitió, se apearon, subieron las escalinatas, escucharon sus nombres anunciados a viva voz desde un rellano a otro, e ingresaron a una habitación de espléndida iluminación, llena de invitados e insoportablemente calurosa. Cuando hubieron cumplido con el deber de cortesía y saludaron respetuosamente a la señora de la casa, pudieron mezclarse con la multitud y sufrir su cuota de calor e incomodidad, necesariamente incrementados con su llegada. Tras pasar algunos momentos hablando muy poco y haciendo menos aún, lady Middleton se integró a una partida de casino, y como Marianne no estaba de humor para dar vueltas por ahí, ella y Elinor, tras haber logrado con gran suerte un par de sillas, se situaron no lejos de la mesa.
No habían permanecido allí durante mucho rato cuando Elinor se percató de la presencia de Willoughby, que se encontraba a unas pocas yardas de distancia en entusiasta conversación con una joven de aspecto muy elegante. Muy pronto se cruzaron sus miradas y él se inclinó de inmediato, pero sin mostrar intenciones de hablarle o de acercarse a Marianne, aunque no habría podido dejar de verla; y luego continuó su conversación con la misma joven. Elinor giró hacia Marianne casi involuntariamente para ver si podía habérsele pasado por alto. Recién en ese momento ella lo vio, y con el rostro iluminado por una súbita dicha se habría acercado a él de inmediato si su hermana no la hubiera detenido.
-¡Santo cielo! -exclamó-. Está aquí, está aquí. ¡Oh! ¿Por qué no me mira? ¿Por qué no puedo ir a hablar con él?
-Por favor, por favor contrólate -exclamó Elinor-, y no traiciones tus sentimientos ante todos los presentes. Quizá todavía no te ha visto.
Esto, sin embargo, era más de lo que ella misma podía creer, y controlarse en un momento como ése no sólo estaba fuera del alcance de Marianne, iba más allá de sus deseos. Se quedó sentada en una agonía de impaciencia, patente en cada uno de sus rasgos.
Finalmente él giró nuevamente y las miró a ambas; Marianne se levantó y, pronunciando su nombre con voz llena de afecto, le extendió la mano. El se acercó, y dirigiéndose más a Elinor que a Marianne, como si quisiera evitar su mirada y hubiera decidido ignorar su gesto, inquirió de manera apresurada por la señora Dashwood y le preguntó cuánto tiempo llevaban en la ciudad. Elinor perdió toda presencia de ánimo ante tal actitud y no pudo decir palabra. Pero los sentimientos de su hermana salieron de inmediato a la luz. Se le enrojeció el rostro y exclamó con enorme emoción en la voz:
-¡Santo Dios! Willoughby, ¿qué significa esto? ¿Acaso no has recibido mis cartas? ¿No me darás la mano?
No pudo él seguir evitándola, pero el contacto de Marianne pareció serle doloroso y retuvo su mano por sólo un instante. Era evidente que durante todo este tiempo luchaba por controlarse. Elinor le observó el rostro y vio que su expresión se hacía más tranquila. Tras una breve pausa, Willoughby habló con calma.
-Tuve el honor de ir a Berkeley Street el martes pasado, y sentí mucho no haber tenido la suerte de encontrarlas a ustedes y a la señora Jennings en casa. Espero que no se haya extraviado mi tarjeta.
-Pero, ¿no has recibido mis notas? -exclamó Marianne con la más feroz ansiedad-. Estoy segura de que se trata de una confusión... una terrible confusión. ¿Qué puede significar? Dime, Willoughby, por amor de Dios, dime, ¿qué ocurre?
El no respondió; mudó de color y volvió a parecer azorado; pero como si al cruzarse su mirada con la de la joven con quien antes había estado hablando sintiera la necesidad de hacer un nuevo esfuerzo, volvió a recobrar el dominio sobre sí mismo, y tras decir, “Sí, tuve el placer de recibir la noticia de su llegada a la ciudad, que tuvo la bondad de hacerme llegar”, se alejó a toda prisa con una leve inclinación, y se reunió con su amiga.
Marianne, con el rostro terriblemente pálido e incapaz de mantenerse en pie, se hundió en su silla, y Elinor, temiendo verla desmayarse en cualquier momento, intentó protegerla de las miradas de los demás mientras la reanimaba con agua de lavanda.
-Ve a buscarlo, Elinor -dijo Marianne apenas pudo hablar-, y oblígalo a venir acá. Dile que tengo que verlo de nuevo... que tengo que hablar con él de inmediato. No puedo descansar... no tendré un momento de paz hasta que todo esto esté aclarado... algún terrible malentendido. ¡Por favor, ve a buscarlo ahora mismo!
-¿Cómo hacer tal cosa? No, mi queridísima Marianne, tienes que esperar. Este no es lugar para explicaciones. Espera sólo hasta mañana.
A duras penas, sin embargo, pudo evitar que Marianne fuera tras él; y convencerla de que dominara su agitación, que esperara con al menos la apariencia de compostura, hasta que pudiera hablar con él más en privado y con mayores probabilidades de obtener resultados, le fue imposible.
En voz baja y mediante exclamaciones de dolor, Marianne siguió dando curso sin freno a la desdicha que inundaba sus sentimientos. Tras breves instantes Elinor vio que Willoughby abandonaba la habitación por la puerta que conducía hacia la escalinata, y diciéndole a Marianne que ya se había ido, le hizo ver la imposibilidad de hablar con él esa misma noche como un nuevo argumento para que se tranquilizara. Marianne le rogó de inmediato a su hermana que urgiera a lady Middleton para que las llevara a casa, pues se sentía demasiado desgraciada para quedarse un minuto más.
Lady Middleton, aunque en la mitad de una vuelta de su juego de casino, al saber que Marianne no se encontraba bien fue demasiado educada para negarse ni por un momento a su deseo de irse, y tras pasar sus cartas a una amiga, partieron tan pronto les encontraron su carruaje. Apenas cruzaron palabra durante su retorno a Berkeley Street. Marianne estaba entregada a una silenciosa agonía, demasiado abatida hasta para derramar lágrimas; pero como afortunadamente la señora Jennings aún no había vuelto a casa, pudieron dirigirse de inmediato a sus habitaciones, donde con sales de amoníaco volvió algo en sí. No tardó en desvestirse y acostarse, y como parecía deseosa de estar a solas, Elinor la dejó; y mientras ésta esperaba la vuelta de la señora Jennings, tuvo tiempo suficiente para reflexionar sobre todo lo que había ocurrido.
Que algún tipo de compromiso había existido entre Willoughby y Marianne, le parecía indudable; y que Willoughby estaba hastiado de él, era igualmente evidente; pues aunque Marianne todavía pudiera aferrarse a sus propios deseos, ella no podía atribuir tal comportamiento a confusiones o malentendidos de ningún tipo. Nada sino un completo cambio en los sentimientos del joven podía explicarlo. Su indignación habría sido incluso mayor de la que sentía, de no haber sido testigo de la turbación que lo había invadido, la cual parecía mostrar que estaba consciente de su propio mal proceder e impidió que ella lo creyera tan sin principios como para haber estado jugando desde un comienzo con el afecto de su hermana, con propósitos que no resistían el menor examen. La ausencia podía haber debilitado su interés y por conveniencia podría haberse decidido a ponerle fin, pero que tal interés había existido, de eso no podía dudar aunque lo intentara.
En cuanto a Marianne, Elinor no podía reflexionar sin una enorme preocupación sobre el doloroso golpe que tan infausto encuentro ya le había asestado y sobre aquellos aún más duros que recibiría de sus probables secuelas. Su propia situación mejoraba cuando la comparaba con la de su hermana; pues en tanto ella pudiera estimar a Edward igual que antes, por más que en el futuro estuvieran separados, su espíritu podría tener siempre un puntal. Pero todas las circunstancias que hacían aún más amargo el dolor recibido, parecían conspirar para aumentar la desdicha de Marianne hasta empujarla a una decisiva separación de Willoughby, a una ruptura inmediata e irreconciliable con él.
Al día siguiente, antes de que la doncella hubiera encendido la chimenea o que el sol lograra algún predominio sobre una gris y fría mañana de enero, Marianne, a medio vestir, se encontraba hincada frente al banquillo junto a una de las ventanas, intentando aprovechar la poca luz que podía robarle y escribiendo tan rápido como podía permitírselo un continuo flujo de lágrimas. Fue en esa posición que Elinor la vio al despertar, arrancada de su sueño por la agitación y sollozos de su hermana; y tras contemplarla durante algunos instantes con silenciosa ansiedad, le dijo con un tono de la mayor consideración y dulzura:
-Marianne, ¿puedo preguntarte...?
-No, Elinor -le respondió-, no preguntes nada; pronto sabrás todo.
La especie de desesperada calma con que dijo esto no duró más que sus palabras, y de inmediato fue reemplazada por una vuelta a la misma enorme aflicción. Transcurrieron algunos minutos antes de que pudiera retomar su carta, y los frecuentes arrebatos de dolor que, a intervalos, todavía la obligaban a paralizar su pluma, eran prueba suficiente de su sensación de que, casi con toda certeza, ésa era la última vez que escribía a Willoughby.
Elinor le prestó todas las atenciones que pudo, silenciosamente y sin estorbarla; y habría intentado consolarla y tranquilizarla más aún si Marianne no le hubiera implorado, con la vehemencia de la más nerviosa irritabilidad, que por nada del mundo le hablara. En tales condiciones, era mejor para ambas no permanecer mucho juntas; y la inquietud que embargaba el ánimo de Marianne no sólo le impidió quedarse en la habitación ni un instante tras haberse vestido, sino que, requiriendo al mismo tiempo de soledad y de un continuo cambio de lugar, la hizo deambular por la casa hasta la hora del desayuno, evitando encontrarse con nadie.
En el desayuno, no comió nada ni intentó hacerlo; y Elinor dirigió entonces toda su atención no a apremiarla, no a compadecerla ni a parecer observarla con preocupación, sino a esforzarse en atraer todo el interés de la señora Jennings hacia ella.
Esta era la comida favorita de la señora Jennings, por lo que duraba un tiempo considerable; y tras haberla finalizado, apenas comenzaban a instalarse en torno a la mesa de costura donde todas trabajaban, cuando un criado trajo una carta para Marianne, que ella le arrebató ansiosamente para salir corriendo de la habitación, el rostro con una palidez de muerte. Viendo esto, Elinor, que supo con la misma claridad que si hubiera visto las señas que debían provenir de Willoughby, sintió de inmediato tal compunción que a duras penas pudo mantener en alto la cabeza, y se quedó sentada temblando de tal forma que la hizo temer que la señora Jennings necesariamente habría de advertirlo. La buena señora, sin embargo, lo único que vio fue que Marianne había recibido una carta de Willoughby, lo que le pareció muy divertido y, reaccionando en consecuencia, rió y manifestó su esperanza de que la encontrara a su entero gusto. En cuanto a la congoja de Elinor, la señora Jennings estaba demasiado ocupada midiendo estambre para su tapiz y no se dio cuenta de nada; y continuando con toda calma lo que estaba diciendo, no bien Marianne había desaparecido, agregó:
-A fe mía, ¡nunca había visto a una joven tan desesperadamente enamorada! Mis niñas no se le comparan, y eso que solían ser bastante necias; pero la señorita Marianne parece una criatura totalmente perturbada. Espero, con todo el corazón, que él no la haga esperar mucho, porque es lastimoso verla tan enferma y desolada. Cuénteme, ¿cuándo se casan?
Elinor, aunque nunca se había sentido menos dispuesta a hablar que en ese momento, se obligó a responder a una ofensiva como ésta, y así, intentando sonreír, replicó:
-¿En verdad, señora, se ha convencido usted misma de que mi hermana está comprometida con el señor Willoughby? Creía que había sido sólo una broma, pero una cosa tan seria parece implicar algo más: por tanto, le suplico que no siga engañándose. Le puedo asegurar que nada me sorprendería más que escuchar que se iban a casar.
-¡Qué vergüenza, señorita Dashwood, qué vergüenza! ¡Cómo puede decir eso! ¿Es que no sabemos que su unión es segura... que estaban locamente enamorados desde la primera vez que se vieron? ¿Acaso no los vi juntos en Devonshire todos los días, y a todo lo largo del día? ¿Y piensa que no sabía que su hermana vino a la ciudad conmigo con el propósito de comprar su ajuar de boda? Vamos, vamos; así no va a conseguir nada. Cree que porque usted disimula tan bien, nadie más se da cuenta de nada; pero no hay tal, créame, porque desde hace tiempo lo sabe todo el mundo en la ciudad. Yo se lo cuento a todo el mundo, y lo mismo hace Charlotte.
-De verdad, señora -le dijo Elinor con gran seriedad-, está equivocada. Realmente está haciendo algo muy poco bondadoso al esparcir esa noticia, y llegará a darse cuenta de ello, aunque ahora no me crea.
La señora Jennings volvió a reírse y Elinor no tuvo ánimo de decir más, pero ansiosa de todos modos por saber lo que había escrito Willoughby, se apresuró a ir a su habitación donde, al abrir la puerta, encontró a Marianne tirada en la cama, casi ahogada de pena, con una carta en la mano y dos o tres más esparcidas a su alrededor. Elinor se acercó, pero sin decir palabra; y sentándose en la cama, le tomó una mano, la besó afectuosamente varias veces y luego estalló en sollozos en un comienzo apenas menos violentos que los de Marianne. Esta última, aunque incapaz de hablar, pareció sentir toda la ternura de estos gestos, y tras algunos momentos de estar así unidas en la aflicción, puso todas las cartas en las manos de Elinor; y luego, cubriéndose el rostro con un pañuelo, casi llegó a gritar de agonía. Elinor, aunque sabía que tal aflicción, por terrible que fuera de contemplar, debía seguir su curso, se mantuvo atenta a su lado hasta que estos excesos de dolor de alguna manera se habían agotado; y luego, tomando ansiosamente la carta de Willoughby, leyó lo siguiente:
Acabo de tener el honor de recibir su carta, por la cual le ruego aceptar mis más sinceros agradecimientos. Me preocupa enormemente saber que algo en mi comportamiento de anoche no contara con su aprobación; y aunque me siento incapaz de descubrir en qué pude ser tan desafortunado como para ofenderla, le suplico me perdone lo que puedo asegurarle fue enteramente involuntario. Nunca recordaré mi relación con su familia en Devonshire sin el placer y reconocimiento más profundos, y quisiera pensar que no la romperá ningún error o mala interpretación de mis acciones. Estimo muy sinceramente a toda su familia; pero si he sido tan desafortunado como para dar pie a que mis sentimientos se creyeran mayores de lo que son o de lo que quise expresar, mucho me recriminaré por no haber sido más cuidadoso en las manifestaciones de esa estima. Que alguna vez haya querido decir más, aceptará que es imposible cuando sepa que mis afectos han estado comprometidos desde hace mucho en otra parte, y no transcurrirán muchas semanas, creo, antes de que se cumpla este compromiso. Es con gran pesar que obedezco su orden de devolverle las cartas con que me ha honrado, y el mechón de sus cabellos que tan graciosamente me concedió.
Puede imaginarse con qué indignación leyó la señorita Dashwood una carta como ésta. Aunque desde antes de leerla estaba consciente de que debía contener una confesión de su inconstancia y confirmar su separación definitiva, ¡no imaginaba que se pudiera utilizar tal lenguaje para anunciarlo! Tampoco habría supuesto a Willoughby capaz de apartarse tanto de las formas propias de un sentir honorable y delicado... tan lejos estaba de la corrección propia de un caballero como para mandar una carta tan descaradamente cruel: una carta que, en vez de acompañar sus deseos de quedar libre con alguna manifestación de arrepentimiento, no reconocía ninguna violación de la confianza, negaba que hubiera existido ningún afecto especial..., una carta en la cual cada línea era un insulto y que proclamaba que su autor estaba hundido profundamente en la más encallecida vileza.
Se detuvo en ella durante algún tiempo con indignado asombro; luego la volvió a leer una y otra vez; pero cada relectura sirvió tan sólo para aumentar su aborrecimiento por ese hombre, y tan amargos eran sus sentimientos hacia él que no osaba darse permiso para hablar, a riesgo de ahondar en las heridas de Marianne al presentar el fin de su compromiso no como una pérdida para ella de algún bien posible, sino como el haber escapado del peor y más irremediable de los males, la unión de por vida con un hombre sin principios; como una muy verdadera liberación, una muy importante bendición.
En su intensa meditación sobre el contenido de la carta, sobre la depravación de la mente que pudo dictarla y, probablemente, sobre la muy diferente naturaleza de una persona muy distinta, que no tenía otra relación con el asunto que la que su corazón le asignaba con cada cosa que ocurría, Elinor olvidó la congoja de su hermana allí frente a ella, olvidó las tres cartas en su regazo que aún no había leído, y de manera tan completa olvidó el tiempo que había estado en la habitación, que cuando al escuchar un coche llegando a la puerta se acercó a la ventana para ver quién venía a horas tan inadecuadamente tempranas, fue toda sorpresa al reparar en que era el carruaje de la señora Jennings, que sabía no había sido ordenado sino hasta la una. Decidida a no dejar a Marianne, aunque sin ninguna esperanza de poder contribuir en ese momento a su tranquilidad, se apresuró a salir para disculparse de acompañar a la señora Jennings, dado que su hermana se sentía indispuesta. La señora Jennings, con una alegre preocupación por el motivo de la excusa, la aceptó con toda facilidad, y Elinor, tras despedirse de ella y ver que partía sin problemas, volvió donde Marianne; la encontró intentando levantarse de la cama y alcanzó a llegar a su lado justo a tiempo para impedir que cayera al suelo, débil y aturdida por una prolongada falta de adecuado descanso y alimento, pues eran muchos los días que había pasado sin ningún apetito, y muchas las noches desde la última vez que había dormido verdaderamente; y ahora, cuando su mente ya no se sostenía en la fiebre del suspenso, se vieron las consecuencias de todo ello en una cabeza adolorida, un estómago debilitado y una fragilidad nerviosa general. Un vaso de vino, que Elinor de inmediato le trajo, la restauró algo, y por fin fue capaz de expresar parte de su afecto al decir:
-¡Pobre Elinor! ¡Cuántas penas te doy!
-Sólo desearía -replicó su hermana- que hubiera algo que pudiera hacer para consolarte.
Esto, al igual que habría ocurrido con cualquier otra cosa, fue demasiado para Marianne, que sólo pudo exclamar con toda la angustia de su corazón, “¡Ay, Elinor, que miserable me siento”, antes de que los sollozos ahogaran por completo su voz.
Elinor no pudo seguir contemplando en silencio este torrente de dolor que fluía sin encontrar resistencia.
-Haz un esfuerzo, Marianne -exclamó-, o te matarás y, junto contigo, a todos los que te aman. Piensa en tu madre; piensa en su aflicción al saber que tú sufres; por ella, tienes que esforzarte.
-No puedo, no puedo -exclamó Marianne-; déjame, déjame si te aflijo; déjame, ódiame, olvídame; pero no me tortures así. ¡Ay! ¡Qué fácil es para quienes no tienen penas propias hablar de esfuerzo! Dichosa, dichosa Elinor, tú no puedes tener idea de lo que sufro.
-¡A mí me llamas dichosa, Marianne! ¡Ah! ¡Si supieras! ¡Y cómo crees que pueda serlo viéndote tan desgraciada!
-Perdóname, perdóname -echándole los brazos al cuello-; sé que me compadeces; sé cuán buen corazón tienes; pero aun así eres... debes ser feliz; Edward te ama... ¡Qué, dime qué podría matar una felicidad como ésa!
-Muchas, muchas circunstancias -dijo Elinor solemnemente.
-No, no, no -exclamó Marianne con voz ardiente-; él te ama, a ti y a nadie más que a ti. No puedes tener pena alguna.
-No puedo disfrutar de nada mientras te vea en tal estado.
-Y nunca más me verás en otra forma. La mía es una desdicha a la que nada puede poner fin.
-No debes hablar así, Marianne. ¿Acaso no tienes solaz alguno? ¿No tienes amigos? ¿Es tan grande tu pérdida que no deja espacio al consuelo? Por mucho que sufras ahora, piensa en lo que habrías sufrido si el descubrimiento de su carácter se hubiera postergado para más adelante... si tu compromiso se hubiera alargado por meses y meses, como podría haber ocurrido, antes de que él hubiera decidido terminarlo. Con cada nuevo día de desventurada confianza de tu parte se habría hecho más atroz el golpe.
-¡Compromiso! -exclamó Marianne-. No ha habido ningún compromiso.
-No, no es tan indigno como crees. No me ha engañado.
-Pero te dijo que te amaba, ¿no?
-Sí... no... nunca... en absoluto. Estaba siempre implícito, pero nunca declarado abiertamente. A veces creía que lo había hecho... pero nunca ocurrió.
-Sí... ¿podía estar mal después de todo lo que había ocurrido? Pero no puedo hablar más.
Elinor guardó silencio, y volviendo su atención a las tres cartas que ahora le despertaban mucho mayor curiosidad que antes, se dedicó de inmediato a examinar el contenido de todas ellas. La primera, que era la enviada por su hermana cuando llegaron a la ciudad, era como sigue:
¡Qué gran sorpresa te llevarás, Willoughby, al recibir ésta! Y pienso que sentirás algo más que sorpresa cuando sepas que estoy en la ciudad. La oportunidad de venir acá, aunque con la señora Jennings, fue una tentación a la que no pude resistir. Ojalá recibas ésta a tiempo para venir a verme esta noche, pero no voy a contar con ello. En todo caso, te esperaré mañana. Por ahora, adieu. M.D.
La segunda nota, escrita la mañana después del baile donde los Middleton, iba en estas palabras:
No puedo expresar mi decepción al no haber estado aquí cuando viniste ayer, ni mi asombro al no haber recibido ninguna respuesta a la nota que te envié hace cerca de una semana. He estado esperando saber de ti y, más todavía, verte, cada momento del día. Te ruego vengas de nuevo tan pronto como puedas y me expliques el motivo de haberme tenido esperando en vano. Sería mejor que vinieras más temprano la próxima vez, porque en general salimos alrededor de la una. Anoche estuvimos donde lady Middleton, que ofreció un baile. Me dijeron que te habían invitado. Pero, ¿es posible que esto sea verdad? Debes haber cambiado mucho desde que nos separamos si así ocurrió y tú no acudiste. Pero no estoy dispuesta a creer que haya sido así, y espero que muy pronto me asegures personalmente que no lo fue. M.D.
El contenido de la última nota era éste:
¿Qué debo imaginar, Willoughby, de tu comportamiento de anoche? Otra vez te exijo una explicación. Me había preparado para encontrarte con la natural alegría que habría seguido a nuestra separación, con la familiaridad que nuestra intimidad en Barton me parecía justificar. ¡Y cómo fui desairada! He pasado una noche miserable intentando excusar una conducta que a duras penas puede ser considerada menos que insultante; pero aunque todavía no he podido encontrar ninguna justificación razonable para tu comportamiento, estoy perfectamente dispuesta a escucharla de ti. Quizá te han informado mal, o engañado a propósito en algo relativo a mí que me pueda haber degradado en tu opinión. Dime de qué se trata, explícame sobre qué bases actuaste y me daré por satisfecha si puedo satisfacerte. Ciertamente me apenaría tener que pensar mal de ti; pero si me veo obligada a hacerlo, si voy a encontrarme con que no eres como hasta ahora te hemos creído, con que tu consideración por todas nosotras no era sincera y el único propósito de tu comportamiento hacia mí era el engaño, mejor saberlo lo antes posible. En este momento me siento llena de la más atroz indecisión; deseo absolverte, pero tener una certeza, en cualquier sentido que sea, aliviará mi sufrimiento actual. Si tus sentimientos ya no son lo que fueron, me devolverás mis cartas y el mechón de mis cabellos que tienes en tu poder. M.D.
En consideración a Willoughby, Elinor no habría estado dispuesta a creer que tales cartas, tan llenas de afecto y confianza, pudieran haber merecido la respuesta que tuvieron. Pero su condena de la actuación de él no le impedía ver lo inapropiado, en último término, de que hubieran sido escritas; y lamentaba en su interior la imprudencia que había arriesgado pruebas de ternura tan poco solicitadas, que ningún precedente justificaba y que los hechos tan severamente condenaban, cuando Marianne, advirtiendo que ya había terminado con las cartas, le observó que ellas no contenían nada sino lo que cualquiera en la misma situación habría escrito.
-Yo me sentía -agregó- tan solemnemente comprometida con él como si estuviéramos unidos por el más estricto pacto legal.
-Puedo creerlo -dijo Elinor-; pero, por desgracia, él no sentía lo mismo.
-El sí sentía lo mismo, Elinor... semana tras semana lo sintió. Sé que fue así. No importa lo que lo haya hecho cambiar ahora (y nada sino las artes más negras usadas contra mí pueden haberlo logrado), alguna vez le fui tan querida como mis deseos más profundos pudieron desearlo. Este mechón de pelo, del cual ahora se deshace con tanta facilidad, lo obtuvo tras suplicármelo de la manera más vehemente. ¡Si hubieras visto su aspecto, sus maneras, si hubieras escuchado su voz en ese momento! ¿Has olvidado acaso la última tarde que pasamos juntos en Barton? ¡También la mañana en que nos separamos! Cuando me dijo que podrían pasar muchas semanas antes de que nos volviéramos a encontrar... su congoja, ¡cómo voy a olvidar su congoja!
Durante uno o dos momentos no pudo decir nada más; pero cuando su emoción se había aplacado, agregó con voz más firme:
-Elinor, me han utilizado de la forma más cruel, pero no ha sido Willoughby quien lo ha hecho.
-Mi querida Marianne, ¿quién, sino él? ¿Quién lo puede haber inducido a ello?
-Todo el mundo, más que su propio corazón. Antes creería que todos los seres que conozco se concertarían para degradarme ante sus ojos que creerlo a él por naturaleza capaz de tal crueldad. Esta mujer sobre la que escribe, quienquiera que sea; o cualquiera, en suma, a excepción de ti, mi querida hermana, y mamá y Edward, puede haber sido tan desalmado como para denigrarme. Fuera de ustedes tres, ¿hay alguna criatura en el mundo de quien sospecharía menos que de Willoughby, cuyo corazón conozco tan bien?
Elinor no quiso discutir, y se limitó a responderle:
-Quienquiera pueda haber sido ese enemigo tuyo tan detestable, arrebatémosle su malvado triunfo, mi querida hermana, haciéndole ver con cuánta nobleza la conciencia de tu propia inocencia y buenas intenciones sustenta tu espíritu. Es razonable y digno de alabanza un orgullo que se levanta contra tal malevolencia.
-No, no -exclamó Marianne-, una desdicha como la mía no conoce el orgullo. No me importa que sepan cuán miserable me siento. Todos pueden saborear el triunfo de verme así. Elinor, Elinor, los que poco sufren pueden ser tan orgullosos e independientes como quieran; Pueden resistir los insultos o humillar a su vez... Pero yo no puedo. Tengo que sentirme, tengo que ser desdichada... y bienvenidos sean a disfrutar de saberme así.
-Pero por mi madre, y por mí...
-Haría más que por mí misma. Pero mostrarme contenta cuando me siento tan miserable... ¡Ah! ¿Quién podría pedirme tanto?
Nuevamente callaron ambas. Elinor estaba entregada a caminar pensativamente de la chimenea a la ventana, de la ventana a la chimenea, sin advertir el calor que le llegaba de una o distinguir los objetos a través de la otra; y Marianne, sentada a los pies de la cama, con la cabeza apoyada contra uno de sus pilares, tomó de nuevo la carta de Willoughby, y tras estremecerse ante cada una de sus frases, exclamó:
-¡Es demasiado! ¡Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, cómo puede venir esto de ti! Cruel, cruel, nada puede absolverte. Nada, Elinor. Sea lo que fuere que pueda haber escuchado contra mí... ¿no debiera haber suspendido el juicio? ¿No debió habérmelo dicho, darme la oportunidad de justificarme? “El mechón de sus cabellos -repitiendo lo que la carta decía- que tan graciosamente me concedió”... eso es imperdonable. Willoughby, ¿dónde tenías el corazón cuando escribiste esas palabras? ¡Oh, qué desalmada insolencia! Elinor, ¿es que acaso se la puede justificar?
-No, Marianne, de ninguna manera.
-Y, sin embargo, esta mujer... ¡quién sabe cuáles puedan haber sido sus malas artes, cuán largamente lo habrá premeditado, cómo se las habrá ingeniado! ¿Quién es ella? ¿Quién puede ser? ¿A quién de sus conocidas mencionó alguna vez Willoughby como joven y atractiva? ¡Oh! A nadie, a nadie... sólo me hablaba de mí.
Siguió otra pausa; Marianne, presa de gran agitación, terminó así:
-Elinor, debo irme a casa. Debo ir y consolar a mamá. ¿Podemos irnos mañana?
-Sí; ¿por qué había de quedarme aquí? Vine únicamente por Willoughby... y ahora, ¿a quién le importo? ¿Quién se interesa por mí?
-Sería imposible partir mañana. Le debemos a la señora Jennings mucho más que cortesía; y la cortesía más básica no permitiría una partida tan repentina como ésa.
-Está bien, entonces, en uno o dos días más quizá; pero no puedo quedarme mucho aquí, no puedo quedarme y aguantar las preguntas y observaciones de toda esa gente. Los Middleton, los Palmer... ¿cómo voy a soportar su compasión? ¡La compasión de una mujer como la señora Jennings! ¡Ah, qué diría él de eso!
Elinor le aconsejó que se tendiera nuevamente, y durante unos momentos así lo hizo; pero ninguna posición la tranquilizaba, y en un doloroso desasosiego de alma y cuerpo, cambiaba de una a otra postura, alterándose cada vez más; a duras penas pudo su hermana mantenerla en la cama y durante algunos momentos temió verse obligada a pedir ayuda. Unas gotas de lavanda, sin embargo, que pudo convencerla de tomar, le sirvieron de ayuda; y desde ese instante hasta la vuelta de la señora Jennings permaneció en la cama, callada y quieta.
A su regreso, la señora Jennings se dirigió directamente a la habitación de Elinor y Marianne y, sin esperar que respondieran a su llamado, abrió la puerta y entró con aire de verdadera preocupación.
-¿Cómo está, querida? -le preguntó en tono compasivo a Marianne, que desvió el rostro sin hacer ningún intento por responder.
-¿Cómo está, señorita Dashwood? ¡Pobrecita! Tiene muy mal aspecto. No es de extrañar. Sí, desgraciadamente es verdad. Se va a casar pronto... ¡es un badulaque! No lo soporto. La señora Taylor me lo contó hace media hora, y a ella se lo contó una amiga íntima de la señorita Grey misma, de otra forma no lo habría podido creer; quedé abismada al saberlo. Bien, dije, todo lo que puedo decir es que, si es verdad, se ha portado de manera abominable con una joven a quien conozco, y deseo con todo el corazón que su esposa le atormente la vida. Y seguiré diciéndolo para siempre, querida, puede estar segura. No se me ocurre adónde irán a parar los hombres por este camino; y si alguna vez me lo vuelvo a encontrar, le daré tal reprimenda como no habrá tenido muchas en su vida. Pero queda un consuelo, mi querida señorita Marianne: no es el único joven del mundo que valga la pena; y con su linda cara a usted nunca le faltarán admiradores. ¡Ya, pobrecita! Ya no la molestaré más, porque lo mejor sería que llorara sus penas de una vez por todas y acabara con eso. Por suerte, sabe usted, esta noche van a venir los Parry y los Sanderson, y eso la divertirá.
Salió entonces de la habitación caminando de puntillas, como si creyera que la aflicción de su joven amiga pudiera aumentar con el ruido.
Para sorpresa de su hermana, Marianne decidió cenar con ellas. Elinor incluso se lo desaconsejó. Pero, “no, iba a bajar; lo soportaría perfectamente, y el barullo en torno a ella sería menor”. Elinor, contenta de que por el momento fuera ése el motivo que la guiaba y aunque no la creía capaz de sentarse a cenar, no dijo nada más; así, acomodándole el vestido lo mejor que pudo mientras Marianne seguía echada sobre la cama, estuvo lista para acompañarla al comedor apenas las llamaron.
Una vez allí, aunque con aire muy desdichado, comió más y con mayor tranquilidad de la que su hermana había esperado. Si hubiera intentado hablar o se hubiera dado cuenta de la mitad de las bien intencionadas pero desatinadas atenciones que le dirigía la señora Jennings, no habría podido mantener esa calma; pero sus labios no dejaron escapar ni una sílaba y su ensimismamiento la mantuvo en la mayor ignorancia de cuanto ocurría frente a ella.
Elinor, que valoraba la bondad de la señora Jennings aunque la efusión con que la expresaba a menudo era irritante y en ocasiones casi ridícula, le manifestó la gratitud y le correspondió las muestras de cortesía que su hermana era incapaz de expresar o realizar por sí misma. Su buena amiga veía que Marianne era desdichada, y sentía que se le debía todo aquello que pudiera disminuir su pena. La trató, entonces, con toda la cariñosa indulgencia de una madre hacia su hijo favorito en su último día de vacaciones. A Marianne debía darse el mejor lugar junto a la chimenea, había que tentarla con todos los mejores manjares de la casa y entretenerla con el relato de todas las noticias del día. Si Elinor no hubiera visto en el triste semblante de su hermana un freno a todo regocijo, habría disfrutado de los esfuerzos de la señora Jennings por curar un desengaño de amor mediante toda una variedad de confituras y aceitunas y un buen fuego de chimenea. Sin embargo, apenas la conciencia de todo esto se abrió paso en Marianne por repetirse una y otra vez, no pudo seguir ahí. Con una viva exclamación de dolor y una señal a su hermana para que no la siguiera, se levantó y salió a toda prisa de la habitación.
¡Pobre criatura! -exclamó la señora Jennings tan pronto hubo salido-. ¡Cómo me apena verla! ¡Y miren ustedes, si no se ha ido sin terminar su vino! ¡Y también ha dejado las cerezas confitadas! ¡Dios mío! Nada parece servirle. Créanme que si supiera de algo que le apeteciera, mandaría recorrer toda la ciudad hasta encontrarlo. ¡Vaya, es la cosa más increíble que un hombre haya tratado tan mal a una chica tan linda! Pero cuando la plata abunda por un lado y escasea totalmente por el otro, ¡que Dios me ampare!, ya no les importan tales cosas.
-Entonces, la dama en cuestión, la señorita Grey creo que la llamó usted, ¿es muy rica?
-Cincuenta mil libras, querida mía. ¿La ha visto alguna vez? Una chica elegante, muy a la moda, según dicen, pero nada de guapa. Recuerdo muy bien a su tía, Biddy Henshawe; se casó con un hombre muy rico. Pero todos en la familia son ricos. ¡Cincuenta mil libras! Y desde todo punto de vista van a llegar muy a tiempo, porque dicen que él está en la ruina. ¡Era que no, siempre luciéndose por ahí con su calesín y sus caballos y perros de caza! Vaya, sin ánimo de enjuiciar, pero cuando un joven, sea quien sea, viene y enamora a una linda chica y le promete matrimonio, no tiene derecho a desdecirse de su palabra sólo por haberse empobrecido y que una muchacha rica esté dispuesta a aceptarlo. ¿Por qué, en ese caso, no vende sus caballos, alquila su casa, despide a sus criados, y no da un real vuelco a su vida? Les aseguro que la señorita Marianne habría estado dispuesta a esperar hasta que las cosas se hubieran arreglado. Pero no es así como se hacen las cosas hoy en día; los jóvenes de hoy jamás van a renunciar a ningún placer.
-¿Sabe usted qué clase de muchacha es la señorita Grey? ¿Tiene reputación de ser amable?
-Nunca he escuchado nada malo de ella; de hecho, casi nunca la he oído mencionar; excepto que la señora Taylor sí dijo esta mañana que un día la señorita Walker le insinuó que creía que el señor y la señora Ellison no lamentarían ver casada a la señorita Grey, porque ella y la señora Ellison nunca se habían avenido.
-Sus tutores, querida. Pero ya es mayor de edad y puede escoger por sí misma; ¡y una linda elección ha hecho! Y ahora -tras una breve pausa-, su pobre hermana se ha ido a su habitación, supongo, a lamentarse a solas. ¿No hay nada que se pueda hacer para consolarla? Pobrecita, parece tan cruel dejarla sola. Pero bueno, poco a poco traeremos nuevos amigos, y eso la divertirá un poco. ¿A qué podemos jugar? Sé que ella detesta el whist; pero, ¿no hay ningún juego que se haga en ronda que sea de su agrado?
-Mi querida señora, tanta gentileza es completamente innecesaria. Estoy segura de que Marianne no saldrá de su habitación esta noche. Intentaré convencerla, si es que puedo, de que se vaya a la cama temprano, porque estoy segura de que necesita descansar.
-Claro, eso será lo mejor para ella. Que diga lo que quiere comer, y se acueste. ¡Dios! No es de extrañar que haya andado con tan mala cara y tan abatida la semana pasada y la anterior, porque imagino que esta cosa ha estado encima de ella todo ese tiempo. ¡Y la carta que le llegó hoy fue la última gota! ¡Pobre criatura! Si lo hubiera sabido, por supuesto que no le habría hecho bromas al respecto ni por todo el oro del mundo. Pero entonces, usted sabe, ¿cómo podría haberlo adivinado? Estaba segura de que no era sino una carta de amor común y corriente, y usted sabe que a los jóvenes les gusta que uno se ría un poco de ellos con esas cosas. ¡Dios! ¡Cómo estarán de preocupados sir John y mis hijas cuando lo sepan! Si hubiera estado en mis cabales, podría haber pasado por Conduit Street en mi camino a casa y habérselo contado. Pero los veré mañana.
-Estoy segura de que no será necesario prevenir a la señora Palmer y a sir John para que no nombren al señor Willoughby ni hagan la menor alusión a lo que ha ocurrido frente a mi hermana. Su propia bondad natural les indicará cuán cruel es mostrar en su presencia que se sabe algo al respecto; y mientras menos se me hable a mí sobre el tema, más sufrimientos me ahorrarán, como bien podrá saberlo usted, mi querida señora.
-¡Ay, Dios! Sí, por supuesto. Debe ser terrible para usted escuchar los comentarios; y respecto de su hermana, le aseguro que por nada del mundo le mencionaré ni una palabra sobre el tema. Ya vio usted que no lo hice durante la cena. Y tampoco lo harán ni sir John ni mis hijas, porque son muy conscientes y considerados, en especial si se lo sugiero, como por cierto lo haré. Por mi parte, pienso que mientras menos se diga acerca de estas cosas mejor es y más rápido desaparecen y se olvidan. Y cuándo se ha sacado algo de bueno con hablar, ¿no?
-En el caso actual, sólo puede hacer daño... más quizá que en muchos otros similares, porque éste ha ido acompañado de algunas circunstancias que, por el bien de todos los interesados, hacen inconveniente que se transforme en materia de comentario público. Tengo que reconocerle esto al señor Willoughby: no ha roto ningún compromiso efectivo con mi hermana.
-¡Por Dios, querida! No intente defenderlo. ¡Qué me habla de ningún compromiso efectivo después de hacerla recorrer toda la casa de Allenham y mostrarle las habitaciones mismas en que iban a vivir de ahí en adelante!
Pensando en su hermana, Elinor no quiso seguir con el tema, y también por Willoughby esperaba que no le pidieran hacerlo, pues aunque Marianne podía perder mucho, era poco lo que él podía ganar si se hacía valer la verdad. Tras un corto silencio por ambas partes, la señora Jennings, con todo su característico buen humor, se embarcó de nuevo en el tema.
-Bueno, querida, como dicen, nadie sabe para quién trabaja, porque el que saldrá ganando con todo esto es el coronel Brandon. Al final la tendrá; sí, claro, la tendrá. Escuche lo que le digo, si no van a estar casados ya para el verano. ¡Dios! ¡Cómo va a gozar el coronel con estas noticias! Espero que venga esta noche. Apostaría todo a uno a que será una unión mucho mejor para su hermana. Dos mil al año sin deudas ni cargas... excepto, claro está, la jovencita, su hija natural; claro, se me olvidaba ella, pero sin mayores gastos la pueden poner de aprendiza en alguna parte, y entonces ya no tendrá ninguna importancia. Delaford es un sitio muy agradable, se lo aseguro; exactamente lo que llamo un agradable sitio a la antigua, lleno de comodidades y conveniencias; rodeado de un enorme huerto con los mejores frutales de toda la región, ¡y qué morera en una esquina! ¡Dios! ¡Cómo nos hartamos con Charlotte la única vez que fuimos! Además hay un palomar, unos excelentes estanques con peces para la mesa y una preciosa canaleta; en resumen, todo lo que uno podría desear; y, más aún, está cerca de la iglesia y a sólo un cuarto de milla de un camino de portazgo, así que nunca es aburrido, pues basta ir a sentarse en una vieja glorieta bajo un tejo detrás de la casa y se puede ver pasar los carruajes. ¡Ah, es un hermoso lugar! Un carnicero cerca en el pueblo y la casa del párroco a tiro de piedra. Para mi gusto, mil veces más lindo que Barton Park, donde tienen que recorrer tres millas para ir por la carne y no hay ningún vecino más cerca que la madre de ustedes. Bueno, le daré ánimos al coronel apenas pueda. Ya sabe usted, un clavo saca otro clavo. ¡Si pudiéramos sacarle a Willoughby de la mente!
-Ay, si pudiéramos hacer al menos eso, señora -dijo Elinor-, nos arreglaríamos de lo más bien con o sin el coronel Brandon.
Levantándose, entonces, fue a reunirse con Marianne, a quien encontró, tal como se lo había esperado, en su habitación, inclinada en silenciosa desesperación sobre los restos de lumbre en la chimenea, que hasta la entrada de Elinor habían sido su única luz.
-Mejor me dejas sola -fue toda la señal de atención que dio a su hermana.
-Lo haré -dijo Elinor-, si te vas a la cama.
A esto, sin embargo, con la momentánea porfía de un ardoroso padecimiento, se negó en un principio. Pero los insistentes, aunque gentiles, argumentos de su hermana pronto la condujeron suavemente a la docilidad; y antes de dejarla, Elinor la vio recostar su adolorida cabeza sobre la almohada y, tal como esperaba, en camino a un cierto sosiego.
En la sala adonde entonces se dirigió, pronto se le reunió la señora Jennings con un vaso de vino, lleno de algo, en la mano.
-Querida -le dijo al entrar-, acabo de recordar que acá en la casa tengo un poco del mejor vino añejo de Constantia que haya probado, así que le traje un vaso para su hermana. ¡Mi pobre esposo! ¡Cómo le gustaba! Cada vez que le daba uno de sus ataques de gota hepática, decía que nada en el mundo le hacía mejor. Por favor, lléveselo a su hermana.
-Mi querida señora -replicó Elinor, sonriendo ante la diferencia de los males para los que lo recomendaba-, ¡qué buena es usted! Pero acabo de dejar a Marianne acostada y, espero, casi dormida; y como creo que nada le servirá más que el descanso, si me lo permite, yo me beberé el vino.
La señora Jennings, aunque lamentando no haber llegado cinco minutos antes, quedó satisfecha con el arreglo; y Elinor, mientras se lo tomaba, pensaba que aunque su efecto en la gota hepática no tenía ninguna importancia en el momento, sus poderes curativos sobre un corazón desengañado bien podían probarse en ella tanto como en su hermana.
El coronel Brandon llegó cuando se encontraban tomando el té, y por su manera de mirar a su alrededor para ver si estaba Marianne, Elinor se imaginó de inmediato que ni esperaba ni deseaba verla ahí y, en suma, de que ya sabía la causa de su ausencia. A la señora Jennings no se le ocurrió lo mismo, pues poco después de la llegada del coronel cruzó la habitación hasta la mesa de té que presidía Elinor y le susurró:
-Vea usted, el coronel está tan serio como siempre. No sabe nada de lo ocurrido; vamos, cuénteselo, querida.
Al rato él acercó una silla a la mesa de Elinor, y con un aire que la hizo sentirse segura de que estaba plenamente al tanto, le preguntó sobre su hermana.
-Marianne no se encuentra bien -dijo ella-. Ha estado indispuesta durante todo el día y la hemos convencido de que se vaya a la cama.
-Entonces, quizá -respondió vacilante-, lo que escuché esta mañana puede ser verdad... puede ser más cierto de lo que creí posible en un comienzo.
-Que un caballero, respecto del cual tenía motivos para pensar... en suma, que un hombre a quien se sabía comprometido... pero, ¿cómo se lo puedo decir? Si ya lo sabe, como es lo más seguro, puede ahorrarme el tener que hacerlo.
-Usted se refiere -respondió Elinor con forzada tranquilidad- al matrimonio del señor Willoughby con la señorita Grey. Sí, sí sabemos todo al respecto. Este parece haber sido un día de esclarecimiento general, porque hoy mismo en la mañana recién lo descubrimos. ¡El señor Willoughby es incomprensible! ¿Dónde lo escuchó usted?
-En una tienda de artículos de escritorio en Pall Mall, adonde tuve que ir en la mañana. Dos señoras estaban esperando su coche y una le estaba contando a la otra de esta futura boda, en una voz tan poco discreta que me fue imposible no escuchar todo. El nombre de Willoughby, John Willoughby, repetido una y otra vez, atrajo primero mi atención, y a ello siguió la inequívoca declaración de que todo estaba ya decidido en relación con su matrimonio con la señorita Grey; ya no era un secreto, la boda tendría lugar dentro de pocas semanas, y muchos otros detalles sobre los preparativos y otros asuntos. En especial recuerdo una cosa, porque me permitió identificar al hombre con mayor precisión: tan pronto terminara la ceremonia partirían a Combe Magna, su propiedad en Somersetshire. ¡No se imagina mi asombro! Pero me seria imposible describir lo que sentí. La tan comunicativa dama, se me informó al preguntarlo, porque permanecí en la tienda hasta que se hubieron ido, era una tal señora Ellison; y ése, según me han dicho, es el nombre del tutor de la señorita Grey.
-Sí lo es. Pero, ¿escuchó también que la señorita Grey tiene cincuenta mil libras? Eso puede explicarlo, si es que algo puede.
-Podría ser así; pero Willoughby es capaz... al menos eso creo -se interrumpió durante un instante, y luego agregó en una voz que parecía desconfiar de sí misma-; y su hermana, ¿cómo lo ha...?
-Su sufrimiento ha sido enorme. Tan sólo me queda esperar que sea proporcionalmente breve. Ha sido, es la más cruel aflicción. Hasta ayer, creo, ella nunca dudó del afecto de Willoughby; e incluso ahora, quizá... pero, por mi parte, tengo casi la certeza de que él nunca estuvo realmente interesado en ella. ¡Ha sido tan falso! Y, en algunas cosas, parece haber una cierta crueldad en él.
-¡Ah! -dijo el coronel Brandon-, por cierto que la hay. Pero su hermana no... me parece habérselo oído a usted... no piensa lo mismo que usted, ¿no?
-Usted sabe cómo es ella, y se imaginará de qué manera lo justificaría si pudiera.
El no respondió; y poco después, como se retirara el servicio de té y se formaran los grupos para jugar a las cartas, debieron dejar de lado el tema. La señora Jennings, que los había observado conversar con gran placer y que esperaba ver cómo las palabras de la señorita Dashwood producían en el coronel Brandon un instantáneo júbilo, semejante al que correspondería a un hombre en la flor de la juventud, de la esperanza y de la felicidad, llena de asombro lo vio permanecer toda la tarde más pensativo y más serio que nunca.
Tras una noche en que había dormido más de lo esperado, Marianne despertó a la mañana siguiente para encontrarse sabiéndose tan desdichada como cuando había cerrado los ojos.
Elinor la animó cuanto pudo a hablar de lo que sentía; y antes de que estuviera listo el desayuno, habían recorrido el asunto una y otra vez, Elinor sin alterar su tranquila certeza y afectuosos consejos, y Marianne manteniendo la exacerbación de sus emociones y cambiando una y otra vez sus opiniones. A ratos creía a Willoughby tan desdichado e inocente como ella; y en otros, se desconsolaba ante la imposibilidad de absolverlo. En un momento le eran absolutamente indiferentes los comentarios del mundo, al siguiente se retiraría de él para siempre, y luego iba a resistirlo con toda su fuerza. En una cosa, sin embargo, permanecía constante al tratarse ese punto: en evitar, siempre que fuera posible, la presencia de la señora Jennings, y en su decisión de mantenerse en absoluto silencio cuando se viera obligada a soportarla. Su corazón se rehusaba a creer que la señora Jennings pudiera participar en su dolor con alguna compasión.
-No, no, no, no puede ser -exclamó--, ella es incapaz de sentir. Su afabilidad no es conmiseración; su buen carácter no es ternura. Todo lo que le interesa es chismorrear, y sólo le agrado porque le doy material para hacerlo.
Elinor no necesitaba escuchar esto para saber cuántas injusticias podía cometer su hermana, arrastrada por el irritable refinamiento de su propia mente cuando se trataba de opinar sobre los demás, y la excesiva importancia que atribuía a las delicadezas propias de una gran sensibilidad y al donaire de los modales cultivados. Al igual que medio mundo, si más de medio mundo fuera inteligente y bueno, Marianne, con sus excelentes cualidades y excelente disposición, no era ni razonable ni justa. Esperaba que los demás tuvieran sus mismas opiniones y sentimientos, y calificaba sus motivos por el efecto inmediato que tenían sus acciones en ella. Fue en estas circunstancias que, mientras las hermanas estaban en su habitación después del desayuno, ocurrió algo que rebajó aún más su opinión sobre la calidad de los sentimientos de la señora Jennings; pues, por su propia debilidad, permitió que le ocasionara un nuevo dolor, aunque la buena señora había estado guiada por la mejor voluntad.
Con una carta en su mano extendida y una alegre sonrisa nacida de la convicción de ser portadora de consuelo, entró en la habitación diciendo:
-Mire, querida, le traigo algo que estoy segura le hará bien.
Marianne no necesitaba escuchar más. En un momento su imaginación le puso por delante una carta de Willoughby, llena de ternura y arrepentimiento, que explicaba lo ocurrido a toda satisfacción y de manera convincente, seguida de inmediato por Willoughby en persona, abalanzándose a la habitación para reforzar, a sus pies y con la elocuencia de su mirada, las declaraciones de su carta. La obra de un momento fue destruida por el siguiente. Frente a ella estaba la escritura de su madre, que hasta entonces nunca había sido mal recibida; y en la agudeza de su desilusión tras un éxtasis que había sido de algo más que esperanza, sintió como si, hasta ese instante, nunca hubiera sufrido.
No tenía nombre para la crueldad de la señora Jennings, aunque ciertamente hubiera sabido cómo llamarla en sus momentos de más feliz elocuencia; ahora sólo podía reprochársela mediante las lágrimas que le arrasaron los ojos con apasionada violencia; un reproche, sin embargo, tan por completo desperdiciado en aquella a quien estaba dirigido, que ésta, tras muchas expresiones de compasión, se retiró sin dejar de encomendarle la carta como gran consuelo. Pero cuando tuvo la tranquilidad suficiente para leerla, fue poco el alivio que encontró en ella. Cada línea estaba llena de Willoughby. La señora Dashwood, todavía confiada en su compromiso y creyendo con la calidez de siempre en la lealtad del joven, sólo por la insistencia de Elinor se había decidido a exigir de Marianne una mayor franqueza hacia ambas, y esto con tal ternura hacia ella, tal afecto por Willoughby y tal certeza sobre la felicidad que cada uno encontraría en el otro, que no pudo dejar de llorar desesperadamente hasta terminar de leer.
De nuevo se despertó en Marianne toda su impaciencia por volver al hogar; nunca su madre le había sido más querida, incluso por el mismo exceso de su errada confianza en Willoughby, y anhelaba desesperadamente haber partido ya. Elinor, incapaz de decidir por sí misma qué sería mejor para Marianne, si estar en Londres o en Barton, no le ofreció otro consuelo que la recomendación de paciencia hasta que conocieran los deseos de su madre; y finalmente logró que su hermana accediera a esperar hasta saberlo.
La señora Jennings salió más temprano que de costumbre, pues no podía quedarse tranquila hasta que los Middleton y los Palmer pudieran lamentarse tanto como ella; y rehusando terminantemente el ofrecimiento de Elinor de acompañarla, salió sola durante el resto de la mañana. Elinor, con el corazón abatido, consciente del dolor que iba a causar y dándose cuenta por la carta a Marianne del escaso éxito que había tenido en preparar a su madre, se sentó a escribirle relatándole lo ocurrido y a pedirle que las guiara en lo que ahora debían hacer. Marianne, entretanto, que había acudido a la sala al salir la señora Jennings, se mantuvo inmóvil junto a la mesa donde Elinor escribía, observando cómo avanzaba su pluma, lamentando la dureza de su tarea, y lamentando con más afecto aún el efecto que tendría en su madre.
Llevaban en esto cerca de un cuarto de hora cuando Marianne, cuyos nervios no soportaban en ese momento ningún ruido repentino, se sobresaltó al escuchar un golpe en la puerta.
-¿Quién puede ser? -exclamó Elinor-. ¡Y tan temprano! Pensaba que estábamos a salvo.
Marianne se acercó a la ventana.
-Es el coronel Brandon -dijo, molesta-. Nunca estamos a salvo de él.
-Como la señora Jennings está fuera, no va a entrar.
-Yo no confiaría en eso -retirándose a su habitación-. Un hombre que no sabe qué hacer con su tiempo no tiene conciencia alguna de su intromisión en el de los demás.
Los hechos confirmaron su suposición, aunque estuviera basada en la injusticia y el error, porque el coronel Brandon sí entró; y Elinor, que estaba convencida de que su preocupación por Marianne lo había llevado hasta allí, y que veía esa preocupación en su aire triste y perturbado y en su ansioso, aunque breve, indagar por ella, no pudo perdonarle a su hermana por juzgarlo tan a la ligera.
-Me encontré con la señora Jennings en Bond Street -le dijo, tras el primer saludo-, y ella me animó a venir; y no le fue difícil hacerlo, porque pensé que sería probable encontrarla a usted sola, que era lo que quería. Mi propósito... mi deseo, mi único deseo al querer eso... espero, creo que así es... es poder dar consuelo... no, no debo decir consuelo, no consuelo momentáneo, sino una certeza, una perdurable certeza para su hermana. Mi consideración por ella, por usted, por su madre, espero me permita probársela mediante el relato de ciertas circunstancias, que nada sino una muy sincera consideración, nada sino el deseo de serles útil... creo que lo justifican. Aunque, si he debido pasar tantas horas intentando convencerme de que tengo la razón, ¿no habrá motivos para temer estar equivocado? -se interrumpió.
-Lo comprendo -dijo Elinor-. Tiene algo que decirme del señor Willoughby que pondrá aún más a la vista su carácter. Decirlo será el mayor signo de amistad que puede mostrar por Marianne. Cualquier información dirigida a ese fin merecerá mi inmediata gratitud, y la de ella vendrá con el tiempo. Por favor, se lo ruego, dígamelo.
-Lo haré; y, para ser breve, cuando dejé Barton el pasado octubre... pero así no lo entenderá. Debo retroceder más aún. Se dará cuenta de que soy un narrador muy torpe, señorita Dashwood; ni siquiera sé dónde comenzar. Creo que será necesario contarle muy brevemente sobre mí, y seré muy breve. En un tema como éste -suspiró profundamente- estaré poco tentado a alargarme.
Se interrumpió un momento para ordenar sus recuerdos y luego, con otro suspiro, continuó.
-Probablemente habrá olvidado por completo una conversación (no se supone que haya hecho ninguna impresión en usted), una conversación que tuvimos una noche en Barton Park, una noche en que había un baile, en la cual yo mencioné una dama que había conocido hace tiempo y que se parecía, en alguna medida, a su hermana Marianne.
-Por cierto -respondió Elinor-, no lo he olvidado.
El coronel pareció complacido por este recuerdo, y agregó:
-Si no me engaña la incertidumbre, la arbitrariedad de un dulce recuerdo, hay un gran parecido entre ellas, en mentalidad y en aspecto: la misma intensidad en sus sentimientos, la misma fuerza de imaginación y vehemencia de espíritu. Esta dama era una de mis parientes más cercanas, huérfana desde la infancia y bajo la tutela de mi padre. Teníamos casi la misma edad, y desde nuestros más tempranos años fuimos compañeros de juegos y amigos. No puedo recordar algún momento en que no haya querido a Eliza; y mi afecto por ella, a medida que crecíamos, fue tal que quizá, juzgando por mi actual carácter solitario y mi tan poco alegre seriedad, usted me crea incapaz de haberlo sentido. El de ella hacia mí fue, así lo creo, tan ferviente como el de su hermana al señor Willoughby y, aunque por motivos diferentes, no menos desafortunado. A los diecisiete años la perdí para siempre. Se casó, en contra de sus deseos, con mi hermano. Era dueña de una gran fortuna, y las propiedades de mi familia bastante importantes. Y esto, me temo, es todo lo que se puede decir respecto del comportamiento de quien era al mismo tiempo su tío y tutor. Mi hermano no se la merecía; ni siquiera la amaba. Yo había tenido la esperanza de que su afecto por mí la sostendría ante todas las dificultades, y por un tiempo así fue; pero finalmente la desdichada situación en que vivía, porque debía soportar las mayores inclemencias, fue más fuerte que ella, y aunque me había prometido que nada... ¡pero cuán a ciegas avanzo en mi relato! No le he dicho cómo fue que ocurrió esto. Estábamos a pocas horas de huir juntos a Escocia. La falsedad, o la necedad de la doncella de mi prima nos traicionó. Fui expulsado a la casa de un pariente muy lejano, y a ella no se le permitió ninguna libertad, ninguna compañía ni diversión, hasta que convencieron a mi padre de que cediera. Yo había confiado demasiado en la fortaleza de Eliza, y el golpe fue muy severo. Pero si su matrimonio hubiese sido feliz, joven como era yo en ese entonces, en unos pocos meses habría terminado aceptándolo, o al menos no tendría que lamentarlo ahora. Pero no fue ése el caso. Mi hermano no tenía consideración alguna por ella; sus diversiones no eran las correctas, y desde un comienzo la trató de manera inclemente. La consecuencia de esto sobre una mente tan joven, tan vivaz, tan falta de experiencia como la de la señora Brandon, no fue sino la esperada. Al comienzo se resignó a la desdicha de su situación; y ésta hubiera sido feliz si ella no hubiera dedicado su vida a vencer el pesar que le ocasionaba mi recuerdo. Pero, ¿puede extrañarnos que con tal marido, que empujaba a la infidelidad, y sin un amigo que la aconsejara o la frenara (porque mi padre sólo vivió algunos meses más después de que se casaron, y yo estaba con mi regimiento en las Indias Orientales), ella haya caído? Si yo me hubiera quedado en Inglaterra, quizá... pero mi intención era procurar la felicidad de ambos alejándome de ella durante algunos años, y con tal propósito había obtenido mi traslado. El golpe que su matrimonio significó para mí -continuó con voz agitada- no fue nada, fue algo trivial, si se lo compara con lo que sentí cuando, más o menos dos años después, supe de su divorcio. Fue esa la causa de esta melancolía... incluso ahora, el recuerdo de lo que sufrí...
Sin poder seguir hablando, se levantó precipitadamente y se dedicó a dar vueltas durante algunos minutos por la habitación. Elinor, afectada por su relato, y aún más por su congoja, tampoco pudo decir palabra. El vio su aflicción y, acercándosele, tomó una de sus manos entre las suyas, la oprimió y besó con agradecido respeto. Unos pocos minutos más de silencioso esfuerzo le permitieron seguir con una cierta compostura.
-Transcurrieron unos tres años después de este desdichado período, antes de que yo volviera a Inglaterra. Mi primera preocupación, cuando llegué, por supuesto fue buscarla. Pero la búsqueda fue tan infructuosa como triste. No pude rastrear sus pasos más allá del primero que la sedujo, y todo hacía temer que se había alejado de él sólo para hundirse más profundamente en una vida de pecado. Su asignación legal no se correspondía con su fortuna ni era suficiente para subsistir con algún bienestar, y supe por mi hermano que algunos meses atrás le había dado poder a otra persona para recibirla. El se imaginaba, y tranquilamente podía imaginárselo, que el derroche, y la consecuente angustia, la habían obligado a disponer de su dinero para solucionar algún problema urgente. Finalmente, sin embargo, y cuando habían transcurrido seis meses desde mi llegada a Inglaterra, pude encontrarla. El interés por un antiguo criado que, después de haber dejado mi servicio, había caído en desgracia, me indujo a visitarlo en un lugar de detención donde lo habían recluido por deudas; y allí, en el mismo lugar, en igual reclusión, se encontraba mi infortunada hermana. ¡Tan cambiada, tan deslucida, desgastada por todo tipo de sufrimientos! A duras penas podía creer que la triste y enferma figura que tenía frente a mí fuera lo que quedaba de la adorable, floreciente, saludable muchacha de quien alguna vez había estado prendado. Cuánto dolor hube de soportar al verla así... pero no tengo derecho a herir sus sentimientos al intentar describirlo. Ya la he hecho sufrir demasiado. Que, según todas las apariencias, estaba en las últimas etapas de la tuberculosis, fue... sí, en tal situación fue mi mayor consuelo. Nada podía hacer ya la vida por ella, más allá de darle tiempo para mejor prepararse a morir; y eso se le concedió. Vi que tuviera un alojamiento confortable y con la atención necesaria; la visité a diario durante el resto de su corta vida: estuve a su lado en sus últimos momentos.
Nuevamente se detuvo, intentando recobrarse; y Elinor dio salida a sus sentimientos a través de una tierna exclamación de desconsuelo por el destino de su infortunado amigo.
-Espero que su hermana no se ofenderá -dijo- por la semejanza que he imaginado entre ella y mi pobre infortunada pariente. El destino, y la fortuna que les tocó en suerte, no pueden ser iguales; y si la dulce disposición natural de una hubiera sido vigilada por alguien más firme, o hubiera tenido un matrimonio más feliz, habría llegado a ser todo lo que usted alcanzará a ver que la otra será. Pero, ¿a qué nos lleva todo esto? Creo haberla angustiado por nada. ¡Ah, señorita Dashwood! Un tema como éste, silenciado durante catorce años... ¡es peligroso incluso tocarlo! Tengo que concentrarme... ser más conciso. Eliza dejó a mi cuidado a su única hija, una niñita por ese entonces de tres años de edad, el fruto de su primera relación culpable. Ella amaba a esa niña, y siempre la había mantenido a su lado. Fue su tesoro más valioso y preciado el que me encomendó, y gustoso me habría hecho cargo de ella en el más estricto sentido, cuidando yo mismo de su educación, si nuestras situaciones lo hubieran permitido; pero yo no tenía familia ni hogar; y así mi pequeña Eliza fue enviada a un colegio. La iba a ver allí cada vez que podía, y tras la muerte de mi hermano (que ocurrió alrededor de cinco años atrás, dejándome en posesión de los bienes de la familia), ella me visitaba con bastante frecuencia en Delaford. Yo la llamaba una pariente lejana, pero estoy muy consciente de que en general se ha supuesto que la relación es mucho más cercana. Hace ya tres años (acababa de cumplir los catorce) que la saqué del colegio y la puse al cuidado de una mujer muy respetable, residente en Dorsetshire, que tenía a su cargo cuatro o cinco otras niñas de aproximadamente la misma edad; y durante dos años, todo me hacía sentirme muy satisfecho con su situación. Pero en febrero pasado, hace casi un año, de improviso desapareció. Yo la había autorizado (imprudentemente, como después se ha visto), obedeciendo a sus ardientes deseos, para que fuera a Bath con una de sus amiguitas, cuyo padre se encontraba allí por motivos de salud. Yo conocía su reputación como un muy buen hombre, y tenía buena opinión de su hija... mejor de la que se merecía, pues ella, obstinándose en el más desatinado sigilo, se negó a decir nada, a dar ninguna pista, aunque obviamente estaba al tanto de todo. Creo que él, su padre, un hombre bien intencionado pero no muy perspicaz, era realmente incapaz de dar información alguna, pues había estado casi siempre recluido en la casa, mientras las niñas correteaban por la ciudad estableciendo relaciones con quienes se les daba la gana; y él intentó convencerme, tanto como lo estaba él, de que su hija nada tenía que ver en el asunto. En pocas palabras, no pude averiguar nada sino que se había ido; durante ocho largos meses, todo lo demás quedó sujeto a meras conjeturas. Es de imaginar lo que pensé, lo que temía, y también lo que sufrí.
-¡Santo Dios! -exclamó Elinor-. ¡Será posible! ¡Podría ser que Willoughby...!
-Las primeras noticias que tuve de ella -continuó el coronel- me llegaron en una carta que ella misma me envió en octubre pasado. Me la remitieron desde Delaford y la recibí esa misma mañana en que pensábamos ir de excursión a Whitwell; y ésa fue la razón de mi tan repentina partida de Barton, que con toda seguridad en ese momento debe haber extrañado a todos y que, según creo, ofendió a algunos. Poco podía imaginar el señor Willoughby, me parece, cuando con su mirada me reprochó la falta de cortesía en que yo habría incurrido al arruinar el paseo, que me solicitaban para prestar ayuda a alguien a quien él había llevado miseria e infelicidad; pero si lo hubiera sabido, ¿de qué habría servido? ¿Habría estado menos alegre o sido menos feliz con las sonrisas de su hermana? No, ya había hecho aquello que ningún hombre capaz de alguna compasión haría. ¡Había abandonado a la niña cuya juventud e inocencia había seducido, dejándola en una situación de máxima aflicción, sin un hogar respetable, sin ayuda, sin amigos, sin saber dónde encontrarlo! La había abandonado, con la promesa de volver; ni escribió, ni volvió, ni la auxilió.
-¡Qué inconcebible! -exclamó Elinor.
-Ahora puede ver cómo es su carácter: derrochador, licencioso, y peor aún que eso. Sabiéndolo, como yo lo he sabido desde hace ya muchas semanas, imagínese lo que debo haber sentido al ver a su hermana tan afecta a él como siempre, y cuando se me aseguró que iba a casarse con él; imagínese lo que habré sentido pensando en todas ustedes. Cuando vine a verla la semana pasada y la encontré sola, estaba decidido a saber la verdad, aunque aún indeciso en cuanto a qué hacer cuando la supiera. Mi comportamiento debe haberle extrañado, pero ahora lo entenderá. Tener que verlas a todas ustedes engañadas en esa forma; ver a su hermana... pero, ¿qué podía hacer? No tenía esperanza alguna de intervenir con éxito; y en ocasiones pensaba que su hermana aún podía mantener suficiente influencia sobre él para recuperarlo. Pero tras un trato tan ignominioso, ¿quién sabe cuáles serían sus intenciones hacia ella? Cualesquiera hayan sido, sin embargo, puede que ahora ella se sienta agradecida de su situación, y sin duda más adelante lo estará, cuando la compare con la de mi pobre Eliza, cuando piense en la situación miserable y desesperada de esta pobre niña y se la imagine con un afecto tan fuerte por él, tan fuerte como el que ella misma le tiene, y con un espíritu atormentado por las autorrecriminaciones, que la acompañarán durante toda su vida. Con toda seguridad esta comparación le servirá de algo. Sentirá que sus propios sufrimientos no son nada. No provienen de una mala conducta y no pueden traerle desgracia. Al contrario, deberán hacer que en cada uno de sus amigos aumente la amistad hacia ella. La preocupación por su desdicha y el respeto por la entereza que subyace a ella deberán reforzar todos los afectos. Utilice, sin embargo, su propia discreción para comunicarle lo que le he contado. Usted debe saber mejor qué efecto tendrá; y si no hubiera creído muy seriamente y desde el fondo de mi corazón que pudiera serle de alguna utilidad, que pudiera aliviar sus padecimientos, no me habría permitido perturbarla con este relato de las aflicciones que ha debido sufrir mi familia, una narración con la cual podría sospecharse que intento enaltecerme a costa de los demás.
Elinor acogió estas palabras con profundo agradecimiento, asistida también por la certeza de que el conocimiento de lo ocurrido sería de importante provecho para Marianne.
-Para mí han sido más dolorosos -dijo- los esfuerzos de Marianne por liberarlo de toda culpa que ninguna otra cosa, porque eso la altera más de lo que puede hacer una cabal convicción de su indignidad. Aunque al principio sufra mucho, estoy segura de que muy pronto encontrará alivio. Usted -continuó-, ¿ha visto al señor Willoughby desde que lo dejó en Barton?
-Sí -replicó él gravemente-, una vez. Era inevitable encontrarme con él una vez.
Elinor, sobresaltada por su tono, lo miró inquieta, diciendo:
-¡Cómo! ¿Se encontró con él para...?
-No podía ser de otra manera. Eliza me había confesado, aunque muy a desgana, el nombre de su amante; y cuando él volvió a la ciudad, quince días después de mí, nos citamos para encontrarnos, él para defender su conducta, yo para castigarla. Retornamos indemnes, y así el encuentro nunca se hizo público.
Elinor suspiró ante lo fantasioso e innecesario de todo ello, pero tratándose de un hombre y un soldado, pretendió no desaprobarlo.
-Esa es -dijo el coronel Brandon tras una pausa- la desdichada semejanza entre el destino de la madre y el de la hija, ¡y de qué manera he fallado yo en aquello que se me había encomendado!
-¿Todavía está ella en la ciudad?
-No; tan pronto se recuperó del parto, puesto que la encontré próxima a dar a luz, la llevé a ella y a su hijo al campo, y allí permanece hasta hoy.
Al poco rato, pensando que estaba impidiendo a Elinor acompañar a su hermana, el coronel dio término a su visita, tras volver a recibir de ella el más sentido agradecimiento y dejarla llena de piedad y afecto por él.
Cuando la señorita Dashwood dio a conocer en detalle esta conversación a su hermana, como lo hizo con gran prontitud, el efecto que tuvo en ésta no fue por completo el que la primera había esperado. No fue que Marianne pareciera desconfiar de la autenticidad de lo relatado, pues a todo prestó la más tranquila y dócil atención, no objetó ni comentó nada, en ningún momento intentó justificar a Willoughby, y con sus lágrimas pareció mostrar que sentía imposible cualquier justificación. Pero aunque posteriormente su comportamiento le dio a Elinor la certeza de que sí había logrado convencerla de la culpabilidad del joven; aunque complacida pudo ver que, como consecuencia, Marianne ya no evitaba al coronel Brandon cuando las visitaba, conversaba con él, e incluso hasta por iniciativa propia, con una especie de compasivo respeto, y aunque la veía de un ánimo menos exasperadamente irritable que antes, no la veía menos desdichada. Su mente estaba estable, pero se había establecido en un sombrío abatimiento. Le dolía más la pérdida de la imagen que tenía de Willoughby que el haber perdido su amor; el que hubiera seducido y abandonado a la señorita Williams, la miseria de esa pobre niña y la duda en torno a lo que alguna vez pudieron haber sido los propósitos del joven hacia ella misma, todo ello la agobiaba de tal manera que no podía allanarse a hablar de lo que sentía ni siquiera con Elinor; y con su callado ensimismamiento en sus penas, hacía sufrir a su hermana más que si le hubiera abierto su corazón hablándole una y otra vez de ellas.
Relatar lo que sintió y dijo la señora Dashwood al recibir y responder la carta de Elinor sería tan sólo repetir lo que sus hijas ya habían sentido y dicho; una desilusión apenas menos dolorosa que la de Marianne, y una indignación mayor aún que la de Elinor. Una tras otra les hizo llegar largas cartas, en las que les hablaba de su dolor y de lo que pensaba; expresaba su ansiedad y preocupación por Marianne y la llamaba a soportar con entereza su desgracia. ¡Terrible debía ser en verdad la aflicción de Marianne, cuando su madre podía hablar de entereza! ¡Qué vejatorio y humillante debía ser el origen de sus lamentos, para que la señora Dashwood no quisiera verla abandonándose a ellos!
En contra de sus propios intereses y conveniencia, la señora Dashwood había decidido que, en ese momento, convendría más a Marianne estar en cualquier lugar menos en Barton, donde todo lo que su vista alcanzaba le recordaría intensa y dolorosamente el pasado, al hacerle presente en todo momento a Willoughby tal como allí lo había conocido. Así, les recomendó a sus hijas que por ningún motivo acortaran su visita a la señora Jennings, pues aunque nunca habían fijado con exactitud su duración, todos esperaban que abarcaría al menos cinco o seis semanas. Allí no podrían eludir las distintas ocupaciones, los proyectos y la compañía que Barton no les podía ofrecer y que, según esperaba, podrían de vez en cuando lograr que Marianne, sin darse cuenta, se interesara por algo más allá de ella misma e incluso se divirtiera un poco, por mucho que ahora rechazara desdeñosamente ambas posibilidades.
En cuanto al peligro de encontrarse de nuevo con Willoughby, su madre pensaba que Marianne estaba tan a salvo en la ciudad como en el campo, dado que nadie entre quienes se consideraban sus amigos lo admitiría ahora en su compañía. Nadie, intencionalmente, haría que se cruzaran sus caminos; por negligencia, nunca estarían expuestos a una sorpresa; y el azar tenía menos oportunidad de ocurrir entre las multitudes de Londres que en el aislamiento de Barton, donde podría imponerle a ella la presencia del joven durante la visita de éste a Allenham con ocasión de su matrimonio, un hecho que la señora Dashwood había considerado en un principio como probable, y que ahora había llegado a esperar como cierto.
Tenía aún otro motivo para desear que sus hijas permanecieran donde estaban: una carta de su hijastro le había comunicado que él y su esposa estarían en Londres antes de mediados de febrero, y ella consideraba correcto que vieran de vez en cuando a su hermano.
Marianne había prometido dejarse guiar por la opinión de su madre y se sometió entonces a ella sin objeciones, a pesar de ser por completo diferente a lo que ella deseaba o esperaba y aunque la creía un perfecto error basado en razones equivocadas; un error que, además, al demandar de ella la permanencia en Londres, la privaba del único alivio posible a su miseria -la íntima compasión de su madre- y la condenaba a una compañía y a situaciones que le impedirían conocer ni un solo momento de paz.
No obstante, constituyó un gran consuelo para Marianne el hecho de que aquello que le hacía daño significara un bien para su hermana; y Elinor, por su parte, sospechando que no dependería de ella evitar completamente a Edward, se tranquilizó pensando que aunque la prolongación de su permanencia en Londres atentaría contra de su propia felicidad, sería mejor para Marianne que un inmediato retorno a Devonshire.
Su cuidado en proteger a su hermana de escuchar el nombre de Willoughby no fue en vano. Marianne, aunque sin saberlo, cosechó todos sus frutos; pues ni la señora Jennings, ni sir John, ni siquiera la misma señora Palmer, lo mencionaron jamás frente a ella. Elinor deseaba que igualmente se hubieran abstenido de hacerlo en su presencia, pero tal cosa era imposible, y así se veía obligada a escuchar día tras día las manifestaciones de indignación de todos ellos.
Sir John no lo habría creído posible. “¡Un hombre de quien siempre había tenido tantos motivos para pensar bien! ¡Un muchacho de tan buen carácter! ¡No creía que hubiera un mejor jinete en toda Inglaterra! Era algo inexplicable. Deseaba de todo corazón verlo en el infierno. ¡Nunca más le dirigiría la palabra, en ningún lugar donde lo encontrara, por nada del mundo! No, ni siquiera si se lo topara en el albergue de Barton y tuvieran que quedarse esperando dos horas juntos. ¡Ese truhán! ¡Ese perro desleal! ¡Tan sólo la última vez que se habían encontrado, había ofrecido darle uno de los cachorros de Folly! ¡Pues no! ¡Con esto se acababa todo!”
A su manera, la señora Palmer estaba igualmente enojada. “Estaba decidida a romper de inmediato toda relación con él, y agradecía al cielo no haberlo conocido nunca. Deseaba con todo el corazón que Combe Magna no estuviera tan cerca de Cleveland; pero no tenía importancia, porque estaba demasiado lejos para visitas; lo odiaba tanto que estaba decidida a no pronunciar nunca más su nombre, y le diría a todos los que viera que era un badulaque”.
El resto de la adhesión de la señora Palmer a la causa de Marianne se manifestaba en procurarse todos los pormenores posibles sobre la próxima boda, y comunicárselos a Elinor. Pronto pudo decir qué carrocero estaba construyéndoles su nuevo coche, quién estaba pintando el retrato del señor Willoughby y en qué tienda podía verse las ropas de la señorita Grey.
La tranquila y cortés despreocupación de lady Middleton constituía en estas circunstancias un grato alivio para el espíritu de Elinor, abrumado como a menudo estaba por la vocinglera compasión de los demás. Era un bálsamo para ella la seguridad de no despertar ningún interés en al menos una persona de su círculo de amistades; un descanso saber que había alguien que estaría con ella sin sentir curiosidad alguna sobre los pormenores, ni ansiedad por la salud de su hermana.
Suele suceder que las circunstancias del momento lleven a otorgar a cualquier atributo más valor que el que realmente tiene; y así ocurría que a veces tanta afanosa conmiseración fastidiaba a Elinor hasta llevarla a calificar la buena educación como más importante para el bienestar que el buen corazón.
Lady Middleton manifestaba su parecer sobre el asunto entre una y dos veces al día, si el tema salía a relucir con alguna frecuencia, diciendo: “¡Qué cosa tan terrible, en verdad!”, y mediante este continuo aunque suave desahogo, no sólo fue capaz de ir a ver a las señoritas Dashwood desde un comienzo sin la menor emoción, sino que muy pronto sin recordar siquiera una palabra de todo el asunto; y habiendo defendido así la dignidad de su propio sexo y censurado decididamente lo que estaba mal en el otro, se sintió en libertad de proteger los intereses de su grupo, por lo que decidió (aunque algo en contra de la opinión de sir John) que, como la señora Willoughby sería una mujer elegante y rica a la vez, le dejaría su tarjeta tan pronto como se hubiera casado.
Las delicadas y siempre prudentes indagaciones del coronel Brandon nunca eran mal recibidas por la señorita Dashwood. Con el amistoso celo con que se había esforzado en aliviarlo, se había ganado profusamente el privilegio de discutir de manera íntima el desengaño de su hermana, y siempre conversaban con entera confianza. La principal recompensa del coronel por el penoso esfuerzo de revelar sufrimientos pasados y humillaciones actuales, era la compasiva mirada con que Marianne solía observarlo y la dulzura de su voz siempre que se veía obligada (aunque ello no ocurría a menudo) o se obligaba a hablarle. Eran estas cosas las que le aseguraban que con su esfuerzo había logrado aumentar la buena voluntad hacia él, y las que permitían a Elinor esperar que dicha buena voluntad se incrementara aún más; pero la señora Jennings, ignorando todo esto, y sabiendo únicamente que el coronel continuaba tan serio como siempre y que no podía persuadirlo de hacer él mismo su proposición de matrimonio ni de encargársela a ella, al cabo de dos días comenzó a pensar que, en vez de para mediados del verano, no habría boda entre ellos sino hasta la fiesta de san Miguel, y hacia fines de la semana ya pensaba que no habría boda en absoluto. El buen entendimiento entre el coronel y la mayor de las señoritas Dashwood más bien llevaba a concluir que los honores de la morera, de la canaleta y de la glorieta bajo el tejo, todos le corresponderían a ésta; y, por un tiempo, la señora Jennings dejó de pensar en el señor Ferrars.
A comienzos de febrero, antes de transcurridas dos semanas desde la recepción de la carta de Willoughby, Elinor debió hacerse cargo de la difícil tarea de informar a su hermana de que él se había casado. Se había preocupado de que le transmitieran a ella la noticia apenas se supiera que la ceremonia había tenido lugar, pues deseaba evitar que su hermana se enterara de ello por los periódicos, que la veía examinar ansiosamente cada mañana.
Marianne recibió la noticia con absoluta compostura; no hizo ninguna observación al respecto y al comienzo no derramó ninguna lágrima; pero tras un corto rato estalló en llanto, y por el resto del día permaneció en un estado apenas menos penoso que cuando recién supo que debía esperar ese matrimonio.
Los Willoughby abandonaron la ciudad tan pronto como estuvieron casados; y Elinor comenzó a confiar en que, ahora que no había peligro de ver a ninguno de los dos, pudiera persuadir a su hermana, que no se había alejado de la casa desde el momento en que recibió el primer golpe, para que poco a poco volviera a salir como antes.
Alrededor de esas fechas, las dos señoritas Steele, recién llegadas a la casa de su prima en Bartlett's Building, Holbom, aparecieron de nuevo en la casa de sus más importantes parientes en Conduit y Berkeley Street, lugares ambos en que fueron recibidas con gran cordialidad.
Elinor sólo pudo lamentar verlas. Su presencia siempre se le hacía penosa, y le costaba enormemente responder con alguna gentileza al abrumador placer mostrado por Lucy al descubrir que todavía estaban en la ciudad.
-Me habría sentido muy decepcionada si ya no la hubiera encontrado aquí -repetía una y otra vez, con un fuerte énfasis en la palabra-. Pero siempre pensé que sí iba a estar. Estaba casi segura de que no se iba a ir de Londres por un buen tiempo todavía; aunque usted en Barton me dijo, ¿recuerda?, que no iba a quedarse más de un mes. Pero en ese momento pensé que lo más probable era que cambiara de opinión cuando llegara el momento. Habría sido una lástima tan grande haberse ido antes de la llegada de su hermano y su cuñada. Y ahora, con toda seguridad, no tendrá ningún apuro en irse. Estoy increíblemente contenta de que no haya cumplido su palabra.
Elinor la comprendió perfectamente, y se vio obligada a recurrir a todo su dominio sobre sí misma para aparentar que no era así.
-Bien, querida -dijo la señora Jennings-, ¿y en qué se vinieron?
-No en la diligencia, se lo aseguro -respondió la señorita Steele con instantáneo júbilo-; vinimos en coche de posta todo el camino, en la compañía de un joven muy elegante. El reverendo Davies venía a la ciudad, así que pensamos alquilar juntos un coche; se comportó de la manera más gentil, y pagó diez o doce chelines más que nosotras.
-¡Vaya, vaya! -exclamó la señora Jennings-. ¡Muy bonito! Y el reverendo está soltero, supongo.
-Ahí tiene -dijo la señorita Steele, con una sonrisita afectada-; todo el mundo me hace bromas con el reverendo, y no me imagino por qué. Mis primas dicen estar seguras de que hice una conquista; pero, por mi parte, les aseguro que nunca he pensado ni un minuto en él. “¡Cielo santo, aquí viene tu galán, Nancy!”, me dijo mi prima el otro día, cuando lo vio cruzando la calle hacia la casa. “¡Mi galán, qué va!”, le dije yo, “No puedo imaginar de quién estás hablando. El reverendo no es para nada pretendiente mío”.
-Claro, claro, todo eso suena muy bien... pero no servirá de nada: el reverendo es el hombre, ya lo veo.
-¡No, de ninguna manera! -respondió su prima con afectada ansiedad-, y le ruego que lo desmienta sí alguna vez lo oye decir.
La señora Jennings le dio de inmediato todas las seguridades del caso de que por cierto no lo haría, haciendo completamente feliz a la señorita Steele.
-Supongo que irá a quedarse con su hermano y su hermana, señorita Dashwood, cuando ellos vengan a la ciudad -dijo. Lucy, volviendo a la carga tras un cese en las insinuaciones hostiles.
-Oh, sí, yo diría que lo harán.
Elinor no quiso darle el gusto y continuar con sus negativas.
-¡Qué agradable que la señora Dashwood pueda prescindir de ustedes dos durante tanto tiempo seguido!
-¡Tanto tiempo, qué va! -interpuso la señora Jennings-. ¡Pero si la visita recién comienza!
Tal respuesta hizo callar a Lucy.
-Lamento que no podamos ver a su hermana, señorita Dashwood -dijo la señorita Steele-. Siento mucho que no esté bien -pues Marianne había abandonado la habitación a su llegada.
-Es usted muy amable. También mi hermana lamentará haberse perdido el placer de verlas; pero últimamente ha estado muy afectada con dolores de cabeza nerviosos, que la inhabilitan para las visitas o la conversación.
-¡Ay, querida, qué lástima! Pero tratándose de viejas amigas como Lucy y yo... quizá querría vernos a nosotras; y le aseguro que no diríamos palabra.
Elinor, con la mayor cortesía, declinó la proposición. “Quizá su hermana estaba acostada, o en bata, y, por tanto, no podía venir a verlas”.
-Ah, pero si eso es todo -exclamó la señorita Steele- igual podemos ir nosotras a verla a ella.
Elinor comenzó a encontrarse incapaz de soportar tanta impertinencia; pero se salvó de tener que controlarse por la enérgica reprimenda de Lucy a Anne, que aunque quitaba bastante dulzura a sus modales, ahora, como en tantas otras ocasiones, sirvió para dominar los de su hermana.
Tras una cierta oposición, Marianne cedió a los esfuerzos de su hermana y una mañana aceptó salir con ella y la señora Jennings durante media hora. Sin embargo, lo hizo con la expresa condición de que no harían visitas y que se limitaría a acompañarlas a la joyería Gray en Sackville Street, donde Elinor estaba negociando el cambio de unas pocas alhajas de su madre que se veían anticuadas.
Cuando se detuvieron en la puerta, la señora Jennings recordó que en el otro extremo de la calle vivía una señora a quien debía pasar a ver; y como nada tenía que hacer en Gray's, decidió que mientras sus jóvenes amigas cumplían su cometido, ella haría su visita y luego retornaría.
Al subir las escalinatas, las señoritas Dashwood encontraron tal cantidad de personas delante de ellas que nadie parecía estar disponible para atender su pedido, y se vieron obligadas a esperar. No les quedó más que sentarse cerca del extremo del mostrador que prometía un movimiento más rápido; sólo un caballero se encontraba allí, y es probable que Elinor no dejara de tener la esperanza de despertar su cortesía para que despacharan pronto su pedido. Pero la exactitud de su vista y la delicadeza de su gusto resultaron ser mayores que su cortesía. Estaba encargando un estuche de mondadientes para sí mismo, y hasta que no decidió su tamaño, forma y adornos -que combinó a su gusto según su propia inventiva tras examinar y analizar durante un cuarto de hora todos los estuches de la tienda-, no se dio tiempo para prestar atención a las dos damas, salvo dos o tres miradas bastante atrevidas; un tipo de interés que sirvió para grabar en Elinor el recuerdo de una figura y rostro de acusada, natural y genuina insignificancia, aunque acicalado a la última moda.
Marianne se ahorró los molestos sentimientos de desprecio y resentimiento ante la impertinencia con que las había examinado y los jactanciosos modales con que el sujeto elegía los diferentes horrores de los distintos estuches que se le presentaban, permaneciendo ajena a todo ello; era capaz de ensimismarse en sus pensamientos e ignorar todo lo que ocurría a su alrededor en la tienda del señor Gray con la misma facilidad que en su propio dormitorio.
Por fin el asunto fue resuelto. El marfil, el oro y las perlas, todos recibieron su ubicación, y tras fijar el último día en que su existencia podía sostenerse sin la posesión del estuche, el caballero se calzó los guantes con estudiada calma y, arrojando otra mirada a las señoritas Dashwood, pero una mirada que más parecía pedir admiración que manifestarla, se retiró con un aire satisfecho en que se mezclaban un verdadero engreimiento y una afectada indiferencia.
Sin pérdida de tiempo, Elinor expuso sus asuntos y estaba a punto de concluirlos cuando otro caballero se colocó a su lado. Se volvió a mirarlo, y con algo de sorpresa se encontró con que era su hermano.
El afecto y placer que mostraron al encontrarse fue el suficiente para hacerlos creíbles en la tienda del señor Gray. En verdad, John Dashwood estaba lejos de lamentar volver a ver a sus hermanas; más bien, los tres se alegraron y él indagó acerca de la madre de ellas en forma respetuosa y atenta.
Elinor se enteró de que él y Fanny llevaban dos días en la ciudad.
-Tenía grandes deseos de haberlas visitado ayer -dijo John-, pero fue imposible, porque tuvimos que llevar a Harry a ver a los animales salvajes en Exeter Exchange y pasamos el resto del día con la señora Ferrars. Harry estaba absolutamente feliz. Tenía todas las intenciones de ir a visitarlas hoy en la mañana, si es que podía encontrar una media hora libre, ¡pero siempre hay tanto que hacer cuando recién se llega a la ciudad! He venido acá a encargar un sello para Fanny. Pero creo que con toda seguridad mañana podré acudir a Berkeley Street y conocer a la señora Jennings. Tengo entendido que es dueña de una muy buena fortuna. Y a los Middleton también tienen que presentármelos. Como son parientes de mi suegra, me complacerá presentarles mis respetos. Han resultado excelentes vecinos para ustedes, según he sabido.
-Excelentes, sin ninguna duda. Su preocupación por nuestra comodidad, la amistad que en todo nos han demostrado, van más allá de las palabras.
-Créanme que me alegra muchísimo escucharlo; en verdad, muchísimo. Pero era de esperar: son gente de gran fortuna, están emparentados con ustedes, y era natural que les ofrecieran todas las muestras de cortesía y las comodidades necesarias para hacerles grata la situación. Entonces, están confortablemente instaladas en su casita de campo y no les falta nada. Edward nos describió el lugar como algo encantador; lo más completo en su tipo que podía existir, dijo, y que todas ustedes parecían disfrutarlo mucho. Para nosotros fue una gran alegría saberlo, les aseguro.
Elinor se sintió un poco avergonzada por su hermano, y no lamentó que la llegada del criado de la señora Jennings, que venía a decirle que su señora las estaba esperando en la puerta, la liberara de la necesidad de responderle.
El señor Dashwood las acompañó hasta las escalinatas, fue presentado a la señora Jennings en la puerta de su carruaje, y tras manifestar de nuevo su esperanza de poder visitarlas al día siguiente, se retiró.
La visita se cumplió como es debido. Llegó con la falsa excusa de que su esposa no había podido venir pues “estaba tan ocupada con su madre, que en verdad no tenía tiempo de ir a ninguna otra parte”. La señora Jennings, por su parte, le aseguró de inmediato que ella no se andaba con ceremonias, porque todos eran primos, o algo así, y que de todas maneras iría muy pronto a visitar a la señora de John Dashwood, y que llevaría con ella a sus cuñadas. El trato de él hacia ellas, aunque reservado, fue muy afectuoso; hacia la señora Jennings, de solícita cortesía; y al llegar el coronel Brandon poco después, lo observó con una curiosidad que parecía decir que sólo esperaba saber que era rico para extender a él idéntica cortesía.
Tras permanecer media hora, le pidió a Elinor ir con él a Conduit Street para que lo presentara a Sir John y lady Middleton. Como hacía un hermoso día, ella accedió de inmediato. Y no bien se habían alejado de la casa, él comenzó a hacerle preguntas.
-¿Quién es el coronel Brandon? ¿Es un hombre de fortuna?
-Sí, tiene una muy buena propiedad en Dorsetshire.
-Me alegro. Parece un hombre muy caballeroso, y creo, Elinor, que puedo felicitarte por la perspectiva de una situación muy respetable en la vida.
-¿A mí, hermano... qué quieres decir?
-Le gustas. Lo observé muy de cerca, y estoy convencido de ello. ¿A cuánto asciende su fortuna?
-Dos mil al año. -Y luego, esforzándose por alcanzar un tono de entusiasta generosidad, agregó-: Elinor, por ti, desearía con todo el corazón que fuera el doble.
-Sí, te creo -respondió Elinor-, pero estoy segura de que el coronel Brandon no tiene el menor deseo de casarse conmigo.
-Estás equivocada, Elinor; muy equivocada. Con un pequeño esfuerzo de tu parte lo conseguirías. Quizá por el momento esté indeciso, lo escaso de tu fortuna pueda coartarlo o sus amigos se lo desaconsejen. Pero esas pequeñas atenciones y estímulos que las damas tan fácilmente pueden ofrecer, lo persuadirán a pesar de sí mismo. Y no hay razón alguna para que no intentes ganártelo. No debe suponerse que algún otro afecto que hayas tenido antes... en pocas palabras, tú sabes que un afecto como ése es totalmente imposible, las objeciones son insuperables... eres demasiado sensata para no darte cuenta. El coronel Brandon es el hombre; y por mi parte, no me ahorraré ninguna amabilidad con él, de manera que tú y tu familia le agraden. Es una unión que debe complacer a todos. En fin, es algo que -bajando la voz hasta un fatuo susurro- será extremadamente conveniente para todas las partes. -Reconsiderando las cosas, sin embargo, agregó-: Esto es, quiero decir... todos tus amigos anhelan verte bien establecida, Fanny en especial, porque tu bienestar le es muy caro, te lo aseguro. Y a su madre también, la señora Ferrars, una mujer muy bondadosa, estoy cierto de que le daría un gran placer; ella misma lo dijo el otro día.
-Ahora, sería extraordinario -continuó-, algo muy gracioso, si Fanny pudiera ver a un hermano y yo a una hermana llegando a una situación estable en sus vidas al mismo tiempo. Y no es muy improbable.
-¿Es que se casa el señor Edward Ferrars? -dijo Elinor con tono resuelto.
-Todavía no está decidido, pero hay algo de eso en el aire. Tiene una excelente madre. La señora Ferrars, con la mayor generosidad, se hará presente y le asignará mil libras anuales si la unión tiene lugar. La dama en cuestión es la honorable señorita Morton, hija única del fallecido lord Morton, con treinta mil libras: una unión muy deseable por ambas partes, y no me cabe duda de que a la larga se materializará. Mil libras anuales es una importante cantidad para que una madre se deshaga de ella, la ceda para siempre; pero la señora Ferrars tiene un espíritu muy noble. Para darte otro ejemplo de su generosidad: el otro día, apenas llegamos a la ciudad, consciente de que en este momento no abundábamos en dinero, puso en las manos de Fanny doscientas libras en billetes. Algo muy bienvenido, porque nuestros gastos son enormes acá.
Hizo una pausa esperando su aprobación y simpatía, y ella se obligó a decir:
-Sin duda los gastos de ustedes, en la ciudad y en el campo, deben ser considerables, pero también cuentan con una buena renta.
-No tan buena, me atrevería a decir, como supone mucha gente. No me quejo, sin embargo; sin duda es holgada y, así lo espero, mejorará con el tiempo. Actualmente estamos cercando el ejido de Norland, lo que es un gasto muy serio. Y también hice una pequeña compra este medio año, la granja de East Kingham, debes recordarla, allí donde solía vivir el viejo Gibson. Esas tierras me eran tan convenientes en todo sentido, tan directamente colindantes con mi propiedad, que sentí que era mi deber comprarlas. No me habría perdonado dejarlas caer en otras manos. Hay que pagar por lo que a uno le conviene, y ello sí me ha costado una gran cantidad de dinero.
-¿Más de lo que crees que valen real e intrínsecamente?
-Vamos, espero que no. Podría haberlas vendido al día siguiente por más de lo que pagué; pero en cuanto al precio, en verdad habría sido bastante desafortunado, porque en ese momento estaban tan bajos los valores, que si no hubiera tenido la cantidad necesaria en el banco tendría que haberlas rematado con una gran pérdida.
-Cuando llegamos a Norland tuvimos también otro gasto grande inevitable. Nuestro respetado padre, como bien sabes, legó todos los efectos de Stanhill que quedaban en Norland (y bien valiosos que eran) a tu madre. Lejos estoy de quejarme por ello; el derecho que le asistía a disponer de sus bienes a su antojo es incuestionable. Pero, como consecuencia, hemos debido hacer importantes compras de ropa blanca, vajilla, etc., para reemplazar lo que se entregó. Podrás imaginar, tras todos estos gastos, cuán lejos de ser ricos estamos y cuán bienvenida es la bondad de la señora Ferrars.
-Por supuesto -dijo Elinor-; y con el respaldo de su generosidad, espero que puedan llegar a vivir en condiciones más holgadas.
-Uno o dos años más pueden contribuir mucho a ello -respondió él gravemente-; no obstante, aún queda mucho por hacer. Todavía no se ha colocado ni una piedra del invernadero de Fanny, y del jardín de flores lo único que hay es el proyecto.
-¿Dónde estará situado el invernadero?
-En la pequeña loma tras la casa. Hemos echado abajo todos los viejos nogales para hacerle espacio. Será una hermosa vista desde varias partes del parque, y justo en la pendiente frente a él irá el jardín de flores, así que se verá muy lindo. Ya hemos eliminado los viejos espinos que crecían a manchones en la cima.
Elinor se guardó para sí los comentarios y reparos que tenía al respecto, y agradeció que Marianne no hubiera estado presente para compartir su irritación.
Habiendo dicho ya lo suficiente para dejar en claro su pobreza y evitar la necesidad de comprar un par de aretes para cada una de sus hermanas en su siguiente visita a Gray's, sus pensamientos tomaron un rumbo más alegre y comenzó a felicitar a Elinor por tener una amiga como la señora Jennings.
-En verdad parece una mujer muy valiosa. Su casa, su forma de vida, todo habla de una renta muy buena, y es una relación que no sólo les ha sido de gran utilidad hasta ahora, sino que a la larga puede resultar materialmente provechosa. La invitación que les ha hecho a la ciudad ciertamente las favorece; y, de todas maneras, es una tan buena señal del aprecio en que las tiene, que con toda seguridad no las olvidará a la hora de su muerte. Debe tener bastante que dejar.
-Nada en absoluto, diría yo más bien; lo único que tiene es el usufructo de los bienes de su marido, que pasarán a sus hijos.
-Pero es impensable que viva de acuerdo con su renta. Poca gente medianamente prudente lo hace; y todo lo que ahorre, podrá repartirlo.
-¿Y no crees más probable que se lo deje a sus hijas antes que a nosotras?
-Sus hijas están muy bien casadas, y entonces no veo la necesidad de que las recuerde más. En cambio, a mi juicio, al tomarlas tan en consideración y tratarlas en la forma en que lo hace, les ha dado a ustedes una especie de derecho en sus planes futuros que una mujer precavida no debiera pasar por alto. Nada hay más bondadoso que su trato hacia ustedes, y difícilmente puede hacerlo sin estar consciente de las expectativas que despierta con ello.
-Pero no despierta ninguna en quienes tienen más parte en esto. En verdad, hermano, tu preocupación por nuestro bienestar y prosperidad está llegando demasiado lejos.
-Vaya, por supuesto -dijo él, aparentando un aire reflexivo-, es muy poco, muy poco lo que la gente puede controlar. Pero, mi querida Elinor, ¿qué le ocurre a Marianne? Tiene muy mal aspecto, está de mal color y ha adelgazado mucho. ¿Acaso está enferma?
-No está bien, durante las últimas semanas ha estado sufriendo de los nervios.
-Lamento saberlo. A su edad, ¡cualquier enfermedad destruye la lozanía para siempre! ¡Y la suya ha sido tan breve! En septiembre era una muchacha tan bonita como la mejor que yo haya visto, muy atractiva para los hombres. Su tipo de belleza tenía algo muy especialmente seductor. Recuerdo que Fanny solía decir que se iba casar antes y mejor que tú; no es que ella no te tenga a ti un enorme cariño, pero eso es lo que le parecía. Sin embargo, se equivocaba. Dudo que Marianne vaya a casarse ahora con un hombre que valga a lo más quinientas o seiscientas libras al año, y me engañaría mucho si tú no lo haces mejor. ¡Dorsetshire! Conozco muy poco Dorsetshire, pero, mi querida Elinor, me encantará saber mas; y pienso que puedo prometerte que Fanny y yo estaremos entre tus primeros y más complacidos visitantes.
Elinor puso gran esmero en intentar convencer a su hermano de que no había ninguna posibilidad de un matrimonio entre ella y el coronel Brandon; pero la expectativa lo alegraba demasiado como para renunciar a ella, y estaba decidido a lograr una relación más cercana con ese caballero y alentar el matrimonio a través de todas las atenciones posibles. Su remordimiento por no haber hecho nada personalmente por sus hermanas creaba en él un enorme afán por que todos los demás hicieran mucho por ellas; y una proposición del coronel Brandon o un legado de la señora Jennings eran los caminos más fáciles para compensar su propio descuido.
Tuvieron la suerte de encontrar a lady Middleton en casa, y sir John llegó antes de que pusieran término a su visita. Las cortesías abundaron de lado y lado. Sir John siempre estaba presto a que le agradara todo el mundo, y aunque el señor Dashwood no parecía saber mucho de caballos, pronto lo tuvo por un buen hombre; lady Middleton, en tanto, viendo en su aspecto suficientes elementos a la moda, consideró que valía la pena relacionarse con él; y el señor Dashwood se marchó encantado con ambos.
-Tendré cosas muy agradables que contarle a Fanny -le dijo a su hermana mientras iban de regreso-. ¡Lady Middleton es de verdad una mujer muy elegante! Es el tipo de mujer que a Fanny le encantará conocer. Y la señora Jennings también, una mujer de excelente trato, aunque no tan elegante como su hija. Tu hermana, mi esposa, no tiene por qué tener reparos en visitarla, lo que, a decir la verdad, ha sido un poco el caso, y muy entendiblemente, pues todo lo que sabíamos era que la señora Jennings era la viuda de un hombre que había obtenido todo su dinero por bajos medios; y Fanny y la señora Ferrars habían decidido de antemano que ni la señora Jennings ni sus hijas eran el tipo de mujeres con las que Fanny querría relacionarse. Pero ahora puedo llevarles las más satisfactorias referencias sobre ambas.
La señora de John Dashwood confiaba tanto en el criterio de su esposo, que al día siguiente mismo acudió a visitar a la señora Jennings y a su hija; y la recompensa de tal confianza fue encontrar que incluso la primera, incluso la mujer con quienes se estaban quedando sus cuñadas, no era en absoluto indigna de su atención; y en cuanto a lady Middleton, ¡la encontró una de las mujeres más encantadoras del mundo!
También a lady Middleton le agradó sobremanera la señora Dashwood. Había en ambas una especie de frío egoísmo que las hizo sentirse mutuamente atraídas; y simpatizaron entre sí en un insípido trato circunspecto y una total falta de entendimiento.
Los mismos modales, sin embargo, que hicieron a la señora de John Dashwood merecedora de la buena opinión de lady Middleton no satisficieron a la señora Jennings, a quien no le pareció más que una mujercita de aire arrogante y trato poco cordial, que no mostró ningún afecto por las hermanas de su esposo y parecía no tener casi nada que decirles; durante el cuarto de hora que concedió a Berkeley Street, pasó por lo menos siete minutos y medio en silencio.
A Elinor le habría gustado saber, aunque prefirió no preguntar, si Edward estaba en la ciudad; pero por nada del mundo Fanny habría mencionado voluntariamente su nombre delante de ella hasta no poder decirle que el matrimonio con la señorita Morton estaba resuelto, o hasta que las expectativas de su esposo respecto del coronel Brandon se hubieran ratificado; y ello porque creía que todavía estaban tan apegados el uno al otro, que nunca era demasiado el cuidado que se debía poner en mantenerlos separados de palabra y obra. Sin embargo, el informe que ella se negaba a dar, muy pronto llegó desde otra fuente. No transcurrió mucho tiempo antes de que Lucy reclamara de Elinor su compasión por no haber podido ver todavía a Edward, aunque él había llegado a la ciudad con el señor y la señora Dashwood. No se atrevía a ir a Bartlett's Buildings por miedo a ser descubierto, y aunque era indecible la impaciencia de ambos por verse, por el momento lo único que podían hacer era escribirse.
Edward no tardó en confirmar por sí mismo que estaba en la ciudad, al acudir dos veces a Berkeley Street. Dos veces encontraron su tarjeta de visita en la mesa al volver de sus ocupaciones matinales. Elinor estaba contenta de que hubiera ido, pero más contenta aún de no haberse encontrado con él.
Los Dashwood estaban tan portentosamente encantados con los Middleton que, aunque no era su costumbre dar nada, decidieron ofrecer una cena en su honor, y a poco de conocerlos los invitaron a Harley Street, donde habían alquilado una excelente casa por tres meses. Invitaron también a sus hermanas y a la señora Jennings, y John Dashwood se preocupó de asegurar la presencia del coronel Brandon, el cual, siempre feliz de estar allí donde estaban las señoritas Dashwood, recibió sus afanosas cortesías con algo de sorpresa, pero mucho placer. Iban a conocer a la señora Ferrars, pero Elinor no pudo saber si sus hijos formarían parte de la concurrencia. No obstante, la expectación por verla a ella fue suficiente para despertar su interés en acudir a ese compromiso; pues aunque ahora iba a poder conocer a la madre de Edward sin esa enorme ansiedad que en el pasado le habría sido inevitable, aunque ahora podía verla con total indiferencia respecto de la opinión que pudiera despertar en ella, su deseo de estar en la compañía de la señora Ferrars, su curiosidad por saber cómo era, eran tan vivos como antes.
Muy poco después, todo el interés con que esperaba la invitación a cenar aumentó, con más intensidad que placer, al saber que también acudirían las señoritas Steele.
Tan buena impresión habían logrado crear de sí mismas ante lady Middleton, tan gratas se le habían hecho por sus infatigables atenciones, que aunque Lucy de ninguna manera era elegante, y su hermana ni siquiera bien educada, estaba tan dispuesta como sir John a invitarlas a pasar una o dos semanas en Conduit Street; y apenas supieron de la invitación de los Dashwood, las señoritas Steele encontraron que les era muy conveniente llegar unos pocos días antes del fijado para la fiesta.
Sus intentos de atraer la atención de la señora de John Dashwood presentándose como las sobrinas del caballero que durante muchos años había estado al cuidado de su hermano no habrían sido muy eficaces, sin embargo, para procurarles un asiento a su mesa; pero en cuanto huéspedes de lady Middleton debían ser bien recibidas; y Lucy, que por tanto tiempo había deseado conocer personalmente a la familia para tener una visión más cercana de sus caracteres y de los obstáculos que a ella se le presentarían, y a la vez la oportunidad de esforzarse por agradarles, pocas veces había estado tan feliz en su vida como cuando recibió la tarjeta de la señora de John Dashwood.
El efecto en Elinor fue diferente. De inmediato comenzó a pensar que Edward, que vivía con su madre, debía estar invitado, al igual que su madre, a una cena organizada por su hermana; ¡y verlo por primera vez, después de todo lo ocurrido, en la compañía de Lucy! ¡No sabía si podría soportarlo!
Las aprensiones de Elinor quizá no se basaban por completo en la razón, y por cierto no en la realidad. Encontraron alivio, sin embargo, no en sus propias reflexiones, sino en la buena voluntad de Lucy, que creyó infligirle una terrible desilusión al decirle que Edward de ninguna manera estaría en Harley Street el martes, e incluso tenía la esperanza de herirla más aún convenciéndola de que tal inasistencia se debía al enorme afecto que sentía por ella, el cual era incapaz de ocultar cuando estaban juntos.
Y llegó la importante fecha, ese día martes en que las dos jóvenes serían presentadas a su formidable suegra.
-¡Compadézcame, querida señorita Dashwood! -dijo Lucy, mientras subían juntas las escalinatas, pues los Middleton habían llegado tan poco después de la señora Jennings, que el criado los guió a todos al mismo tiempo-. Nadie más aquí sabe lo que siento. Apenas puedo tenerme en pie, se lo aseguro. ¡Válgame Dios! ¡En unos instantes veré a la persona de quien depende toda mi felicidad, la que va a ser mi madre!
Elinor podría haber aliviado de inmediato su inquietud sugiriéndole la posibilidad de que fuera la madre de la señorita Morton, y no la de ella, la que estaban por conocer; pero en vez de hacer eso, le aseguró, y con gran sinceridad, que sí la compadecía, y ello para gran asombro de Lucy, que aunque en verdad se sentía incómoda, esperaba al menos ser objeto de irrefrenable envidia por parte de Elinor.
La señora Ferrars era una mujer pequeña y delgada, erguida hasta parecer solemne en su aspecto, y seria hasta la acrimonia en su expresión. De cutis cetrino, sus facciones eran pequeñas, sin belleza ni expresividad natural; pero una afortunada contracción del ceño la había salvado de la desgracia de un semblante soso, al proporcionarle los recios rasgos del orgullo y el mal carácter. No era mujer de muchas palabras, puesto que, a diferencia del común de la gente, las adecuaba a la cantidad de sus ideas; y de las pocas sílabas que dejó caer, ni una sola estuvo dirigida a la señorita Dashwood, a quien miraba con la enérgica determinación de no encontrarle nada grato por ningún motivo.
A Elinor este comportamiento no podía molestarla ahora. Unos pocos meses antes la habría herido sobremanera, pero ya no estaba en manos de la señora Ferrars hacerla desgraciada; y la diferencia con que trataba a las señoritas Steele -una diferencia que parecía a propósito para humillarla aún más- sólo la divertía. No podía dejar de sonreír al ver la afabilidad de madre e hija dirigida precisamente hacia la persona -porque con ella distinguían en especial a Lucy- que, de haber sabido lo que ella sabía; habrían estado más deseosas de mortificar; en tanto que ella, que en comparación no tenía ningún poder para herirlas, se veía obviamente menospreciada por ambas. Pero mientras sonreía ante una afabilidad tan mal dirigida, no podía pensar en la mezquina necedad que la originaba, ni contemplar las estudiadas atenciones con que las señoritas Steele buscaban su prolongación sin el más absoluto desprecio por las cuatro.
Lucy era todo júbilo al sentirse tan honrosamente distinguida; y lo único que faltaba a la señorita Steele para alcanzar una perfecta felicidad era que le hicieran alguna broma sobre el reverendo Davies.
La cena fue suntuosa, los criados eran numerosos y todo hablaba de la inclinación de la dueña de casa a la ostentación y de la capacidad de respaldarla por parte del anfitrión. A pesar de las mejoras y agregados que le estaban haciendo a su propiedad en Norland, y a pesar de que su dueño había estado a unos pocos miles de libras de tener que venderla con pérdidas, nada parecía dar señales de esa indigencia que él había intentado deducir de todo ello; no parecía haber pobreza de ninguna clase, excepto en la conversación... pero allí la deficiencia era considerable. John Dashwood no tenía mucho que decir que mereciera escucharse, y su esposa aún menos. Pero esto no era ninguna desgracia en especial porque lo mismo ocurría con la mayor parte de sus invitados, casi todos víctimas de una u otra de las siguientes inhabilidades para ser considerado agradable: falta de juicio, ya sea natural o cultivado; falta de elegancia, falta de espíritu o falta de carácter.
Cuando las señoras se retiraron al salón tras la cena esa indigencia se hizo particularmente evidente, dado que los caballeros habían enriquecido la conversación con una cierta variedad -la variedad de la política, del cerco de las tierras y de la doma de caballos-, pero todo eso acabó y un solo tema ocupó a las señoras hasta la llegada del café, y éste fue comparar las respectivas estaturas de Harry Dashwood y el segundo hijo de lady Middleton, William, que tenían aproximadamente la misma edad.
Si los dos niños hubieran estado allí, se podría haber zanjado fácilmente el asunto midiéndolos de una vez; pero como sólo estaba presente Harry, todo fue conjeturas por ambas partes, y cada cual tenía derecho a ser igualmente terminante en su opinión y a repetirla una y otra vez todas las veces que quisiera.
Se tomaron los siguientes partidos:
Las dos madres, aunque cada una convencida de que su hijo era el más alto, educadamente votaron a favor del otro.
Las dos abuelas, con no menos parcialidad pero con mayor sinceridad, apoyaban con igual afán a sus propios vástagos.
Lucy, que por ningún motivo quería complacer a una madre menos que a la otra, pensaba que los dos muchachitos eran notablemente altos para su edad, y no podía concebir que hubiera ni siquiera la menor diferencia entre ellos; y la señorita Steele, con mayor afán aún, se manifestó tan rápido como pudo a favor de cada uno de ellos.
Elinor, tras haberse decidido una vez por William, con lo que ofendió a la señora Ferrars, y a Fanny más todavía, no vio la necesidad de seguir insistiendo en el punto; y Marianne, cuando se le pidió su parecer, ofendió a todo el mundo al declarar que no tenía ninguna opinión que dar, ya que nunca había pensado en el asunto.
Antes de abandonar Norland, Elinor había pintado un par de pantallas muy bonitas para su cuñada, las cuales, recién montadas y traídas a la casa, decoraban su actual salón; y como estas pantallas atrajeran la mirada de John Dashwood al seguir a los otros caballeros a dicho aposento, las tomó y se las alargó solícitamente al coronel Brandon para que las admirara.
-Las hizo la mayor de mis hermanas -le dijo-, y a usted, como hombre de gusto, con toda seguridad le agradarán. No sé si ya ha visto alguna de sus obras antes, pero en general tiene reputación de dibujar muy bien.
El coronel, aunque negando toda pretensión de ser un entendido, admiró con gran entusiasmo las pantallas, como lo habría hecho con cualquier cosa pintada por la señorita Dashwood; y como ello por supuesto despertó la curiosidad de los demás, las pinturas pasaron de mano en mano para ser examinadas por todos. La señora Ferrars, sin saber que eran obra de Elinor, pidió muy en especial mirarlas; y tras haber sido agraciadas con la aprobación de lady Middleton, Fanny se las presentó a su madre, dejándole saber al mismo tiempo, de manera muy considerada, que las había hecho la señorita Dashwood.
-Mmm -dijo la señora Ferrars-, muy bonitas -y sin prestarles la menor atención, se las devolvió a su hija.
Quizá Fanny pensó por un momento que su madre había sido harto grosera, pues, enrojeciendo un tanto, dijo de inmediato:
-Son muy bonitas, señora, ¿no es verdad -pero entonces probablemente la invadió el temor de haber sido demasiado cortés, demasiado entusiasta en su alabanza, porque de inmediato agregó- ¿No le parece, señora, que tienen algo del estilo de pintar de la señorita Morton? Su pintura es realmente deliciosa. ¡Qué bien hecho estaba su último paisaje!
-Muy bien. Pero ella hace todo muy bien.
Marianne no pudo soportar esto. Ya estaba enormemente disgustada con la señora Ferrars; y tan inoportuna alabanza de otra a expensas de Elinor, aunque no tenía la menor idea de lo que ello significaba, la impulsó a decir con gran vehemencia:
-¡Qué manera más curiosa de elogiar algo! ¿Y qué es la señorita Morton para nosotras? ¿Quién la conoce o a quién le importa? Es en Elinor que estamos pensando y de quien hablamos.
Y así diciendo, tomó las pinturas de manos de su cuñada para admirarlas como se debía.
La señora Ferrars pareció extremadamente enojada, y poniéndose más tiesa que nunca, devolvió la ofensa con esta acre filípica:
-La señorita Morton es la hija de lord Morton.
Fanny también parecía muy enojada, y su esposo se veía aterrado ante la audacia de su hermana. Elinor se sentía mucho más herida por la vehemencia de Marianne que por lo que la había originado; pero la mirada del coronel Brandon, fija en Marianne, mostraba a las claras que él sólo había visto cuanto había de amable en su reacción: el afectuoso corazón incapaz de soportar ni el más mínimo desprecio dirigido a su hermana.
Los sentimientos de Marianne no se detuvieron allí. Le parecía que la fría insolencia del comportamiento general de la señora Ferrars hacia su hermana vaticinaba para Elinor esa clase de obstáculos y aflicciones que su propio corazón herido le había enseñado a temer; y apremiada por el fuerte impulso de su propia sensibilidad y afecto, después de algunos momentos se acercó a la silla de su hermana y, echándole un brazo al cuello y acercando su mejilla a la de ella, le dijo en voz baja pero urgente:
-Querida, querida Elinor, no les hagas caso. No dejes que a ti te hagan infeliz.
No pudo decir más; agobiada, ocultó el rostro en un hombro de Elinor y estalló en llanto. Todos se dieron cuenta, y casi todos se preocuparon. El coronel Brandon se puso en pie y se dirigió hacia ellas sin saber lo que hacía. La señora Jennings, con un muy juicioso “¡Ah, pobrecita!”, de inmediato le alargó sus sales; y sir John se sintió tan desesperadamente furioso contra el autor de esta aflicción nerviosa, que de inmediato se cambió de lugar a uno cerca de Lucy Steele y, en susurros, le hizo un breve recuento de todo el desagradable asunto.
En pocos minutos, sin embargo, Marianne se recuperó lo suficiente para poner fin a todo el alboroto y volver a sentarse con los demás, aunque en su ánimo quedó grabada durante toda la tarde la impresión de lo ocurrido.
-¡Pobre Marianne! -le dijo su hermano al coronel Brandon en voz baja apenas pudo contar con su atención-. No tiene tan buena salud como su hermana; es muy nerviosa... no tiene la constitución de Elinor; y hay que admitir que para una joven que ha sido una beldad, debe ser muy penoso perder su atractivo personal. Quizá usted no lo sepa, pero Marianne era notablemente hermosa hasta unos pocos meses atrás... tan hermosa como Elinor. Y ahora, puede usted ver que de eso ya no le queda nada.
La curiosidad de Elinor por ver a la señora Ferrars estaba satisfecha. Había encontrado en ella todo lo que hacía indeseable una mayor unión entre ambas familias. Había visto lo suficiente de su arrogancia, su mezquindad y su decidido prejuicio en contra de ella para comprender todos los obstáculos que habrían dificultado su compromiso con Edward y pospuesto el matrimonio, si él hubiera estado libre; y casi había visto lo suficiente para agradecer, por su propio bien, que el enorme impedimento de su falta de libertad la salvara de sufrir bajo aquellos que podría haber creado la señora Ferrars; la salvara de tener que depender de su capricho o de tener que conquistar su buena opinión. O al menos, si no era capaz de alegrarse por ver a Edward encadenado a Lucy, decidió que, si Lucy hubiera sido más agradable, tendría que haberse alegrado.
Elinor pensaba con extrañeza cómo Lucy podía sentirse tan ensalzada por las muestras de cortesía de la señora Ferrars; cómo podían cegarla tanto sus intereses y vanidad como para hacerla creer que la atención que se le prestaba únicamente porque no era Elinor, era un cumplido dirigido a ella... o para permitirle sentirse animada por una preferencia que sólo se le otorgaba por desconocimiento de su verdadera condición. Pero que así era no sólo lo habían manifestado en ese momento los ojos de Lucy, sino que al día siguiente se hizo más claro aún: obedeciendo a sus deseos, lady Middleton la dejó en Berkeley Street con la esperanza de ver a Elinor a solas, para contarle lo feliz que era.
La ocasión resultó ser propicia, porque muy luego después de su llegada un mensaje de la señora Palmer hizo salir a la señora Jennings.
-Mi querida amiga -exclamó Lucy en cuanto estuvieron solas-, vengo a hablarle de cuán feliz soy. ¿Hay acaso algo más halagador que la forma en que ayer me trató la señora Ferrars? ¡Qué extremadamente amable fue! Usted sabe cuánto temía yo la sola idea de verla; pero apenas le fui presentada, su trato fue tan afable que casi parecía haberse prendado de mí. ¿Verdad que así fue? Usted lo vio todo; ¿y no la dejó totalmente sorprendida?
-En verdad fue muy cortés con usted.
-¡Cortés! ¡Cómo puede haber visto sólo cortesía! Yo vi mucho más... ¡una amabilidad dirigida a nadie más que a mí! Ningún orgullo, ninguna altanería, y lo mismo su cuñada: ¡toda dulzura y afabilidad!
Elinor habría querido hablar de otra cosa, pero Lucy la seguía presionando para que reconociera que tenía motivos para sentirse tan feliz, y Elinor se vio obligada a continuar.
-Sin duda, si hubieran sabido de su compromiso -le dijo-, nada podría ser más halagador que la forma en que la trataron; pero no siendo ése el caso...
-Me imaginé que diría eso -replicó Lucy con prontitud-; pero por qué razón la señora Ferrars iba a aparentar que yo le gustaba, si no era así... y agradarle es todo para mí. No podrá privarme de mi satisfacción. Estoy segura de que todo terminará bien y que desaparecerán todos los obstáculos que yo preveía. La señora Ferrars es una mujer encantadora, al igual que su cuñada. ¡Las dos son adorables! ¡Me sorprende no haberle escuchado nunca decir cuán agradable es la señora Dashwood!
Para esto Elinor no tenía alguna respuesta que dar, y no intentó ninguna.
-¿Está enferma, señorita Dashwood? Parece abatida, no habla... con toda seguridad no se siente, bien.
-Me alegra de todo corazón, pero en verdad no lo parecía. Lamentaría mucho que usted se enfermara... ¡usted que ha sido el mayor consuelo del mundo para mí! Sólo Dios sabe qué habría sido de mí sin su amistad.
Elinor intentó una respuesta cortés, aunque dudando mucho de su capacidad de lograrlo. Pero pareció satisfacer a Lucy, quien respondió de inmediato:
-En verdad estoy plenamente convencida de su afecto por mí, y junto al amor de Edward, es mi mayor consuelo. ¡Pobre Edward! Pero ahora hay algo bueno: podremos vemos, y muy a menudo, porque como lady Middleton quedó encantada con la señora Dashwood, me parece que iremos bastante seguido a Harley Street, y Edward pasa la mitad del tiempo con su hermana. Además, lady Middleton y la señora Ferrars se van a visitar ahora; y la señora Fernars y su cuñada fueron tan amables en decir más de una vez que siempre estarían encantadas de verme. ¡Son tan encantadoras! Estoy segura de que si alguna vez le cuenta a su cuñada lo que pienso de ella, no podrá alabarla lo suficiente.
Pero Elinor no quiso darle ninguna esperanza en cuanto a que le diría algo a su cuñada. Lucy prosiguió:
-Estoy segura de que me habría dado cuenta de inmediato si le hubiera desagradado a la señora Ferrars. Si únicamente me hubiera hecho una inclinación de cabeza muy formal, sin decir una palabra, y después hubiera actuado como si yo no existiera, sin siquiera mirarme con alguna complacencia... usted sabe a qué me refiero..., si me hubiera dado ese trato intimidante, habría renunciado a todo llena de desesperación. No lo habría soportado. Porque cuando a ella le disgusta algo, sé que lo demuestra con la mayor rudeza.
Elinor no pudo dar ninguna respuesta a este educado triunfo; se lo impidieron la puerta que se abría de par en par, el criado que anunciaba al señor Ferrars, y la inmediata entrada de Edward.
Fue un momento muy incómodo, y así lo demostró el semblante de cada uno de ellos. Todos adquirieron un aire extremadamente necio, y Edward pareció no saber si abandonar de nuevo la habitación o seguir avanzando. La mismísima circunstancia, en su peor forma, que cada uno había deseado de manera tan ferviente evitar, se les había venido encima: no sólo se encontraban los tres juntos, sino que además estaban juntos sin el paliativo que habría significado la presencia de cualquier otra persona. Las damas fueron las primeras en recuperar el dominio sobre sí mismas. No le correspondía a Lucy adelantarse con ninguna manifestación, y era necesario seguir manteniendo las apariencias de un secreto. Debió limitarse así a comunicar su ternura a través de la mirada, y tras un ligero saludo, no dijo más.
Pero Elinor sí tenía algo más que hacer; y estaba tan ansiosa, por él y por ella, de hacerlo bien, que tras un momento de reflexión se obligó a darle la bienvenida con un aire y modales casi desenvueltos y casi llanos; y esforzándose y luchando consigo misma un poco más, incluso logró mejorarlos. No iba a permitir que la presencia de Lucy o la conciencia de alguna injusticia hacia ella le impidieran decir que estaba contenta de verlo y que había lamentado mucho no estar en casa cuando él había ido a Berkeley Street. Tampoco iba a dejarse arredrar por la observadora mirada de Lucy, que no tardó en sentir clavada en ella, privándolo de las atenciones que, en tanto amigo y casi pariente, se merecía.
La actitud de Elinor tranquilizó a Edward, que encontró ánimo suficiente para sentarse; pero su turbación todavía era mayor que la de las jóvenes en un grado explicable por las circunstancias, aunque no fuera corriente tratándose de su sexo, pues carecía de la frialdad de corazón de Lucy y de la tranquilidad de conciencia de Elinor.
Lucy, luciendo un aire recatado y plácido, parecía decidida a no contribuir en nada a la comodidad de los otros y se mantuvo en completo silencio; y casi todo lo que se dijo nació de Elinor, que debió ofrecer voluntariamente todas las informaciones sobre la salud de su madre, su venida a la ciudad, etc., que Edward debió haber solicitado, y no solicitó.
Sus afanes no terminaron ahí, pues poco después se sintió heroicamente dispuesta a tomar la decisión de dejar a Lucy y Edward solos, con la excusa de ir a buscar a Marianne; y en verdad lo hizo, y con la mayor galanura, pues se detuvo varios minutos en el descansillo de la escalinata, con la más altiva entereza, antes de ir en busca de su hermana. Cuando lo hizo, sin embargo, debieron cesar los arrebatos de Edward, pues la alegría de Marianne la arrastró de inmediato al salón. Su placer al verlo fue como todas sus otras emociones, intensas en sí mismas e intensamente expresadas. Fue a su encuentro extendiéndole una mano, que él tomó, y saludándolo con voz donde era manifiesto un cariño de hermana.
-¡Querido Edward! -exclamó-. ¡Este sí es un momento feliz! ¡Casi podría compensar todo lo demás!
Edward intentó responder a su amabilidad tal como se lo merecía, pero ante tal testigo no se atrevía a decir ni la mitad de lo que en verdad sentía. Volvieron a sentarse, y durante algunos momentos todos guardaron silencio; Marianne, entre tanto, observaba con la más expresiva ternura unas veces a Edward, otras a Elinor, lamentando únicamente que el placer de ambos se viera estorbado por la inoportuna presencia de Lucy. Edward fue el primero en hablar, y lo hizo para referirse al aspecto cambiado de Marianne y manifestar su temor de que Londres no le sentara bien.
-¡Oh, no pienses en mí! -replicó ella con animosa entereza, aunque se le llenaron los ojos de lágrimas al hablar-, no pienses en mi salud. Elinor está bien, como puedes ver. Eso debiera bastarnos a ti y a mí.
Esta observación no iba a hacerles más fácil la situación a Edward y a Elinor, ni tampoco conquistaría la buena voluntad de Lucy, quien miró a Mariana con expresión nada benévola.
-¿Te gusta Londres? -le dijo Edward, deseoso de decir cualquier cosa que permitiera cambiar de tema.
-En absoluto. Esperaba encontrar grandes diversiones aquí, pero no he hallado ninguna. Verte, Edward, ha sido el único consuelo que me ha ofrecido; y ¡gracias a Dios!, tú no has cambiado.
Hizo una pausa; nadie dijo nada.
-Creo, Elinor -agregó Marianne después de un rato-, que debemos pedir a Edward que nos acompañe en nuestra vuelta a Barton. Estaremos partiendo en una o dos semanas, me imagino; y confío en que él no se negará a aceptar esta solicitud.
El pobre Edward masculló algo, pero qué fue, nadie lo supo, ni siquiera él. Pero Marianne, que se dio cuenta de su agitación y que sin mayor esfuerzo era capaz de atribuirla a cualquier causa que le pareciera conveniente, se sintió completamente satisfecha y muy pronto comenzó a hablar de otra cosa.
-¡Qué día pasamos ayer en Harley Street, Edward! ¡Tan aburrido, tan espantosamente aburrido! Pero tengo mucho que contarte al respecto, que no puedo decir ahora.
Y con tal admirable discreción, postergó para el momento en que pudieran hablar más en privado su declaración respecto a haber encontrado a sus mutuos parientes más insoportables que nunca, y el especial desagrado que le había producido la madre de él.
-Pero, ¿por qué no estabas tú ahí, Edward? ¿Por qué no fuiste?
-¡Otro compromiso! ¿Y cómo, si te esperaban tus amigas?
-Quizá, señorita Marianne -exclamó Lucy, deseosa de vengarse de alguna manera de ella-, usted crea que los jóvenes nunca honran sus compromisos, grandes o pequeños, cuando no les interesa cumplirlos.
Elinor se sintió muy enojada, pero Marianne pareció por completo insensible al sarcasmo de Lucy, pues le respondió con gran tranquilidad:
-En realidad, no es así; porque, hablando en serio, estoy segura de que sólo su conciencia mantuvo a Edward alejado de Harley Street. Y en verdad creo que su conciencia es delicadísima, la más escrupulosa en el cumplimiento de todos sus compromisos, por insignificantes que sean y aunque vayan en contra de su interés o de su placer. Nadie teme más que él causar dolor o destrozar una expectativa, y es la persona más incapaz de egoísmo que yo conozca. Sí, Edward, es así y así lo diré. ¡Cómo! ¿Es que nunca vas a permitir que te alaben? Entonces no puedes ser mi amigo, pues quienes acepten mi amor y mi estima deben someterse a mis más abiertos elogios.
El contenido de sus elogios en el caso actual, sin embargo, resultaba particularmente inadecuado a los sentimientos de dos tercios de su auditorio, y para Edward fue tan poco alentador que muy luego se levantó para marcharse.
-¡Tan pronto te vas! -dijo Marianne-. Mi querido Edward, no puedes hacerlo.
Y llevándolo ligeramente a un lado, le susurró su convencimiento de que Lucy no se quedaría mucho rato más. Pero incluso este incentivo falló, porque persistió en irse; y Lucy, que se habría quedado más tiempo que él aunque su visita hubiera durado dos horas, poco después se fue también.
-¡Qué la traerá acá tan a menudo! -dijo Marianne en cuanto salió-. ¡Cómo no se daba cuenta de que queríamos que se fuera! ¡Qué fastidio para Edward!
-¿Y por qué? Todas somos amigas de él, y es a Lucy a quien ha conocido por más tiempo. Es natural que desee verla tanto como a nosotras.
Marianne la miró fijamente, y dijo:
-Sabes, Elinor, éste es el tipo de cosas que no soporto escuchar. Si lo dices nada más que para que alguien te contradiga, como imagino debe ser el caso, debieras recordar que yo sería la última persona del mundo en hacerlo. No puedo rebajarme a que me saquen con engaños declaraciones que en verdad nadie desea.
Con esto abandonó la habitación, y Elinor no se atrevió a seguirla para decir algo más, pues atada como estaba por la promesa hecha a Lucy de guardar su secreto, no podía dar a Marianne ninguna información que pudiera convencerla; y por dolorosas que fueran las consecuencias de permitirle seguir en el error, estaba obligada a aceptarlas. Todo lo que podía esperar era que Edward no la expusiera a menudo, y tampoco se expusiera él, al sinsabor de tener que escuchar las desacertadas muestras de afecto de Marianne, y tampoco a la reiteración de ningún otro aspecto de las penurias que habían acompañado su último encuentro... y este último deseo, podía confiar plenamente en que se cumpliría.
Pocos días después de esta reunión, los periódicos anunciaron al mundo que la esposa de Thomas Palmer, había dado a luz sin contratiempos a un hijo y heredero; un párrafo muy interesante y satisfactorio, al menos para todos los conocidos cercanos que ya estaban enterados de la noticia.
Este suceso, de gran importancia para la felicidad de la señora Jennings, produjo una alteración pasajera en la distribución de su tiempo y afectó en forma parecida los compromisos de sus jóvenes amigas; pues, como deseaba estar lo más posible con Charlotte, iba a verla todas las mañanas apenas se vestía, y no volvía hasta el atardecer; y las señoritas Dashwood, por pedido especial de los Middleton, pasaban todo el día en Conduit Street. Si hubiera sido por su propia comodidad, habrían preferido quedarse, al menos durante las mañanas, en la casa de la señora Jennings; pero no era esto algo que se pudiera imponer en contra de los deseos de todo el mundo. Sus horas fueron traspasadas entonces a lady Middleton y a las dos señoritas Steele, para quienes el valor de su compañía era tan escaso como grande era el afán con que aparentaban buscarla.
Las Dashwood eran demasiado lúcidas para ser buena compañía para la primera; y para las últimas eran motivo de envidia, pues las consideraban intrusas en sus territorios, partícipes de la amabilidad que ellas deseaban monopolizar. Aunque nada había más cortés que el trato de lady Middleton hacia Elinor y Marianne, en realidad no le gustaban en absoluto. Como no la adulaban ni a ella ni a sus niños, no podía creer que fueran de buen natural; y como eran aficionadas a la lectura, las imaginaba satíricas: quizá no sabía exactamente qué era ser satírico, pero eso carecía de importancia. En el lenguaje común implicaba una censura, y la aplicaba sin mayor cuidado.
Su presencia coartaba tanto a lady Middleton como a Lucy. Restringían el ocio de una y la ocupación de la otra. Lady Middleton se sentía avergonzada frente a ellas por no hacer nada; y Lucy temía que la despreciaran por ofrecer las lisonjas que en otros momentos se enorgullecía de idear y administrar. La señorita Steele era la menos afectada de las tres por la presencia de Elinor y Marianne, y sólo dependía de éstas que la aceptara por completo. Habría bastado con que una de las dos le hiciera un relato completo y detallado de todo lo ocurrido entre Marianne y el señor Willoughby, para que se hubiera sentido ampliamente recompensada por el sacrificio de cederles el mejor lugar junto a la chimenea después de la cena, gesto que la llegada de las jóvenes exigía. Pero esta oferta conciliatoria no le era otorgada, pues aunque a menudo lanzaba ante Elinor expresiones de piedad por su hermana, y más de una vez dejó caer frente a Marianne una reflexión sobre la inconstancia de los galanes, no producía ningún efecto más allá de una mirada de indiferencia de la primera o de disgusto en la segunda. Con un esfuerzo menor aún, se habrían ganado su amistad. ¡Si tan sólo le hubieran hecho bromas a causa del reverendo Davies! Pero estaban tan poco dispuestas, igual que las demás, a complacerla, que si sir John cenaba fuera de casa podía pasar el día completo sin escuchar ninguna otra chanza al respecto sino las que ella misma tenía la gentileza de dirigirse.
Todos estos celos y sinsabores, sin embargo, pasaban tan totalmente inadvertidos para la señora Jennings, que creía que estar juntas era algo que encantaba a las muchachas; y así, cada noche felicitaba a sus jóvenes amigas por haberse librado de la compañía de una anciana estúpida durante tanto rato. Algunas veces se les unía donde sir John y otras en su propia casa; pero dondequiera que fuese, siempre llegaba de excelente ánimo, llena de júbilo e importancia, atribuyendo el bienestar de Charlotte a los cuidados que ella le había prodigado y lista para darles un informe tan exacto y detallado de la situación de su hija, que sólo la curiosidad de la señorita Steele podía desear. Había una cosa que la inquietaba, y sobre ella se quejaba a diario. El señor Palmer persistía en la opinión tan extendida entre su sexo, pero tan poco paternal, de que todos los recién nacidos eran iguales; y aunque ella percibía con toda claridad en distintos momentos la más asombrosa semejanza entre este niño y cada uno de sus parientes por ambos lados, no había forma de convencer de ello a su padre, ni de hacerlo reconocer que no era exactamente como cualquier otra criatura de la misma edad; ni siquiera se lo podía llevar a admitir la simple afirmación de que era el niño más hermoso del mundo.
Llego ahora al relato de un infortunio que por esta época sobrevino a la señora de John Dashwood. Ocurrió que durante la primera visita que le hicieron sus dos cuñadas junto a la señora Jennings en Harley Street, otra de sus conocidas llegó inesperadamente, circunstancia que, en sí misma, aparentemente no podía causarle ningún mal. Pero mientras la gente se deje arrastrar por su imaginación para formarse juicios errados sobre nuestra conducta y la califique basándose en meras apariencias, nuestra felicidad estará siempre, en una cierta medida, a merced del azar. En esta ocasión, la dama que había llegado al último dejó que su fantasía excediera de tal manera la verdad y la probabilidad, que el solo escuchar el nombre de las señoritas Dashwood y entender que eran hermanas del señor Dashwood, la llevó a concluir de inmediato que se estaban alojando en Harley Street; y esta mala interpretación produjo como resultado, uno o dos días después, tarjetas de invitación para ellas, al igual que para su hermano y cuñada, a una pequeña velada musical en su casa. La consecuencia de esto fue que la señora de John Dashwood debió someterse no sólo a la enorme incomodidad de enviar su carruaje a buscar a las señoritas Dashwood, sino que, peor aún, debió soportar todo el desagrado de parecer hacerles alguna atención: ¿quién podría asegurarle que no iban a esperar salir con ella una segunda vez? Es verdad que siempre tendría en sus manos el poder para frustrar sus expectativas. Pero ello no era suficiente, porque cuando las personas se empeñan en una forma de conducta que saben equivocada, se sienten agraviadas cuando se espera algo mejor de ellas.
Marianne, entretanto, se vio llevada de manera tan paulatina a aceptar salir todos los días, que había llegado a serle indiferente ir a algún lugar o no hacerlo; se preparaba callada y mecánicamente para cada uno de los compromisos vespertinos, aunque sin esperar de ellos diversión alguna, y muy a menudo sin saber hasta el último momento adónde la llevarían.
Se había vuelto tan indiferente a su vestimenta y apariencia, que en todo el tiempo que dedicaba a su arreglo no les prestaba ni la mitad de la atención que recibían de la señorita Steele en los primeros cinco minutos que estaban juntas, después de estar lista. Nada escapaba a su minuciosa observación y amplia curiosidad; veía todo y preguntaba todo; no quedaba tranquila hasta saber el precio de cada parte del vestido de Marianne; podría haber calculado cuántos trajes tenía mejor que la misma Marianne; y no perdía las esperanzas de descubrir antes de que se dejaran de ver, cuánto gastaba semanalmente en lavado y de cuánto disponía al año para sus gastos personales. Más aún, la impertinencia de este tipo de escrutinios se veía coronada por lo general con un cumplido que, aunque pretendía ir de añadidura al resto de los halagos, era recibido por Marianne como la mayor impertinencia de todas; pues, tras ser sometida a un examen que cubría el valor y hechura de su vestido, el color de sus zapatos y su peinado, estaba casi segura de escuchar que “a fe suya se veía de lo más elegante, y apostaría que iba a hacer muchísimas conquistas”.
Con estas animosas palabras fue despedida Marianne en la actual ocasión mientras se dirigía al carruaje de su hermano, el cual estaban listas para abordar cinco minutos después de tenerlo ante su puerta, puntualidad no muy grata a su cuñada, que las había precedido a la casa de su amiga y esperaba allí alguna demora de parte de las jóvenes que pudiera incomodarla a ella o a su cochero.
Los acontecimientos de esa noche no tuvieron nada de extraordinario. La reunión, como todas las veladas musicales, incluía a una buena cantidad de personas que encontraba real placer en el espectáculo, y muchas más que no obtenían ninguno; y, como siempre, los ejecutantes eran, en su propia opinión y en la de sus amigos íntimos, los mejores concertistas privados de Inglaterra.
Como Elinor no tenía talentos musicales, ni pretendía tenerlos, sin grandes escrúpulos desviaba la mirada del gran piano cada vez que deseaba hacerlo, y sin que ni la presencia de un arpa y un violoncelo se le impidieran, contemplaba a su gusto cualquier otro objeto de la estancia. En una de estas miradas errabundas, vio en el grupo de jóvenes al mismísimo de quien habían escuchado toda una conferencia sobre estuches de mondadientes en Gray's. Poco después lo vio mirándola a ella, y hablándole a su hermano con toda familiaridad; y acababa de decidir que averiguaría su nombre con este último, cuando ambos se le acercaron y el señor Dashwood se lo presentó como el señor Robert Ferrars.
Se dirigió a ella con desenvuelta cortesía y torció su cabeza en una inclinación que le hizo ver tan claramente como lo habrían hecho las palabras, que era exactamente el fanfarrón que le había descrito Lucy. Habría sido una suerte para ella si su afecto por Edward dependiera menos de sus propios méritos que del mérito de sus parientes más cercanos. Pues en tales circunstancias la inclinación de cabeza de su hermano le habría dado el toque final a lo que el mal humor de su madre y hermana habrían comenzado. Pero mientras reflexionaba con extrañeza sobre la diferencia entre los dos jóvenes, no le ocurrió que la vacuidad y presunción de uno le quitara toda benevolencia de juicio hacia la modestia y valía del otro. Por supuesto que eran diferentes, le explicó Robert al describirse a sí mismo en el transcurso del cuarto de hora de conversación que mantuvieron; refiriéndose a su hermano, lamentó la extremada gaucherie que, en su verdadera opinión, le impedía alternar en la buena sociedad, atribuyéndola imparcial y generosamente mucho menos a una falencia innata que a la desgracia de haber sido educado por un preceptor particular; mientras que en su caso, aunque probablemente sin ninguna superioridad natural o material en especial, por la sencilla razón de haber gozado de las ventajas de la educación privada, estaba tan bien equipado como el que más para incursionar en el mundo.
-A fe mía -añadió-, creo que de eso se trata todo, y así se lo digo a menudo a mi madre cuando se lamenta por ello. “Mi querida señora”, le digo siempre, “no debe seguir preocupándose. El daño ya es irreparable, y ha sido por completo obra suya. ¿Por qué se dejó persuadir por mi tío, sir Robert, en contra de su propio juicio, de colocar a Edward en manos de un preceptor particular en el momento más crítico de su vida? Si tan sólo lo hubiera enviado a Westminster como lo hizo conmigo, en vez de enviarlo al establecimiento del señor Pratt, todo esto se habría evitado”. Así es como siempre considero todo este asunto, y mi madre está completamente convencida de su error.
Elinor no contradijo su opinión, puesto que, más allá de lo que creyera sobre las ventajas de la educación privada, no podía mirar con ningún tipo de beneplácito la estada de Edward en la familia del señor Pratt.
-Creo que ustedes viven en Devonshire -fue su siguiente observación-, en una casita de campo cerca de Dawlish.
Elinor lo corrigió en cuanto a la ubicación, y a él pareció sorprenderle que alguien pudiera vivir en Devonshire sin vivir cerca de Dawlish. Le otorgó, sin embargo, su más entusiasta aprobación al tipo de casa de que se trataba.
-Por mi parte -dijo-, me fascinan las casas de campo; tienen siempre tanta comodidad, tanta elegancia. Y, lo prometo, si tuviera algún dinero de sobra, compraría un pequeño terreno y me construiría una, cerca de Londres, adonde pudiera ir en cualquier momento, reunir a unos pocos amigos en torno mío y ser feliz. A todo el que piensa edificar algo, le aconsejo que construya una pequeña casa de campo. Un amigo, lord Courtland, se me acercó hace algunos días con el propósito de solicitar mi consejo, y me presentó tres proyectos de Bonomi. Yo debía elegir el mejor de ellos. “Mi querido Courtland”, le dije de inmediato, arrojando los tres al fuego, “no aceptes ninguno de ellos, y de todas maneras constrúyete una casita de campo”. Y creo que con eso se dijo todo. Algunos piensan que allí no habría comodidades, no habría holgura, pero están totalmente equivocados. El mes pasado estuve donde mi amigo Elliott, cerca de Dartford. Lady Elliott deseaba ofrecer un baile. “Pero, ¿cómo hacerlo?”, me dijo. “Mi querido Ferrars, por favor dígame cómo organizarlo. No hay ni una sola pieza en esta casita donde quepan diez parejas, ¿y dónde puede servirse la cena?” Yo advertí de inmediato que no habría ninguna dificultad para ello, así que le dije: “Mi querida lady Elliott, no se preocupe. En el comedor caben dieciocho parejas con toda facilidad; se pueden colocar mesas para naipes en la salita; puede abrirse la biblioteca para servir té y otros refrescos; y haga servir la cena en el salón”. A lady Elliott le encantó la idea. Medimos el comedor y vimos que daba cabida justo a dieciocho parejas, y todo se dispuso precisamente según mi plan. De hecho, entonces, puede ver que basta saber arreglárselas para disfrutar de las mismas comodidades en una casita de campo o en la mansión más amplia.
Elinor concordó con todo ello, porque no creía que él mereciera el cumplido de una oposición racional.
Como John Dashwood disfrutaba tan poco con la música como la mayor de sus hermanas, también había dejado a su mente en libertad de divagar; y fue así que esa noche se le ocurrió una idea que, al volver a casa, sometió a la aprobación de su esposa. La reflexión sobre el error de la señora Dennison al suponer que sus hermanas estaban hospedadas con ellos le había sugerido lo apropiado que sería tenerlas realmente como huéspedes mientras los compromisos de la señora Jennings la mantenían alejada del hogar. El gasto sería insignificante, y no mucho más los inconvenientes; y era, en suma, una atención que la delicadeza de su conciencia le señalaba como requisito para liberarse por completo de la promesa hecha a su padre. Fanny se sobresaltó ante esta propuesta.
-No veo cómo podría hacerse- dijo-, sin ofender a lady Middleton, puesto que pasan todos los días con ella; de no ser así, me complacería mucho hacerlo. Sabes bien que siempre estoy dispuesta a brindarles todas las atenciones que me son posibles, y así lo demuestra el hecho de haberlas llevado conmigo esta noche. Pero son invitadas de lady Middleton. ¿Cómo puedo pedirles que la dejen?
Su esposo, aunque con gran humildad, no veía que sus objeciones fueran convincentes.
-Ya ha pasado una semana de esta forma en Conduit Street, y a lady Middleton no le disgustaría que ellas les dieran la misma cantidad de días a parientes tan cercanos.
Fanny hizo una breve pausa y luego, con renovado vigor, dijo:
-Amor mío, se lo pediría de todo corazón, si estuviera en mi poder hacerlo. Pero acababa de decidir para mí misma pedir a las señoritas Steele que pasaran unos pocos días conmigo. Son unas jovencitas muy educadas y buenas; y pienso que les debemos esta atención, considerando lo bien que se portó su tío con Edward. Verás que podemos invitar a tus hermanas algún otro año; pero puede que las señoritas Steele ya no vuelvan a venir a la ciudad. Estoy segura de que te gustarán; de hecho, ya sabes que sí te gustan, y mucho, y lo mismo a mi madre; ¡y a Harry le gustan tanto!
El señor Dashwood se convenció. Entendió la necesidad de invitar a las señoritas Steele de inmediato, mientras la decisión de invitar a sus hermanas algún otro año tranquilizaba su conciencia; al mismo tiempo, sin embargo, tenía la sagaz sospecha de que otro año haría innecesaria la invitación, ya que traería a Elinor a la ciudad como esposa del coronel Brandon, y a Marianne como huésped de ellos.
Fanny, regocijándose por su escapada y orgullosa del rápido ingenio que se la había facilitado, le escribió a Lucy la mañana siguiente, solicitándole su compañía y la de su hermana durante algunos días en Harley Street apenas lady Middleton pudiera prescindir de ellas. Ello fue suficiente para hacer a Lucy verdadera y razonablemente feliz. ¡La señora Dashwood parecía estar personalmente disponiendo las cosas en su favor, alimentando sus esperanzas, favoreciendo sus intenciones! Una oportunidad tal de estar con Edward y su familia era, por sobre todas las cosas, de la mayor importancia para sus intereses; y la invitación, lo más grato que podía haber para sus sentimientos. Era una oportunidad frente a la cual todo agradecimiento parecía pobre, e insuficiente la velocidad con que se la aprovechara; y respecto de la visita a lady Middleton, que hasta ese momento no había tenido límites precisos, repentinamente se descubrió que siempre había estado pensada para terminar en dos días más.
Cuando a los diez minutos de haberla recibido le mostraron a Elinor la nota, debió compartir por primera vez parte de las expectativas de Lucy; tal muestra de desacostumbrada gentileza, dispensada a tan poco tiempo de conocerse, parecía anunciar que la buena voluntad hacia Lucy se originaba en algo más que una mera inquina hacia ella, y que el tiempo y la cercanía podrían llegar a secundar a Lucy en todos sus deseos. Sus adulaciones ya habían subyugado el orgullo de lady Middleton y encontrado el camino hacia el frío corazón de la señora de John Dashwood; y tales resultados ampliaban las probabilidades de otros mayores aún.
Las señoritas Steele se trasladaron a Harley Street, y todo cuanto llegaba a Elinor sobre su influencia allí la hacía estar más a la expectativa del acontecimiento. Sir John, que las visitó más de una vez, trajo noticias asombrosas para todos sobre el favor en que se las tenía. La señora Dashwood jamás en toda su vida había encontrado a ninguna joven tan agradable como a ellas; le había regalado a cada una un acerico, hecho por algún emigrado; llamaba a Lucy por su nombre de pila, y no sabía si alguna vez iba a poder separarse de ellas.
La señora Palmer se encontraba tan bien al término de una quincena, que su madre sintió que ya no era necesario destinarle todo su tiempo a ella; y contentándose con visitarla una o dos veces al día, dio fin a esta etapa para volver a su propio hogar y a sus propias costumbres, encontrando a las señoritas Dashwood muy dispuestas a retomar la parte que habían desempeñado en ellas.
Al tercer o cuarto día tras haberse reinstalado en Berkeley Street, la señora Jennings, recién de vuelta de su visita cotidiana a la señora Palmer, entró con un aire de tan apremiante importancia en la sala donde Elinor se encontraba a solas, que ésta se preparó para escuchar algo prodigioso; y tras haberle dado sólo el tiempo necesario para formarse tal idea, comenzó de inmediato a fundamentarla diciendo: .
-¡Cielos! ¡Mi querida señorita Dashwood! ¿Supo la noticia?
-No, señora. ¿De qué se trata?
-¡Algo tan extraño! Pero ya le contaré todo. Cuando llegué donde el señor Palmer, encontré a Charlotte armando todo un alboroto en torno al niño. Estaba segura de que estaba muy enfermo: lloraba y estaba molesto, y estaba todo cubierto de granitos. Lo examiné entonces de cerca, y “¡Cielos, querida!”, le dije. “No es nada, sólo un sarpullido”, y la niñera dijo lo mismo. Pero Charlotte no, ella no estaba satisfecha, así que enviaron por el señor Donovan; y por suerte acababa de llegar de Harley Street, así que fue de inmediato, y apenas vio al niño dijo lo mismo que nosotras, que no era nada sino un sarpullido, y ahí Charlotte se quedó tranquila. Y entonces, justo cuando se iba, me vino a la cabeza, y no sé cómo se me fue a ocurrir pensar en eso, pero se me vino a la cabeza preguntarle si había alguna noticia. Y entonces él puso esa sonrisita afectada y tonta, y fingió todo un aire de gravedad, como si supiera esto y lo otro, hasta que al fin susurró: “Por temor a que algún informe desagradable llegara a las jóvenes bajo su cuidado sobre la indisposición de su cuñada, creo aconsejable decir que, en mi opinión, no hay motivo de alarma; confío en que la señora Dashwood se recupere perfectamente”.
-Es lo mismo que yo le dije, querida. “¡Cielos!”, le dije. “¿Está enferma la señora Dashwood?” Y allí salió todo a la luz; y en pocas palabras, según lo que me pude dar cuenta, parece ser esto: el señor Edward Ferrars, el mismísimo joven con quien yo solía hacerle a usted bromas (aunque, como han resultado las cosas, ahora estoy terriblemente contenta de que en verdad no hubiera nada de eso), el señor Edward Ferrars, al parecer, ¡ha estado comprometido desde hace más de un año con mi prima Lucy! ¡Ahí tiene, querida! ¡Y sin que nadie supiera ni una palabra del asunto, salvo Nancy! ¿Lo habría creído posible? No es en absoluto extraño que se gusten, ¡pero que las cosas avanzaran tanto entre ellos, y sin que nadie lo sospechara! ¡Eso sí que es extraño! Nunca llegué a verlos juntos, o con toda seguridad lo habría descubierto de inmediato. Bueno, y entonces mantuvieron todo esto muy en secreto por temor a la señora Ferrars, y ni ella ni el hermano de usted ni su cuñada sospecharon nada de todo el asunto... hasta que esta misma mañana, la pobre Nancy, que, como usted sabe, es una criatura muy bien intencionada, pero nada en el terreno de las conspiraciones, lo soltó todo. “¡Cielos!, pensó para sí, “le tienen tanto cariño a Lucy, que seguro no se opondrán a ello”; y así, vino y se fue donde su cuñada, señorita Dashwood, que estaba sola bordando su tapiz, sin imaginar lo que se le venía encima... porque acababa de decirle a su hermano, apenas hacía cinco minutos, que pensaba armarle a Edward un casamiento con la hija de algún lord, no me acuerdo cuál. Así que ya puede imaginar el golpe que fue para su vanidad y orgullo. En seguida le dio un ataque de histeria, con tales gritos que hasta llegaron a oídos de su hermano, que se encontraba en su propio gabinete abajo, pensando en escribir una carta a su mayordomo en el campo. Entonces voló escaleras arriba y allí ocurrió una escena terrible, porque para entonces se les había unido Lucy, sin soñar siquiera lo que estaba pasando. ¡Pobre criatura! La compadezco. Y créame, pienso que se comportaron muy duros con ella; su cuñada la reprendió hecha una furia, hasta hacerla desmayarse. Nancy, por su parte, cayó de rodillas y lloró amargamente; y su hermano se paseaba por la habitación diciendo que no sabía qué hacer. La señora Dashwood dijo que las jóvenes no podrían quedarse ni un minuto más en la casa, y su hermano también tuvo que arrodillarse para convencerla de que las dejara al menos hasta que hubiesen empacado sus ropas. Y entonces ella tuvo otro ataque de histeria, y él estaba tan asustado que mandó a buscar al señor Donovan, y el señor Donovan encontró la casa toda conmocionada. El carruaje estaba listo en la puerta para llevarse a mis pobres primas, y justo estaban subiéndose cuando él salió; la pobre Lucy, me contó, estaba en tan malas condiciones que apenas podía caminar; y Nancy estaba casi igual de mal. Déjeme decirle que no tengo paciencia con su cuñada; y espero con todo el corazón que se casen, a pesar de su oposición. ¡Dios! ¡Cómo se va a poner el pobre señor Edward cuando lo sepa! ¡Que hayan maltratado así a su amada! Porque dicen que la quiere enormemente, con todas sus fuerzas. ¡No me extrañaría que sintiera la mayor de las pasiones! Y el señor Donovan piensa lo mismo. Conversamos mucho con él sobre esto; y lo mejor de todo es que él volvió a Harley Street, para estar a mano cuando se lo dijeran a la señora Ferrars, porque enviaron por ella apenas mis primas dejaron la casa y su cuñada estaba segura de que también ella se iba a poner histérica; y bien puede ponerse, por lo que a mí me importa. No le tengo compasión a ninguno de ellos. Nunca he conocido a gente que haga tanto alboroto por asuntos de dinero y de grandeza. No hay ningún motivo en el mundo por el que el señor Edward y Lucy no deban casarse; estoy segura de que la señora Ferrars puede permitirse velar muy bien por su hijo; y aunque Lucy personalmente casi no tiene nada, sabe mejor que nadie cómo sacar el mayor provecho de cualquier cosa; y yo diría que si la señora Ferrars le asignara aunque fueran quinientas libras anuales, podría hacerlas lucir lo mismo que otra persona haría con ochocientas. ¡Cielos! ¡Qué cómodos podrían vivir en una casita como la de ustedes, o un poco más grande, con dos doncellas y dos criados; y creo que yo podría ayudarlos en lo de las doncellas, porque la mía, Betty, tiene una hermana desocupada que les vendría perfectamente!
La señora Jennings finalizó su discurso, y como Elinor tuvo tiempo suficiente para ordenar sus pensamientos, pudo responder y hacer los comentarios que se suponía debía despertar en ella el tema en cuestión. Contenta de saber que no era sospechosa de tener ningún interés particular en él y que la señora Jennings (como últimamente varias veces le había parecido ser el caso) ya no se la imaginaba encariñada con Edward; y feliz sobre todo porque no estuviera ahí Marianne, se sintió muy capaz de hablar del asunto sin turbarse y dar una opinión imparcial, según creía, sobre la conducta de cada uno de los interesados.
No sabía Elinor muy bien cuáles eran en verdad sus propias expectativas al respecto, aunque se esforzó seriamente en alejar de ella la idea de que pudiera terminar de otra forma que con el matrimonio de Edward y Lucy. Sí estaba ansiosa de saber lo que diría y haría la señora Ferrars, aunque no cabían muchas dudas en cuanto a su naturaleza, y más ansiosa aún de saber cómo se comportaría Edward. Sentía bastante compasión por él; por Lucy, muy poca... e incluso le costó algo de trabajo procurar ese poco; por el resto, ninguna.
Como la señora Jennings no cambiaba de tema, muy pronto Elinor advirtió que sería necesario preparar a Marianne para discutirlo. Sin pérdida de tiempo había que desengañarla, ponerla al tanto de la verdad y conseguir que escuchara los comentarios de los demás sin revelar ninguna inquietud por su hermana, y tampoco ningún resentimiento hacia Edward.
Penosa era la tarea que debía cumplir Elinor. Iba a tener que destruir lo que en verdad creía ser el principal consuelo de su hermana: dar detalles acerca de Edward que temía lo harían desmerecer para siempre a los ojos de Marianne; y hacer que por el parecido entre sus situaciones, que ante la viva imaginación de ella parecería enorme, debiera revivir una vez más su propia desilusión. Pero ingrata como debía ser tal tarea, había que cumplirla y, en consecuencia, Elinor se apresuró a hacerlo.
Lejos estaba de desear detenerse demasiado en sus propios sentimientos o de mostrar que sufría mucho, a no ser que el dominio sobre sí misma que había practicado desde el momento en que supo del compromiso de Edward le indicara que sería útil frente a Marianne. Su relato fue claro y sencillo; y aunque no pudo estar desprovisto de emoción, no fue acompañado ni de agitación violenta ni de arrebatos de dolor. Eso correspondía más a la oyente, porque Marianne escuchó todo horrorizada y lloró sin parar. Por lo general, Elinor tenía que consolar a los demás cuando ella estaba afligida tanto como cuando ellos lo estaban; y así, confortó a Marianne al ofrecerle la certidumbre de su propia tranquilidad y una vigorosa defensa de Edward frente a todos los cargos, salvo el de imprudencia.
Pero Marianne no dio crédito durante un buen rato a ninguno de los argumentos de Elinor. Edward parecía un segundo Willoughby; y si Elinor admitía, como lo había hecho, que sí lo había amado muy sinceramente, ¡cómo podía sentir menos que ella! En cuanto a Lucy Steele, la consideraba tan absolutamente despreciable, tan completamente incapaz de atraer a ningún hombre sensible, que no la iban a poder convencer primero de creer, y después de perdonar, que Edward hubiera sentido antes ningún afecto por ella. Ni siquiera admitía que hubiese sido algo natural; y Elinor abandonó sus esfuerzos, dejando que algún día la convenciera de que así eran las cosas lo único que podía llegar a convencerla: un conocimiento más profundo de la humanidad.
En su primer intento de comunicación, no había podido ir más allá de establecer el hecho del compromiso y el tiempo que tenía de existencia. Irrumpieron entonces las emociones de Marianne, poniendo fin a todo orden en la descripción de los pormenores; y durante algunos momentos, todo lo que pudo hacerse fue calmar su aflicción, tranquilizar sus temores y combatir su resentimiento. La primera pregunta que hizo, que abrió el camino a nuevos detalles, fue:
-¿Y hace cuánto tiempo que lo sabes, Elinor? ¿Te ha escrito él?
-Lo he sabido desde hace cuatro meses. Cuando Lucy fue por primera vez a Barton Park en noviembre pasado, me habló en privado de su compromiso.
Ante estas palabras, Marianne expresó con sus ojos lo que sus labios no podían formular. Tras un momento de asombrado silencio, exclamó:
-¡Cuatro meses! ¿Lo has sabido durante cuatro meses?
-¡Cómo! ¿Mientras cuidabas de mí cuando yo estaba sumida en el dolor, tu corazón cargaba con todo esto? ¡Y yo que te he reprochado ser feliz!
-No era conveniente que en esos momentos tú supieras cuán opuesto a eso era mi sentir.
-¡Cuatro meses! -volvió a exclamar Marianne-. ¡Y tú tan tranquila, tan alegre! ¿En qué te has sostenido?
-En sentir que estaba cumpliendo mi deber. Mi promesa a Lucy me imponía el secreto. Le debía a ella, entonces, evitar cualquier indicio de la verdad; y le debía a mi familia y a mis amigos evitarles una preocupación por causa mía que no estaría en mis manos solucionar.
Lo anterior pareció sacudir fuertemente a Marianne.
-A menudo he querido sacarte a ti y a mamá del engaño -añadió Elinor-, y una o dos veces he intentado hacerlo; pero sin traicionar la confianza que habían depositado en mí, jamás las habría convencido.
-¡Cuatro meses! ¡Y todavía lo amabas!
-Sí, pero no lo amaba sólo a él; y mientras me importara tanto el bienestar de otras personas, me alegraba ahorrarles el conocimiento de lo mucho que sufría. Ahora puedo pensar y hablar de todo ello sin gran emoción. No querría que sufrieras por causa mía; porque te aseguro que yo ya no sufro excesivamente. Tengo muchas cosas en qué apoyarme. No creo haber causado esta desilusión con ninguna imprudencia mía y la he sobrellevado, en lo que me ha sido posible, sin esparcirla a mi alrededor. Absuelvo a Edward de toda conducta en esencia impropia. Le deseo mucha felicidad; y estoy tan segura de que siempre cumplirá con su deber que, aunque ahora pueda abrigar algún arrepentimiento, a la larga será feliz. Lucy no carece de juicio, y ése es el fundamento sobre el que se puede construir todo lo que es bueno. Y después de todo, Marianne, después de lo fascinante que puede ser la idea de un amor único y permanente y de todo cuanto pueda ponderarse una felicidad que depende por completo de una persona en especial, las cosas no son así... no es adecuado... no es posible que lo sean. Edward se casará con Lucy; se casará con una mujer superior en aspecto e inteligencia a la mitad de las personas de su sexo; y el tiempo y la costumbre le enseñarán a olvidar que alguna vez creyó a alguna otra superior a ella.
-Si es así como piensas -dijo Marianne-, si puede compensarse tan fácilmente la pérdida de lo que es más valioso, tu aplomo y tu dominio sobre ti misma son quizá un poco menos asombrosos. Se acercan más a lo que yo puedo comprender.
-Te entiendo. Supones que mis sentimientos nunca han sido muy fuertes. Durante cuatro meses, Marianne, todo esto me ha pesado en la mente sin haber podido hablar de ello a nadie en el mundo; sabiendo que, cuando lo supieran, tú y mi madre serían enormemente desgraciadas, y aun así impedida de prepararlas para ello ni en lo más mínimo. Me lo contó... de alguna manera me fue impuesto por la misma persona cuyo más antiguo compromiso destrozó todas mis expectativas; y me lo contó, así lo pensé, con aire de triunfo. Tuve, por tanto, que vencer las sospechas de esta persona intentando parecer indiferente allí donde mi interés era más profundo. Y no ha sido sólo una vez; una y otra vez he tenido que escuchar sus esperanzas y alegrías. Me he sabido separada de Edward para siempre, sin saber de ni siquiera una circunstancia que me hiciera desear menos la unión. Nada hay que lo haya hecho menos digno de aprecio, ni nada que asegure que le soy indiferente. He tenido que luchar contra la mala voluntad de su hermana y la insolencia de su madre, y he sufrido los castigos de querer a alguien sin gozar de sus ventajas. Y todo esto ha estado ocurriendo en momentos en que, como tan bien lo sabes, no era el único dolor que me afligía. Si puedes creerme capaz de sentir alguna vez... con toda seguridad podrías suponer que he sufrido ahora. La tranquila mesura con que actualmente he llegado a tomar lo ocurrido, el consuelo que he estado dispuesta a aceptar, han sido producto de un doloroso esfuerzo; no llegaron por sí mismos; en un comienzo no contaba con ellos para aliviar mi espíritu... no, Marianne. Entonces, si no hubiera estado atada al silencio, quizá nada... ni siquiera lo que le debía a mis amigos más queridos... me habría impedido mostrar abiertamente que era muy desdichada.
Marianne estaba completamente consternada.
-¡Ay, Elinor! -exclamó-. Me has hecho odiarme para siempre. ¡Qué desalmada he sido contigo! Contigo, que has sido mi único consuelo, que me has acompañado en toda mi miseria, ¡que parecías sufrir únicamente por mí! ¿Así es como te lo agradezco? ¿Es ésta la única recompensa que puedo ofrecerte? Porque tu valía me abrumaba, he estado intentando desconocerla.
A esta confesión siguieron las más tiernas caricias. Dado el estado de ánimo en que se encontraba ahora, Elinor no tuvo dificultad alguna para obtener de ella todas las promesas que requería; y a pedido suyo, Marianne se comprometió a no tocar nunca el tema con la más mínima apariencia de amargura; a estar con Lucy sin dejar traslucir el menor incremento en el desagrado que sentía por ella; e incluso ,a ver al mismo Edward, si el azar los juntaba, sin disminuir en nada su habitual cordialidad. Todas eran grandes concesiones, pero cuando Marianne sentía que había hecho algún daño, nada que pudiera hacer para repararlo le parecía demasiado.
Cumplió a la perfección su promesa de ser discreta. Prestó atención a todo lo que la señora Jennings tenía que decir sobre el tema sin cambiar de color, no discrepó con ella en nada, y tres veces se la escuchó decir “Sí, señora”. Su única reacción al escucharla alabar a Lucy fue cambiar de asiento, y cuando la señora Jennings mencionó el cariño de Edward, tan sólo se le apretó la garganta. Tantos avances en el heroísmo de su hermana hicieron que Elinor se sintiera capaz de afrontar todo.
La mañana siguiente las puso nuevamente a prueba con la visita de su hermano, que llegó con un aspecto muy serio a discutir el terrible asunto y traerles noticias de su esposa.
-Habrán escuchado, supongo -les dijo con gran solemnidad, no bien se hubo sentado-, del insólito descubrimiento que ayer tuvo lugar bajo nuestro techo.
Todos hicieron gestos de asentimiento; parecía un momento demasiado atroz para las palabras.
-Mi esposa -continuó- ha sufrido espantosamente. También la señora Ferrars... en suma, ha sido una escena muy difícil y dolorosa; pero confío en que capearemos la tormenta sin que ninguno de nosotros resulte demasiado abatido. ¡Pobre Fanny! Estuvo con ataques histéricos todo el día de ayer. Pero no quisiera alarmarlas demasiado. Donovan dice que no hay nada demasiado importante que temer; es de buena constitución y capaz de enfrentarse a cualquier cosa. ¡Lo ha sobrellevado con la entereza de un ángel! Dice que no volverá a pensar bien de nadie; ¡y no es de extrañar, tras haber sido engañada en esa forma! Recibir tanta ingratitud tras mostrar tanta bondad y entregar tanta confianza. Fue obedeciendo a la generosidad de su corazón que invitó a estas jóvenes a su casa; simplemente porque pensó que se merecían algunas atenciones, que eran unas muchachas inofensivas y bien educadas y que serian una compañía agradable; porque por otra parte ambos deseábamos enormemente haberte invitado a ti y a Marianne a quedarse con nosotros, mientras la gentil amiga donde se están quedando ahora atendía a su hija. ¡Y ahora verse así recompensados! “Con todo el corazón”, dice la pobre Fanny con su modo afectuoso, “querría que hubiéramos invitado a tus hermanas en vez de a ellas”.
Hizo en este momento una pausa, esperando los agradecimientos del caso; y habiéndolos obtenido, continuó.
-Lo que sufrió la pobre señora Ferrars cuando Fanny se lo contó, es indescriptible. Mientras ella, con el más sincero afecto, había estado planificando la unión más conveniente para él, ¡cómo suponer que todo el tiempo él había estado comprometido con otra persona! ¡No se le habría pasado por la mente sospechar algo así! Y si hubiera sospechado la existencia de cualquier predisposición de parte de él, no la hubiera buscado por ese lado. “Ahí, se los aseguro”, dijo, “me habría sentido a salvo”. Ha sido una verdadera agonía para ella. Conversamos entre nosotros, entonces, sobre lo que debía hacerse, y finalmente ella decidió enviar por Edward. El acudió. Pero me es muy triste contarles lo que siguió. Todo lo que la señora Ferrars pudo decir para inducirlo a poner fin al compromiso, reforzado, como pueden suponer, por mis argumentos y los ruegos de Fanny, resultó inútil. El deber, el cariño, todo lo desestimó. Nunca había pensado que Edward fuese tan obstinado, tan insensible. Su madre le explicó los generosos proyectos que tenía para él, en caso de que se casase con la señorita Morton; le dijo que le traspasaría las propiedades de Norfolk, las cuales, descontando las contribuciones, producen sus buenas mil libras al año; incluso le ofreció, cuando las cosas se pusieron desesperadas, subirlo a mil doscientas; y por el contrario, si persistía en esta unión tan desventajosa, le describió las inevitables penurias que acompañarían su matrimonio. Le insistió en que las dos mil libras de que personalmente dispone serían todo su haber; no lo volvería a ver nunca más; y estaría tan lejos de prestarle la menor ayuda, que si él fuera a asumir cualquier profesión con miras a obtener un mejor ingreso, haría todo lo que estuviera en su poder para impedirle progresar en ella.
Ante esto, Marianne, en un arrebato de indignación, golpeó sus manos exclamando:
-¡Dios bendito! ¡Cómo es posible!
-Bien puede extrañarte, Marianne -replicó su hermano-, la obstinación capaz de resistir argumentos como ésos. Tu exclamación es absolutamente natural.
Marianne iba a replicar, pero recordó sus promesas, y se abstuvo.
-Todos estos esfuerzos, sin embargo -continuó él-, fueron en vano. Edward dijo muy poco; pero cuando habló, lo hizo de la manera más decidida. Nada podría convencerlo de renunciar a su compromiso. Cumpliría con él, sin importar el costo.
-Entonces -exclamó la señora Jennings con brusca sinceridad, incapaz de seguir guardando silencio-, ha actuado como un hombre honesto. Le ruego me perdone, señor Dashwood, pero si él hubiera hecho otra cosa, habría pensado que era un truhán. En algo me incumbe este asunto, al igual que a usted, porque Lucy Steele es prima mía, y creo que no hay mejor muchacha en el mundo, ni otra más merecedora de un buen esposo.
John Dashwood no cabía en sí de asombro; pero era tranquilo por naturaleza, poco dado a irritarse, y nunca tenía intenciones de ofender a nadie, en especial a nadie con dinero. Fue así que replicó, sin ningún resentimiento:
-Por ningún motivo hablaría yo sin respeto de algún familiar suyo, señora. La señorita Lucy Steele es, me atrevería a decir, una joven muy meritoria, pero en el caso actual, debe saber usted que la unión es imposible. Y haberse comprometido en secreto con un joven entregado al cuidado de su tío, especialmente el hijo de una mujer de tan gran fortuna como la señora Ferrars, quizá es, considerado en conjunto, un poquito extraordinario. En pocas palabras, no es mi intención desacreditar el comportamiento de nadie a quien usted estime, señora Jennings. Todos le deseamos la mayor felicidad a su prima, y la conducta de la señora Ferrars ha sido en todo momento la que adoptaría cualquier madre buena y consciente en parecidas circunstancias. Se ha comportado con dignidad y generosidad. Edward ha echado sus propias suertes, y temo que le van a salir mal.
Marianne expresó con un suspiro un temor semejante; y a Elinor se le encogió el corazón al pensar en los sentimientos de Edward mientras desafiaba las amenazas de su madre por una mujer que no podía recompensarlo.
-Bien, señor -dijo la señora Jennings-, ¿y cómo terminó todo?
-Lamento decir, señora, que con la más desdichada ruptura: Edward ha perdido para siempre la consideración de su madre. Ayer abandonó su casa, pero ignoro a dónde se ha ido o si está todavía en la ciudad; porque, por supuesto, nosotros no podemos preguntar nada.
-¡Pobre joven! ¿Y qué va a ser de él?
-Sí, por cierto, señora. Qué triste es pensarlo. ¡Nacido con la expectativa de tanta riqueza! No puedo imaginar una situación más deplorable. Los intereses de dos mil libras, ¡cómo va a vivir una persona con eso! Y cuando, además, se piensa que, de no haber sido por su propia locura en tres meses más habría recibido dos mil quinientas libras anuales (puesto que la señorita Morton posee treinta mil libras), no puedo imaginar situación más funesta. Todos debemos tenerle lástima; y más aún considerando que ayudarlo está totalmente fuera de nuestro alcance.
-¡Pobre joven! -exclamó la señora Jennings Les aseguro que de muy buen grado le daría alojamiento y comida en mi casa; y así se lo diría, si pudiera verlo. No está bien que tenga que costearse todo solo ahora, viviendo en posadas y tabernas.
Elinor le agradeció íntimamente por su bondad hacia Edward, aunque no podía evitar sonreír ante la manera en que era expresada.
-Si tan sólo hubiese hecho por sí mismo -dijo John Dashwood- lo que sus amigos estaban dispuestos a hacer por él, estaría ahora en la situación que le corresponde y nada le habría faltado. Pero tal como son las cosas, ayudarlo está fuera del alcance de nadie. Y hay algo más que se está preparando en su contra, peor que todo lo anterior: su madre ha decidido, empujada por un estado de ánimo muy entendible, asignar de inmediato a Robert las mismas propiedades que, en las condiciones adecuadas, habrían sido de Edward. La dejé esta mañana con su abogado, hablando de este asunto.
-¡Bien! dijo la señora Jennings-, ésa es su venganza. Cada uno lo hace a su manera. Pero no creo que yo me vengaría dando independencia económica a un hijo porque el otro me había fastidiado.
Marianne se levantó y salió de la habitación.
-¿Puede haber algo más mortificante para el espíritu de un hombre -continuó John- que ver a su hermano menor dueño de una propiedad que podría haber sido suya? ¡Pobre Edward! Lo compadezco sinceramente.
Tras algunos minutos más entregado al mismo tipo de expansiones, terminó su visita; y asegurándoles repetidas veces a sus hermanas que no había ningún peligro grave en la indisposición de Fanny y que, por lo tanto no debían preocuparse por ella, se fue, dejando a las tres damas con unánimes sentimientos sobre los sucesos del momento, al menos en lo que tocaba a la conducta de la señora Ferrars, la de los Dashwood y la de Edward.
La indignación de Marianne estalló no bien su hermano dejó la habitación; y como su vehemencia hacía imposible la discreción de Elinor e innecesaria la de la señora Jennings, las tres se unieron en una muy animada crítica de todo el grupo.
La señora Jennings elogió cálidamente la conducta de Edward, pero sólo Elinor y Marianne comprendían el verdadero mérito de ella. Únicamente ellas sabían qué escasos eran los incentivos que podían haberlo tentado a la desobediencia, y cuán poco consuelo, más allá de la conciencia de hacer lo correcto, le quedaría tras la pérdida de sus amigos y su fortuna. Elinor se enorgullecía de su integridad; y Marianne le perdonaba todas sus ofensas por compasión ante su castigo. Pero aunque el haber salido todo a la luz les devolvió la confianza que siempre había existido entre ellas, no era un tema en el que ninguna de las dos quisiera detenerse demasiado cuando se encontraban a solas. Elinor lo evitaba por principio, pues advertía lo mucho que tendía a transformársele en una idea fija con las demasiado entusiastas y positivas certezas de Marianne, esto es, su creencia en que Edward la seguía queriendo, un pensamiento del cual ella más bien deseaba desprenderse; y el valor de Marianne pronto la abandonó al intentar conversar sobre un tema que cada vez le producía una mayor insatisfacción consigo misma, puesto que necesariamente la llevaba a comparar la conducta de Elinor con la suya propia.
Sentía todo el peso de la comparación, pero no como su hermana había esperado, incitándola ahora a hacer un esfuerzo; lo sentía con el dolor de un continuo reprocharse a sí misma, lamentaba con enorme amargura no haberse esforzado nunca antes, pero ello sólo le traía la tortura de la penitencia sin la esperanza de la reparación. Su espíritu se había debilitado a tal grado que todavía se sentía incapaz de ningún esfuerzo, y así lo único que lograba era desanimarse más.
Durante uno o dos días no tuvieron ninguna otra noticia de los asuntos de Harley Street o de Bartlett's Buildings. Pero aunque ya sabían tanto del tema que la señora Jennings podría haber estado suficientemente ocupada en difundirlo sin tener que averiguar más, desde un comienzo ésta había decidido hacer una visita de consuelo e inspección a sus primas tan pronto como pudiera; y nada sino el verse estorbada por más visitas que lo habitual le había impedido cumplirlo en el plazo transcurrido.
Al tercer día tras haberse enterado de los pormenores del asunto, el clima fue tan agradable, un domingo tan hermoso, que muchos se dirigieron a los jardines de Kensington, aunque recién corría la segunda semana de marzo. La señora Jennings y Elinor estaban entre ellos; pero Marianne, que sabía que los Willoughby estaban de nuevo en la ciudad y vivía en constante temor de encontrarlos, prefirió permanecer en casa antes que aventurarse a ir a un lugar tan público.
Poco después de haber llegado al parque, se les unió y siguió con ellas una íntima amiga de la señora Jennings, a la cual ésta dirigió toda su conversación; Elinor no lamentó esto en absoluto, porque le permitió dedicarse a pensar tranquilamente.
No vio ni trazas de los Willoughby o de Edward, y durante algún rato de nadie que de una u otra forma, grata o ingrata, le fuera interesante. Pero al final, y con una cierta sorpresa de su parte, se vio abordada por la señorita Steele, quien, aunque con algo de timidez, se manifestó encantada de haberse encontrado con ellas, y a instancias de la muy gentil invitación de la señora Jennings, dejó por un momento a su propio grupo para unírseles. De inmediato, la señora Jennings se dirigió a Elinor en un susurro:
-Sáquele todo, querida. A usted la señorita Steele le contará cualquier cosa con sólo preguntárselo. Ya ve usted que yo no puedo dejar a la señora Clarke.
Afortunadamente para la curiosidad de la señora Jennings, sin embargo, y también la de Elinor, la señorita Steele contaba cualquier cosa sin necesidad de que le hicieran preguntas, porque de otra forma no se habrían enterado de nada.
-Me alegra tanto haberla encontrado -le dijo a Elinor, tomándola familiarmente del brazo-, porque más que nada en el mundo quería verla. -Y luego, bajando la voz-: Supongo que la señora Jennings ya sabrá todo. ¿Está enojada?
-En absoluto, según creo, con ustedes.
-Qué bueno. Y lady Middleton, ¿está ella enojada?
-No veo por qué habría de estarlo.
-Me alegra terriblemente escucharlo. ¡Dios santo! ¡Lo he pasado tan mal con esto! En toda mi vida había visto a Lucy tan furiosa. Primero juró que nunca más volvería a arreglarme ninguna toca nueva ni jamás haría ninguna otra cosa por mí; pero ahora ya se ha aplacado y estamos tan amigas como siempre. Mire, anoche le hizo este lazo a mi sombrero y le colocó la pluma. Ya, ahora también usted se va a reír de mí. Pero, ¿por qué no había yo de usar cintas rosadas? A mí no me importa si es el color favorito del reverendo. Por mi parte, estoy segura de que nunca habría sabido que sí lo prefería por sobre todos los demás, de no ser porque a él se le ocurrió decirlo. ¡Mis primas me han estado fastidiando tanto! Créame, a veces no sé qué hacer cuando estoy con ellas.
Se había desviado a un tema en el cual Elinor no tenía nada que decir, y así pronto juzgó conveniente ver cómo volver al primero.
-Y bueno, señorita Dashwood -su tono era triunfante-, la gente puede decir lo que quiera respecto de que el señor Ferrars haya decidido terminar con Lucy, porque no hay tal, puede creerme; y es una vergüenza que se hagan correr tan odiosos rumores. Sea lo que fuere que Lucy piense al respecto, usted sabe que nadie tenía por qué afirmarlo como algo cierto.
-Le aseguro que no he escuchado a nadie insinuar tal cosa -dijo Elinor.
-¿Ah no? Pero sé muy bien que sí lo han dicho, y más de una persona; porque la señorita Godby le dijo a la señorita Sparks que nadie en su sano juicio podría esperar que el señor Ferrars renunciara a una mujer como la señorita Morton, dueña de una fortuna de treinta mil libras, por Lucy Steele, que no tiene nada en absoluto; y lo escuché de la misma señorita Sparks. Y además, también mi primo Richard dijo que temía que cuando hubiera que poner las cartas sobre la mesa, el señor Ferrars desaparecería; y cuando Edward no se nos acercó en tres días, yo misma no sabía qué creer; pensaba para mí que Lucy lo daba por perdido, pues nos fuimos de la casa de su hermano el miércoles y no lo vimos en todo el jueves, viernes y sábado, y no sabíamos qué había sido de él. En un momento Lucy pensó escribirle, pero luego su espíritu se rebeló ante la idea. No obstante, él apareció hoy en la mañana, justo cuando volvíamos de la iglesia; y allí supimos todo: cómo el miércoles le habían pedido ir a Harley Street y su madre y todos los demás le habían hablado, y cómo él había declarado ante todos que sólo amaba a Lucy y que no se casaría con nadie sino con Lucy. Y cómo había estado tan preocupado por lo ocurrido, que junto con salir de la casa de su madre había montado en su caballo y se había dirigido a no sé qué lugar en el campo; y cómo se había quedado en una posada todo el jueves y el viernes, para imaginar qué hacer. Y tras pensar una y otra vez todo el asunto, dijo que le parecía que ahora que no tenía fortuna, que no tenía nada en absoluto, sería una maldad pedirle a Lucy que mantuviera el compromiso, porque con ello saldría perdiendo, dado que él sólo tenía dos mil libras y ninguna esperanza de nada más; y si él iba a tomar las órdenes religiosas, como en ocasiones había pensado hacer, no obtendría nada sino una parroquia, y, ¿cómo iban a vivir con eso? No soportaba pensar que a ella no le fuera mejor en la vida, así que le imploró, si ello le importaba aunque fuera un poco, poner término de inmediato a todo el asunto y dejar que él se las ingeniara por sí mismo. Todo esto se lo escuché decir con absoluta claridad. Y fue completamente por el bien de ella, y pensando en ella, no en él, que habló de terminar el compromiso. Puedo jurar que nunca dijo una sílaba respecto de estar cansado de ella o desear casarse con la señorita Morton o nada que se le parezca. Pero, en todo caso, Lucy no quiso prestar oído a palabras tan bondadosas, y así le dijo de inmediato (con mucha dulzura y amor, ya sabe, todo eso... ¡Uy!, una no puede repetir esas cosas, ya sabe)... le dijo de inmediato que no tenía ninguna intención de romper el compromiso, porque podía vivir con él con una nada, y por poco que fuera lo que él tenía, ella se contentaría con eso, o algo así. Entonces él se alegró horrores, y hablaron durante un rato acerca de lo que debían hacer, y estuvieron de acuerdo en que él tomara las órdenes de inmediato y en que debían postergar su boda hasta que él pudiera obtener un beneficio. Y justo en ese momento no pude seguir escuchando, porque mi prima me llamó desde abajo para decirme que la señora Richardson había llegado en su coche y llevaría a una de nosotras a los jardines de Kensington; así que me vi obligada a entrar en la habitación e interrumpirlos para preguntarle a Lucy si deseaba ir, pero no quería dejar a Edward; así que corrí arriba y me puse un par de medias de seda, y me vine con los Richardson.
-No entiendo bien qué quiere decir con eso de interrumpirlos -dijo Elinor-; ustedes estaban en la misma habitación, ¿o no?
-¡Por supuesto que no! ¡Vaya, señorita Dashwood! ¿Acaso piensa que la gente se dice palabras de amor cuando hay alguien más presente? ¡Pero, cómo se le ocurre! Estoy segura de que usted sabe de eso mucho más que yo -dijo riendo de manera afectada-. No, no; estaban encerrados en la sala, y todo lo que oí fue sólo escuchando a través de la puerta.
-¡Cómo! -exclamó Elinor-. ¿Me ha estado repitiendo cosas de las que se enteró únicamente escuchando a través de la puerta? Lamento no haberlo sabido antes, pues de ninguna manera habría aceptado que me comunicara pormenores de una conversación que usted misma no debía conocer. ¿Cómo pudo proceder tan mal con su hermana?
-¡Pero no! Qué problema va a haber con eso. Me limité a pararme junto a la puerta y a escuchar todo lo que podía. Y estoy segura de que Lucy habría hecho lo mismo conmigo, porque hace uno o dos años, cuando Martha Sharpe y yo compartíamos tantos secretos, ella no tenía empacho en esconderse en un armario, o tras la pantalla de la chimenea, para escuchar lo que conversábamos.
Elinor intentó cambiar de tema, pero era imposible alejar a la señorita Steele por más de un par de minutos de lo que ocupaba el primer lugar en su mente.
-Edward habla de irse pronto a Oxford -dijo-, pero por el momento está alojado en el N° ... de Pall Mall. Qué mala persona es su madre, ¿no? ¡Y su hermano y su cuñada tampoco fueron muy amables! Pero no le voy a hablar a usted en contra de ellos; y con todo, nos enviaron a casa en su propio carruaje, lo que fue más de lo que yo esperaba. Y por mi parte, yo estaba aterrada de que su cuñada fuera a pedir que le devolviéramos los acericos que nos había dado uno o dos días atrás; pero nada se dijo sobre ellos, y me cuidé de mantener el mío fuera de la vista de los demás. Edward dice que tiene que arreglar algunos asuntos en Oxford, así que debe ir allá por un tiempo; y después, apenas consiga a un obispo, se ordenará. ¡Qué curiosidad me da saber qué parroquia le darán! ¡Dios bendito! -continuó con una risita tonta-, apostaría mi vida a que sé lo que dirán mis primas cuando lo sepan. Me dirán que le escriba al reverendo, para que le dé a Edward la parroquia de su nuevo beneficio. Sé que lo harán; pero le digo que por nada del mundo haría tal cosa. “¡Ay!”, les diré directamente, “como pueden pensar tal cosa. Yo escribirle al reverendo... ¡por favor!”
-Bueno -dijo Elinor-, es un alivio estar preparada para lo peor. Ya tiene lista su respuesta.
La señorita Steele iba a continuar con el mismo tema, pero la proximidad del grupo con el que había venido la obligó a cambiarlo.
-¡Ay! Ahí vienen los Richardson. Tenía mucho más que contarle, pero tengo que ir a reunirme con ellos ya. Le aseguro que son personas muy distinguidas. El hace horrores de dinero, y tienen su propio carruaje. No tengo tiempo de hablar personalmente a la señora Jennings, pero por favor dígale que estoy muy contenta de saber que no está enojada con nosotras, y lo mismo respecto de lady Middleton; y si ocurriese cualquier cosa que las obligara a usted y a su hermana a alejarse, y la señora Jennings quisiese compañía, tenga plena seguridad de que estaríamos felices de quedamos con ella durante todo el tiempo que quisiera. Supongo que lady Middleton no nos volverá a invitar esta temporada. Adiós; lamento que no estuviera acá la señorita Marianne. Déle mis más afectuosos recuerdos. ¡Vaya, si está usted usando su vestido de muselina a lunares! ¿Acaso no temía rasgarlo?
Tal fue su preocupación al separarse, pues tras haberlo dicho, sólo tuvo tiempo de presentar sus respetos y despedirse de la señora Jennings antes de que la señora Richardson reclamara su compañía; y así, Elinor quedó en posesión de información que serviría de alimento a sus reflexiones durante algún tiempo, aunque no se había enterado de casi nada que ya no hubiera previsto y supuesto por sí misma. El matrimonio de Edward y Lucy estaba tan firmemente decidido y la fecha en que tendría lugar tan absolutamente imprecisa como ella creía que estarían; según lo había esperado, todo dependía de ese cargo que, hasta el momento, parecía no tener posibilidad alguna de obtener.
Tan pronto estuvieron de vuelta en el carruaje, la señora Jennings se manifestó ansiosa de información; pero como Elinor deseaba difundir lo menos posible aquella que, en primer lugar, había sido obtenida de manera tan poco leal, se limitó a una sucinta repetición de esos simples pormenores que estaba segura que Lucy, por su propio interés, desearía se hicieran públicos. La continuidad de su compromiso y los medios que utilizarían para llevarlo a buen término fue todo lo que contó; y esto llevó a la señora Jennings a la siguiente y muy natural observación:
-¡Esperar hasta que consiga un beneficio! Claro, todos sabemos cómo va a terminar eso: esperarán un año, y viendo que así no consiguen nada, se acomodarán en una parroquia de cincuenta libras anuales, más los intereses de las dos mil libras de él y lo poco que el señor Steele y el señor Pratt puedan darle a ella. ¡Y después tendrán un hijo cada año! ¡Y Dios los libre, qué pobres serán! Tengo que ver qué puedo darles para ayudarlos a instalar su casa. Dos doncellas y dos criados decía yo el otro día... ¡qué va! No, no, deben conseguirse una chica fuerte para todo servicio. La hermana de Betty de ninguna manera les serviría ahora.
A la mañana siguiente le llegó a Elinor una carta por correo, de la misma Lucy. Decía como sigue:
Espero que mi querida señorita Dashwood me perdone la libertad que me he tomado al escribirle; pero sé que sus sentimientos de amistad hacia mí harán que le complazca saber tan buenas noticias de mí y mi querido Edward, tras todos los problemas que debimos enfrentar el último tiempo; por tanto, no me excusaré más y procederé a decirle que, ¡gracias a Dios!, aunque hemos sufrido atrozmente, ahora estamos muy bien y tan felices como siempre deberemos estar, por nuestro mutuo amor. Hemos enfrentado grandes pruebas y grandes persecuciones, pero, al mismo tiempo, debemos agradecer a muchos amigos, entre los cuales usted ocupa uno de los lugares más importantes, cuya gran bondad recordaré siempre con toda mi gratitud, al igual que Edward, a quien le he hablado de ella. Estoy segura de que tanto a usted como a la querida señora Jennings les alegrará saber que ayer en la tarde pasé dos felices horas junto a él, que él no quería oír hablar de separamos, aunque yo, pensando que era mi deber hacerlo, insistí en ello en aras de la prudencia, y me habría separado de él en ese mismo momento, de haberlo él aceptado; pero me dijo que ello no ocurriría jamás, no le importaba el enojo de su madre mientras contara con mi afecto; nuestras perspectivas no son muy brillantes, a decir verdad, pero debemos esperar y confiar en que ocurra lo mejor; muy pronto se ordenará, y si estuviera en su poder recomendarlo a quienquiera tenga un beneficio que otorgar, estoy segura de que no nos olvidará, y la querida señora Jennings también, confiamos en que intercederá por nosotros ante sir John o el señor Palmer, o cualquier amigo que pueda ayudamos. La pobre Anne ha tenido mucha culpa en todo esto por lo que hizo, pero lo hizo con las mejores intenciones, así que no digo nada; espero que no sea un gran problema para la señora Jennings pasar a visitamos, si alguna mañana viene por estos lados;, sería muy amable si lo hiciera, y mis primas estarían orgullosas de conocerla. El papel en que escribo me recuerda que ya debo terminar, rogándole que le presente mis más agradecidos y respetuosos recuerdos, lo mismo que a sir John y lady Middleton, y a los queridos niños, cuando tenga oportunidad de verlos, y mi amor para la señorita Marianne, quedo, etc., etc.
Tan pronto Elinor terminó de leer la carta, llevó a cabo lo que, según sus conclusiones, era el verdadero objetivo de quien la había escrito, y la colocó en manos de la señora Jennings, que la leyó en voz alta con profusos comentarios de satisfacción y alabanza.
-¡Pero qué bien! ¡Y qué bonito escribe! Sí, pues, eso fue muy correcto, liberarlo del compromiso si él así lo quería. Eso fue muy propio de Lucy. ¡Pobre criatura! Con todo el corazón querría poder conseguirle un beneficio... Mire, me llama querida señora Jennings. Es una de las mejores muchachas que existe... Muy bien, le digo. Esa frase está muy bien armada. Sí, sí, por supuesto que iré a verla. ¡Qué atenta, piensa en todo el mundo! Gracias, querida, por mostrármela. Es una de las cartas más bonitas que yo haya visto, y habla muy bien de la inteligencia y los sentimientos de Lucy.
Las señoritas Dashwood llevaban ya algo más de dos meses en la ciudad, y la impaciencia de Marianne por irse aumentaba de día en día. Añoraba el aire, la libertad, la tranquilidad del campo; y se imaginaba que si algún lugar podía traerle paz, ese lugar era Barton. No era menor la ansiedad de Elinor, cuyo deseo de partir de inmediato era menor al de Mariana sólo en la medida en que estaba consciente de las dificultades de un viaje tan largo, algo que la última se negaba a admitir. No obstante, comenzó a pensar seriamente en llevarlo a cabo, y ya había mencionado sus deseos a su gentil anfitriona, que se resistió a ellos con toda la elocuencia de su buena voluntad, cuando surgió una posibilidad que, aunque aún las mantenía lejos del hogar durante algunas semanas más, en conjunto le pareció a Elinor mucho más conveniente que ningún otro plan. Los Palmer se irían a Cleveland más o menos a fines de marzo, por Pascua de Resurrección; y la señora Jennings, junto a sus dos amigas, recibieron una muy cálida invitación de Charlotte para acompañarlos. En sí mismo, este ofrecimiento no habría sido suficiente para la delicadeza de la señorita Dashwood; pero como fue respaldado por una muy real cortesía de parte del señor Palmer, y a ello se sumó la enorme mejoría que había experimentado su trato hacia ellas desde que se supo que su hermana pasaba por momentos muy desdichados, pudo aceptarlo con gran placer.
Cuando le dijo a Marianne lo que había hecho, sin embargo, la primera a reacción que tuvo no fue muy auspiciosa.
-¡Cleveland! -exclamó muy agitada-. No, no puedo ir a Cleveland.
-Te olvidas -le respondió Elinor gentilmente que la casa de Cleveland no está... que no está en las vecindades de...
-Pero es en Somersetshire... Yo no puedo ir a Somersetshire... Ahí, adonde tanto deseé ir... No, Elinor, no puedes pretender que vaya allá.
Elinor no quiso discutir sobre la conveniencia de superar tales sentimientos; se limitó a esforzarse en contrarrestarlos recurriendo a otros; y, así, le pintó ese viaje como una forma de fijar el plazo en que podrían volver donde su querida madre, a quien tanto deseaba ver, de la manera más conveniente y cómoda, y quizá sin gran tardanza. Desde Cleveland, que estaba a unas pocas millas de Bristol, la distancia a Barton no era más de un día de viaje, aunque fuera un largo día; y el criado de su madre podía fácilmente ir ahí para acompañarlas; y como no tendrían que quedarse en Cleveland más de una semana, podrían estar de vuelta en casa en poco más de tres semanas a contar de ese momento. Como el cariño de Marianne por su madre era sincero, debía vencer, con muy pocas dificultades, los males imaginarios que ella había puesto en acción.
La señora Jennings estaba tan lejos de sentirse hastiada de sus huéspedes, que las instó con gran vehemencia a que volvieran con ella a su casa desde Cleveland. Elinor le agradeció la atención, pero ésta no consiguió cambiar sus planes; y con el inmediato acuerdo de su madre, tomaron todas las providencias necesarias para volver al hogar en las mejores condiciones posibles; y Marianne encontró un cierto alivio en poner por escrito las horas que aún la separaban de Barton.
-¡Ah, coronel! No sé qué haremos, usted y yo, sin las señoritas Dashwood -fueron las palabras que le dirigió la señora Jennings la primera vez que él la visitó tras haberse fijado la partida de Elinor y Marianne-, porque están decididas a volver a su casa desde donde los Palmer; ¡y qué solitarios estaremos cuando yo vuelva acá! ¡Dios! Nos sentaremos a mirarnos con la boca abierta, más aburridos que un par de gatos.
Quizá la señora Jennings tenía la esperanza de que este expresivo boceto de su futuro hastío lo incitara a hacer esa proposición que le permitiría liberarse de tal destino; y si así era, poco después tuvo motivos para pensar que había logrado su objetivo; pues al acercarse Elinor a la ventana para tomar de manera más expedita las medidas de un grabado que iba a copiar para su amiga, él la siguió con una mirada particularmente significativa y conversó con ella durante varios minutos. Tampoco el efecto que tuvo esta conversación en la joven escapó a la observación de la señora Jennings, pues aunque era demasiado digna para estar escuchando, e incluso para no escuchar se había cambiado de lugar a uno cercano al piano donde Marianne estaba tocando, no pudo evitar ver que Elinor mudaba de color, escuchaba con gran agitación y estaba demasiado concentrada en lo que él decía para seguir con su labor. Confirmando aún más sus esperanzas, en el intervalo en que Marianne cambiaba de una lección a otra no pudo evitar que llegaran a sus oídos algunas de las palabras del coronel, con las cuales parecía estar excusándose por el mal estado de su casa. Esto eliminó toda duda en ella. Le extrañó, es cierto, que él pensara que ello era necesario, pero supuso que sería la etiqueta correcta. No pudo distinguir la respuesta de Elinor, pero a juzgar por el movimiento de sus labios, parecía pensar que ésa no era una objeción de peso; y la señora Jennings la alabó en su corazón por su honestidad. Siguieron hablando luego sin que pudiera captar ni una palabra más, cuando otra afortunada pausa en la ejecución de Marianne le hizo llegar estas palabras en la tranquila voz del coronel:
-Temo que no pueda realizarse muy pronto.
Atónita y espantada ante palabras tan poco propias de un enamorado, estuvo casi a punto de exclamar a viva voz, “¡Dios! ¡Y qué trabas podría haber!”; pero frenando su impulso, se limitó a exclamar para sí: “¡Qué extraño! Seguro que no necesita esperar a ser más viejo”.
Esta tardanza de parte del coronel, sin embargo, no pareció ofender ni mortificar en lo más mínimo a su hermosa compañera, pues cuando poco después terminaban de conversar y se separaban en distintas direcciones, la señora Jennings escuchó claramente a Elinor diciendo, con voz que mostraba que sentía lo que decía:
-Para siempre me sentiré en deuda con usted.
La señora Jennings se sintió encantada ante esta muestra de gratitud, y tan sólo se extrañó de que el coronel, tras escuchar tales palabras, pudiera despedirse, según lo hizo de inmediato, con la mayor sangre fría, ¡y marcharse sin responderle nada! Jamás habría pensado que su viejo amigo sería un pretendiente tan poco entusiasta.
Lo que realmente hablaron entre ellos, fue como sigue:
-He sabido -dijo él, con enorme piedad- de la injusticia cometida con su amigo, el señor Ferrars, por su familia; si estoy en lo cierto, lo han proscrito completamente por persistir en su compromiso con una joven muy meritoria. ¿Se me ha informado bien? ¿Es así?
Elinor le respondió que así era.
-La crueldad, la grosera crueldad -replicó él, con gran emoción- de dividir, o intentar dividir a dos jóvenes que se quieren, es terrible. La señora Ferrars no sabe lo que puede estar haciendo, a lo que puede llevar a su hijo. Dos o tres veces he visto al señor Ferrars en Harley Street, y me agrada mucho. No es un joven al que se pueda llegar a conocer íntimamente en poco tiempo, pero lo he visto lo suficiente para desearle el bien por sus propios méritos, y en cuanto amigo suyo, se lo deseo aún más. Entiendo que desea ordenarse. ¿Tendría la bondad de decirle que el beneficio de Delaford, que acaba de quedar vacante, según me han informado en el correo de hoy, es suyo si cree que vale la pena aceptarlo? Aunque, quizá, en las desafortunadas circunstancias en que ahora se encuentra parecería insensato dudarlo. Sólo desearía que el beneficio fuera de mayor valor. Es una rectoría, pero pequeña; creo que el último titular no hacía más de doscientas libras al año, y aunque por supuesto puede mejorar, temo que no en la cantidad que le permitiría al señor Ferrars un ingreso muy holgado. No obstante, en las actuales circunstancias tendré mucho gusto en presentarlo. Por favor, dígaselo.
El asombro de Elinor ante este encargo difícilmente habría sido mayor si el coronel en verdad le hubiera estado ofreciendo matrimonio. Tan sólo dos días atrás había pensado que Edward no tenía esperanza alguna de conseguir el cargo que le permitiría casarse, y ahora era suyo; ¡y ella, nada menos que ella, era la encargada de hacérselo saber! Su emoción fue grande, aunque la señora Jennings la hubiera atribuido a otra causa; y aun si en ella se mezclaban pequeños sentimientos menos puros, menos agradables, también sentía una enorme gratitud y aprecio, que expresó en cálidas palabras, por la general benevolencia y los especiales sentimientos de amistad que habían llevado al coronel a realizar ese gesto. Se lo agradeció de todo corazón, elogió ante él los principios y disposición de Edward de la manera en que creía se lo merecían, y prometió llevar a cabo el encargo con gran placer, si en verdad era su deseo dar a otra persona una tarea tan agradable. Pero, al mismo tiempo, no pudo evitar pensar que nadie la cumpliría mejor que él. Era, en pocas palabras, una misión de la cual le habría gustado verse libre, por no infligir a Edward el dolor de recibir un favor de ella; pero el coronel Brandon, a quien guiaba idéntica delicadeza para preferir no hacerlo él mismo, parecía tan empeñado en que ella se hiciera cargo, que de ninguna manera quiso Elinor negarse. Pensaba que Edward aún se encontraba en la ciudad, y por fortuna le había escuchado su dirección a la señorita Steele. Podía, entonces, cumplir con informarlo ese mismo día. Tras haberse acordado esto, el coronel Brandon comenzó a hablar de las ventajas que para él representaba haber conseguido un vecino tan respetable y agradable; y fue entonces que lamentó que la casa fuera pequeña y de regular calidad, un problema al cual Elinor, tal como la señora Jennings supuso que había hecho, no dio mayor importancia, al menos en lo concerniente al tamaño de la vivienda.
-A mi ver -le dijo-, no significará ningún inconveniente para ellos el que la casa sea pequeña, porque será proporcional a su familia y a sus ingresos.
El coronel se sorprendió al descubrir que ella pensaba en el matrimonio de Edward como la consecuencia directa de la propuesta, pues no imaginaba posible que el beneficio de Delaford pudiera aportar el tipo de ingreso con el que alguien acostumbrado al estilo de vida del joven se atrevería a establecerse, y así lo dijo.
-Esta pequeña rectoría no da más que para mantener al señor Ferrars como soltero; no le permite casarse. Lamento decir que mi patrocinio termina aquí, y tampoco mi participación va más allá. Sin embargo, si por alguna imprevista casualidad estuviera en mi poder prestarle un nuevo servicio, tendría que haber cambiado mucho mi opinión sobre él si en ese momento no estuviera tan dispuesto a serle útil como sinceramente quisiera poder serlo ahora. Lo que hoy hago parece escaso, dado que le permite avanzar tan poco hacia el que debe ser su principal, su único motivo de felicidad. Su matrimonio todavía debe seguir siendo un bien lejano; al menos, temo que no pueda realizarse muy pronto.
Tal fue la frase que, al equivocar su sentido, ofendió de manera tan justa los delicados sentimientos de la señora Jennings; pero tras este relato de lo que en verdad ocurrió entre el coronel Brandon y Elinor mientras estaban junto a la ventana, la gratitud expresada por ésta al separarse quizá aparezca, en general, no menos razonablemente encendida ni menos adecuadamente enunciada que si su causa hubiera sido una oferta de matrimonio.
-Bien, señorita Dashwood -dijo la señora Jennings con una sonrisa sagaz apenas se hubo ido el caballero-, no le preguntaré lo que le ha estado diciendo el coronel, pues aunque, por mi honor, intenté no escuchar, no pude evitar oír lo suficiente para entender lo que él pretendía. Le aseguro que nunca en mi vida he estado más contenta, y le deseo de todo corazón que ello la alegre.
-Gracias, señora -dijo Elinor-. Es motivo de gran alegría para mí, y siento que hay una gran sensibilidad en la bondad del coronel Brandon. No muchos hombres actuarían como él lo ha hecho. ¡Pocos tienen un corazón tan compasivo! En toda mi vida había estado tan asombrada.
-¡Buen Dios, querida, qué modesta es usted! A mí no me extraña en absoluto, porque ahora último he pensado muchas veces que era muy probable que ocurriera.
-Usted juzgaba a partir de la benevolencia general del coronel; pero al menos no podía prever que la oportunidad se presentaría tan pronto.
-¡La oportunidad! -repitió la señora Jennings-. ¡Ah! En cuanto a eso, una vez que un hombre se ha decidido en estas cosas, se las arreglará de una u otra forma para encontrar una oportunidad. Bien, querida, la felicito nuevamente; y si alguna vez ha habido una pareja feliz en el mundo, creo que pronto sabré dónde buscarla.
-Piensa ir a Delaford tras ellos, supongo -dijo Elinor con una débil sonrisa.
-Claro, querida, por supuesto lo haré. Y en cuanto a que la casa no sea buena, no sé a qué se referiría el coronel, porque es de las mejores que he visto.
-Decía que necesitaba algunas reparaciones.
-Bien, ¿y de quién es la culpa? ¿Por qué no la repara? ¿Quién sino él tendría que hacerlo?
Las interrumpió la entrada del criado, con el anuncio de que el carruaje ya estaba en la puerta; y la señora Jennings, preparándose de inmediato para salir, dijo:
-Bien, querida, tengo que irme antes de haber dicho ni la mitad de lo que quería. Pero podremos conversarlo en detalle en la noche, porque estaremos solas. No le pido que venga conmigo, porque me imagino que tiene la mente demasiado llena para querer compañía; y, además, debe estar ansiosa de ir a contarle todo a su hermana.
Marianne había abandonado la habitación antes de que empezaran a conversar.
-Por supuesto, señora, se lo contaré a Marianne; pero por el momento no se lo mencionaré a nadie más.
-¡Ah, está bien! -dijo la señora Jennings algo desilusionada-. Entonces no querrá que se lo cuente a Lucy, porque pienso llegar hasta Holborn hoy.
-No, señora, ni siquiera a Lucy, si me hace el favor. Una tardanza de un día no significará mucho; y hasta que no le escriba al señor Ferrars, pienso que no hay que mencionárselo a nadie más. Lo haré de inmediato. Es importante no perder tiempo en lo que a él concierne, porque, por supuesto, tendrá mucho que hacer con su ordenación.
Este discurso al comienzo dejó extremadamente perpleja a la señora Jennings. Al principio no entendió por qué había que escribirle a Edward sobre el asunto con tanto apuro. Unos momentos de reflexión, sin embargo, tuvieron como resultado una muy feliz idea, que le hizo exclamar:
-¡Ahá! Ya la entiendo. El señor Ferrars va a ser el hombre. Bien, mejor para él. Claro, por supuesto que tiene que apurarse en tomar las órdenes; y me alegra mucho que las cosas estén tan adelantadas entre ustedes. Pero, querida, ¿no es algo inusitado? ¿No debiera ser el coronel quien le escriba? Seguro que él es la persona adecuada.
Elinor no entendió el sentido de las primeras palabras de la señora Jennings, y tampoco le pareció que valía la pena preguntarlo; y así, respondió sólo a la parte final.
-El coronel Brandon es un hombre tan delicado, que preferiría que fuera cualquier otra persona la que le comunique sus intenciones al señor Fernars.
-Y entonces usted tiene que hacerlo. Bueno, ¡ésa si que es una curiosa delicadeza! Pero -añadió al ver que se preparaba a escribir- no la molestaré más. Usted conoce mejor sus propios asuntos. Así que adiós, querida. Es la mejor noticia que he tenido desde que Charlotte dio a luz.
Y partió, sólo para volver en un instante.
-Acabo de acordarme de la hermana de Betty, querida. Estaría feliz de conseguirle un ama tan buena. Pero en verdad no sé si servirá para doncella de una dama. Es una excelente mucama, y maneja muy bien la aguja. Pero usted decidirá todo eso a su debido tiempo.
-Por supuesto, señora -replicó Elinor, sin escuchar mucho lo que le decían, y más deseosa de estar sola que de dominar el tema.
Cómo comenzar, cómo expresarse en su nota a Edward, era todo lo que le preocupaba ahora. Las peculiares circunstancias existentes entre ellos hacían difícil eso que a cualquier otra persona le habría resultado lo más fácil del mundo; pero ella temía por igual decir demasiado o demasiado poco, y se quedó pensando frente al papel, con la pluma en la mano, hasta que la interrumpió la entrada del mismo Edward.
Había ido a dejar su tarjeta de despedida y se había encontrado en la puerta con la señora Jennings, cuando ésta se dirigía al carruaje; y ella, tras excusarse por no devolverse con él, lo había obligado a entrar diciéndole que la señorita Dashwood estaba arriba y quería hablar con él sobre un asunto muy especial.
Recién Elinor había estado felicitándose en medio de sus vacilaciones, pensando que por difícil que pudiera ser expresarse adecuadamente por escrito, al menos era preferible a dar información de palabra, cuando la repentina entrada de su visitante la sorprendió y confundió de gran manera, obligándola a un nuevo esfuerzo, quizá el mayor de todos. No lo había visto desde que se había hecho público su compromiso y, por tanto, desde que él se había enterado de que ella ya lo sabía; y esto, sumado a su conciencia de lo que había estado pensando, y a lo que tenía que decirle, la hizo sentirse especialmente incómoda durante algunos minutos. También Edward estaba perturbado, y se sentaron uno frente al otro en una situación que prometía ser inconfortable. El no podía recordar si se había excusado por su intrusión al entrar en la habitación; pero, para mayor seguridad, lo hizo formalmente tan pronto pudo decir palabra, tras tomar asiento.
-La señora Jennings me informó -dijo- que usted deseaba hablarme; al menos, eso fue lo que entendí... o de ninguna manera le habría impuesto mi presencia en esta forma; aunque, al mismo tiempo, habría lamentado mucho abandonar Londres sin haberla visto a usted y a su hermana; en especial considerando que con toda seguridad transcurrirá un buen tiempo... no es probable que tenga luego el placer de verlas otra vez. Parto a Oxford mañana.
-No se habría ido, sin embargo -dijo Elinor, recuperándose y decidida a terminar lo antes posible con aquello que tanto temía-, sin haber recibido nuestros mejores parabienes, aunque no hubiéramos podido ofrecérselos personalmente. La señora Jennings estaba muy en lo cierto en lo que dijo. Tengo algo importante que comunicarle, que estaba a punto de informarle por escrito. Me han encomendado la más grata tarea -respiraba algo más rápido de lo acostumbrado al hablar-. El coronel Brandon, que estuvo acá hace tan sólo diez minutos, me ha encargado decirle que, sabiendo que usted piensa ordenarse, tiene el enorme placer de ofrecerle el beneficio de Delaford, que acaba de quedar vacante, y que tan sólo desearía que fuera de mayor valor. Permítame felicitarlo por tener un amigo tan digno y prudente, y unirme a su deseo de que el beneficio, que alcanza a alrededor de doscientas libras al año, representara una suma más considerable, una que le permitiera... dado que puede ser algo más que una plaza temporal para usted... en pocas palabras, una que le permitiera cumplir todos sus deseos de felicidad.
Como Edward no fue capaz de decir por sí mismo lo que sintió, difícilmente puede esperarse que otro lo diga por él. En apariencia, mostraba todo el asombro que una información tan inesperada, tan insospechada no podía dejar de producir; pero tan sólo dijo estas tres palabras:
-Sí -continuó Elinor, sintiéndose más decidida ahora que, al menos en parte, ya había pasado lo peor-; el coronel Brandon desea testimoniarle así su preocupación por los últimos sucesos, por la cruel situación en que lo ha puesto la injustificable conducta de su familia... una preocupación que le aseguro compartimos Marianne, yo y todos sus amigos; y también lo ofrece como prueba de la alta estima en que lo tiene a usted, y en especial como signo de su aprobación por el comportamiento que usted ha tenido en esta ocasión.
-¡El coronel Brandon me ofrece a mí un beneficio! ¿Es posible, acaso?
-La falta de generosidad de sus parientes lo lleva a asombrarse de encontrar amistad en otras partes.
-No -replicó él, formándose una repentina idea sobre lo que debía haber ocurrido-, no de encontrarla en usted, porque no puedo ignorar que a usted, a su bondad, debo todo esto. Lo que siento... si pudiera, lo expresaría; pero, como usted bien sabe, no soy orador.
-Está muy equivocado. Le aseguro que lo debe enteramente, al menos casi por completo, a su propio mérito, y a la percepción que de él tiene el coronel Brandon. No he tenido injerencia alguna en esto. Ni siquiera sabía, hasta que me comunicó sus planes, que el beneficio estaba vacante; y tampoco se me había ocurrido que él pudiera otorgar tal beneficio. En tanto amigo mío y de mi familia, puede que quizá... de hecho estoy segura de que su placer en otorgarlo es mayor; pero, le doy mi palabra, usted no debe nada a ninguna mediación mía.
En honor a la verdad, debía reconocer una participación, aunque fuera pequeña, en la acción; pero al mismo tiempo era tan poco lo que deseaba aparecer como la benefactora de Edward, que lo admitió con vacilaciones, lo que probablemente contribuyó a que en la mente de él se fijara esa idea que recién le había aparecido como sospecha. Durante algunos momentos después de que Elinor terminó de hablar, se mantuvo sumido en sus pensamientos; finalmente, como haciendo un esfuerzo, dijo:
-El coronel Brandon parece un hombre de gran valer y respetabilidad. Siempre he escuchado hablar de él en esos términos, y sé que el señor Dashwood, su hermano, lo estima mucho. Sin duda es un hombre de gran sensatez y un perfecto caballero en sus modales.
-Es cierto -replicó Elinor-, y estoy segura de que, al conocerlo mejor, descubrirá que es todo eso que usted ha escuchado sobre él; y como serán vecinos tan cercanos (porque entiendo que la rectoría es casi colindante con la casa principal), es especialmente importante que sí lo sea.
Edward no respondió; pero cuando ella volvió la cabeza hacia otro lado, la miró de manera tan seria, tan intensa, tan poco alegre, que con sus ojos parecía decir que, a partir de ese momento, él habría deseado que la distancia entre la rectoría y la mansión fuera mucho mayor.
¿El coronel Brandon, según creo, se aloja en St. James Street? -le dijo poco después, levantándose de su asiento.
Elinor le dio el número de la casa.
-Debo apresurarme, entonces, para manifestarle la gratitud que a usted no he podido ofrecer; para asegurarle que me ha hecho muy... enormemente feliz.
Elinor no procuró retenerlo; y se separaron después de que ella le hubo asegurado muy formalmente sus más firmes deseos de felicidad en todos los cambios de circunstancias que debiera vivir; y que él hizo algunos esfuerzos por corresponder los mismos buenos deseos, aunque sin saber bien cómo expresarlos.
“Cuando lo vuelva a ver”, se dijo Elinor mientras la puerta se cerraba tras él, “lo que veré será el marido de Lucy”.
Y con este agradable vaticinio se sentó a reconsiderar el pasado, recordar las palabras e intentar comprender los sentimientos de Edward; y, por supuesto, a reflexionar sobre su propio descontento.
Cuando la señora Jennings volvió a casa, aunque venía de ver a gente que nunca había visto antes y sobre la que, por tanto, debía tener mucho que decir, tenía la mente tanto más llena del importante secreto en su poder que de cualquier otra cosa, que retomó el tema apenas apareció Elinor.
-Bien, querida -exclamó-, le envié al joven. Estuvo bien, ¿verdad? Y supongo que no se topó con mayores dificultades. ¿No lo encontró demasiado reacio a aceptar su propuesta?
-No, señora; no era de esperar tal cosa.
-Bien, ¿y cuando estará preparado? Pues parece que todo depende de eso.
-En realidad -dijo Elinor-, sé tan poco de esta clase de formalidades, que difícilmente puedo hacer conjeturas sobre el tiempo o la preparación que se requiera; pero supongo que en dos o tres meses podrá completar su ordenación.
-¿Dos o tres meses? -exclamó la señora Jennings-. ¡Dios mío, querida! ¡Y lo dice con tanta calma! ¡Y el coronel debiendo esperar dos o tres meses! ¡Que Dios me libre! Creo que yo no tendría paciencia. Y aunque cualquiera estaría muy contento de hacerle un favor al pobre señor Ferrars, de verdad pienso que no vale la pena esperarlo dos o tres meses. Seguro que se podrá encontrar a alguien más que sirva igual... alguien que ya haya recibido las órdenes.
-Mi querida señora -dijo Elinor-, ¿de qué está hablando? Pero, si el único objetivo del coronel Brandon es prestarle un servicio al señor Ferrars.
-¡Que Dios la bendiga, querida mía! ¡No creo que esté tratando de convencerme de que el coronel se casa con usted para darle diez guineas al señor Ferrars!
Tras esto el engaño no pudo continuar, y de inmediato dio paso a una explicación que en el momento divirtió enormemente a ambas, sin pérdida importante de felicidad para ninguna de las dos, porque la señora Jennings se limitó a cambiar una alegría por otra, y todavía sin abandonar sus expectativas respecto de la primera.
-Sí, sí, la rectoría no deja de ser pequeña -dijo, tras la primera efervescencia de su sorpresa y satisfacción-, y probablemente necesite reparaciones; ¡pero escuchar a un hombre disculpándose, tal como lo pensé, por una casa que, por lo que sé, tiene cinco salas de estar en el primer piso y, según creo haberle escuchado al ama de llaves, tiene cabida para quince camas...! ¡Y para usted también, acostumbrada a vivir en la casita de Barton! Parecía tan ridículo. Pero, querida, debemos sugerirle al coronel que haga algo en la rectoría, que la acomode para ellos antes de que llegue Lucy.
-Pero el coronel Brandon no parece creer que el beneficio sea suficiente para permitirles casarse.
-El coronel es un papanatas, querida; como él tiene dos mil libras al año para vivir, cree que nadie puede casarse con menos. Le doy mi palabra de que, si estoy viva, haré una visita a la rectoría de Delaford antes de la fiesta de san Miguel; y créame que no iré si Lucy no está allí.
Elinor era de la misma opinión en cuanto a que probablemente no iban a esperar más.
Después de haber ido a agradecer al coronel Brandon, Edward se dirigió a casa de Lucy con su felicidad a cuestas; y ésta era tan grande cuando llegó a Bartlett's Buildings, que al día siguiente la joven pudo asegurarle a la señora Jennings, que la había ido a visitar para felicitarla, que nunca antes en toda su vida lo había visto tan contento.
Por lo menos la felicidad de Lucy y su estado de ánimo no dejaban lugar a dudas, y con gran entusiasmo se unió a la señora Jennings en sus expectativas de un grato encuentro en la rectoría de Delaford antes del día de san Miguel. Al mismo tiempo, estaba tan lejos de negar a Elinor el crédito que Edward le daría, que se refirió a su amistad por ambos con la más entusiasta gratitud, estaba pronta a reconocer cuánto le debían, y declaró abiertamente que ningún esfuerzo, presente o futuro, que realizara la señorita Dashwood en bien de ellos la sorprendería, puesto que la creía capaz de cualquier cosa por aquellos a quienes realmente apreciaba. En cuanto al coronel Brandon, no sólo estaba dispuesta a adorarlo como a un santo, sino que, más aún, verdaderamente deseaba que en todas las cosas terrenales se lo tratara como tal; deseaba que las contribuciones que recibía aumentaran al máximo; y secretamente decidió que, una vez en Delaford, se valdría lo más posible de sus criados, su carruaje, sus vacas y sus gallinas.
Había transcurrido ya una semana desde la visita de John Dashwood a Berkeley Street, y como desde entonces no habían tenido ninguna noticia sobre la indisposición de su esposa más allá de una averiguación verbal, Elinor comenzó a sentir que era necesario hacerle una visita. Sin embargo, tal obligación no sólo iba en contra de sus propias inclinaciones, sino que, además, no encontraba ningún estímulo en sus compañeras. Marianne, no satisfecha con negarse absolutamente a ir, intentó con todas sus fuerzas impedir que fuera su hermana; y en cuanto a la señora Jennings, aunque su carruaje estaba siempre al servicio de Elinor, era tanto lo que le disgustaba la señora de John Dashwood, que ni la curiosidad de ver cómo estaba tras el tardío descubrimiento, ni su intenso deseo de agraviarla tomando partido por Edward, pudieron vencer su renuencia a estar de nuevo en su compañía. Como resultado, Elinor partió sola a una visita que nadie podía tener menos deseos de hacer, y a correr el riesgo de un tête-à-tête con una mujer que a nadie podía desagradarle con más motivos que a ella.
Le dijeron que la señora Dashwood no estaba; pero antes de que el carruaje pudiera devolverse, por casualidad salió su esposo. Manifestó gran placer en encontrarse con Elinor, le dijo que en ese momento iba a visitarlas a Berkeley Street, y asegurándole que Fanny estaría feliz de verla, la invitó a entrar.
Subieron hasta la sala. No había nadie allí.
-Supongo que Fanny está en su habitación -le dijo-; iré a buscarla de inmediato, porque estoy seguro de que no tendrá ningún inconveniente en verte a ti ... lejos de ello, en realidad. Especialmente ahora... pero, de todos modos, tú y Marianne siempre fueron sus favoritas. ¿Por qué no vino Marianne?
Elinor la disculpó lo mejor que pudo.
-No lamento verte a ti sola -replicó él-, porque tengo mucho que hablar contigo. Este beneficio del coronel Brandon, ¿es verdad? ¿Realmente se lo ha ofrecido a Edward? Lo escuché ayer por casualidad, e iba a verte con el propósito de averiguar más sobre ello.
-Es completamente cierto. El coronel Brandon le ha dado el beneficio de Delaford a Edward.
-¿Es posible? ¡Qué increíble! ¡No hay ninguna relación, ningún parentesco entre ellos! ¡Y ahora que los beneficios se negocian a un precio tan alto! ¿Cuánto da éste?
-Cerca de doscientas libras al año.
-Muy bien, y para la siguiente postulación a un beneficio de ese valor, suponiendo que el último titular haya sido viejo y de mala salud, y lo fuera a dejar vacante luego, podría haber conseguido, digamos, mil cuatrocientas libras. ¿Y cómo es posible que no arreglara ese asunto antes de que muriera esta persona? Por supuesto, ahora es muy tarde para venderlo, ¡pero alguien con el juicio del coronel Brandon! ¡Me extraña que haya sido tan poco previsor en algo por lo que es tan usual, tan natural preocuparse! Bien, estoy convencido de que casi todos los seres humanos tienen enormes incongruencias. Pensando en ello, sin embargo, supongo que esto puede ser lo que ha ocurrido: Edward mantendrá el beneficio hasta que la persona a quien el coronel realmente ha vendido la postulación tenga la edad suficiente para hacerse cargo de él. Sí, sí, es lo que ha ocurrido, puedes estar segura.
Elinor lo contradijo, sin embargo, terminantemente; y lo obligó a aceptar su autoridad en la materia contándole que el coronel Brandon le había encomendado a ella transmitir su ofrecimiento a Edward y, por tanto, tenía que entender bien los términos en que había sido hecho.
-¡Es en verdad asombroso! -exclamó él, después de escuchar sus palabras-. ¿Y qué motivo habrá tenido el coronel para hacerlo?
-Uno muy sencillo: ayudar al señor Ferrars.
-Bien, bien; sea lo que fuere el coronel Brandon, ¡Edward Ferrars es un hombre afortunado! Sin embargo, no le menciones a Fanny este asunto; porque aunque lo ha sabido por mí y lo ha tomado bastante bien, no querrá oír hablar mucho de ello.
En este punto le costó algo a Elinor refrenarse de observar que, a su parecer, Fanny bien podría haber sobrellevado con compostura la adquisición de un capital por parte de su hermano a través de medios que no significaban un empobrecimiento ni para ella ni para su hijo.
-La señora Ferrars -añadió él, bajando la voz a un tono acorde con la importancia del tema hasta ahora no sabe nada de esto, y creo que será mejor ocultárselo mientras sea posible. Cuando se realice la boda, temo que deberá enterarse de todo.
-Pero, ¿por qué habría de tomarse tales precauciones? Aunque no se debiera suponer que la señora Ferrars pueda tener la menor satisfacción al saber que su hijo tiene el dinero suficiente para vivir... tal cosa sería impensable; pero, ¿por qué, después de lo que hizo, debe suponerse que a ella le importe algo? Ha terminado con su hijo, lo ha expulsado de su lado para siempre y ha hecho que todos aquellos sobre quienes tiene influencia hagan lo mismo. Con toda seguridad, después de haber hecho esto no es posible imaginarla capaz de sentir alguna pena o alegría relacionada con él..., no puede interesarle nada que le acontezca. ¡No será tan inconsistente como para despreocuparse del bienestar de un hijo, y luego seguir preocupándose por él como lo haría una madre!
-¡Ay, Elinor! -dijo John-. Tu razonamiento es bueno, pero en su base hay ignorancia de lo que es la naturaleza humana. Cuando se lleve a cabo la infortunada unión de Edward, no te quepa duda de que su madre sufrirá tanto como si nunca lo hubiera arrojado de su lado; por ello, mientras sea posible, es necesario ocultarle todas las circunstancias que puedan adelantar ese terrible momento. La señora Ferrars nunca podrá olvidar que Edward es su hijo.
-Me sorprendes; habría creído que a estas alturas ya casi se le había borrado de la memoria.
-Estás completamente equivocada. La señora Ferrars es una de las madres más afectuosas que existen.
-Ahora -dijo el señor Dashwood tras una breve pausa-, estamos pensando que Robert se case con la señorita Morton.
Elinor, sonriendo ante el tono grave e importantísimo de la voz de su hermano, le respondió muy tranquila:
-La dama, me imagino, no tiene opción en esto.
-Todo lo que quiero decir es que supongo, por tu forma de hablar, que a la señorita Morton le debe dar lo mismo casarse con Edward o con Robert.
-Por supuesto que no hay diferencia alguna; porque ahora Robert, para todos los efectos y propósitos, será considerado el hijo mayor; y en lo demás, ambos son jóvenes muy agradables... no he sabido que uno sea superior al otro.
Elinor no dijo nada más, y John también guardó silencio durante algunos instantes. Puso fin a sus reflexiones de la siguiente forma:
-De una cosa, mi querida hermana -le dijo tomándole una mano cariñosamente y hablándole en un impresionante susurro-, puedes estar segura: y te la haré saber, porque sé que te agradará. Tengo buenas razones para creer... en verdad, lo sé de la mejor fuente o no lo repetiría, porque en caso contrario sería muy incorrecto mencionarlo... pero lo sé de la mejor fuente... no que se lo haya escuchado decir exactamente a la misma señora Ferrars, pero su hija sí lo hizo, y ella me lo contó a mí... que, en resumen, más allá de las objeciones que pudo haber contra cierta... cierta unión... ya me entiendes... la señora Ferrars la habría preferido mil veces, no la habría molestado ni la mitad que ésta. Me sentí extremadamente contento de saber que lo veía desde esa perspectiva... una circunstancia muy gratificante, te imaginarás, para todos nosotros. “No habría tenido punto de comparación”, dijo, “de dos males, el menor; y ahora estaría dispuesta a transigir para que no ocurriese nada peor”. Pero todo eso está fuera de discusión: no hay que pensar en ello, ni mencionarlo; en lo referente a cualquier unión, ya lo sabes... no hay posibilidad alguna... todo eso ha terminado. Pero pensé contarte esto, porque sabía cuánto te complacería. No que tengas nada que lamentar, mi querida Elinor. No cabe duda de que lo estás haciendo muy bien... igual de bien o, si se toma en cuenta todo, quizá mejor... ¿Has estado con el coronel Brandon ahora último?
Elinor había escuchado lo suficiente si no para gratificar su vanidad y elevar su autoestima, para agitar sus nervios y hacerla pensar; y le alegró, por tanto, que la entrada del señor Ferrars la salvara de tener que responder a tanta cosa y del peligro de escuchar más a su hermano. Tras charlar durante algunos momentos, John Dashwood, recordando que aún no había informado a Fanny sobre la presencia de su hermana, abandonó la habitación en su búsqueda. Y Elinor quedó allí con la tarea de mejorar su relación con Robert, el cual, con su alegre despreocupación, con la satisfecha autocomplacencia que le permitía disfrutar de un tan injusto reparto del amor y de la generosidad de su madre en perjuicio de su hermano excluido... amor y generosidad de los que se había hecho merecedor tan sólo por su propia vida disipada y la integridad de ese hermano, confirmaba a Elinor en su más desfavorable opinión sobre su inteligencia y sentimientos.
Apenas habían estado dos minutos a solas cuando él empezó a hablar de Edward, pues también había sabido del beneficio e hizo muchas preguntas al respecto. Elinor repitió los detalles que ya le había comunicado a John, y el efecto que tuvieron en Robert, aunque muy diferente, no fue menos fuerte. Se rió sin ninguna moderación. La idea de Edward transformado en clérigo y viviendo en una pequeña casa parroquial lo divertía sin límites; y cuando a ello agregó la fantástica visión de Edward leyendo plegarias vestido con una sobrepelliz blanca y haciendo las amonestaciones públicas del matrimonio de John Smith y Mary Brown, no pudo imaginarse nada más ridículo.
Elinor, en tanto, aguardaba en silencio y con imperturbable gravedad, el fin de tales necedades, sin poder evitar que sus ojos se clavaran en él con una mirada que mostraba todo el desprecio que le infundía. Era una mirada, sin embargo, muy bien dirigida, porque alivió sus sentimientos sin darle a entender nada a él. Cuando él dejó de lado sus comentarios ingeniosos, no lo hizo llevado por ningún reproche de ella, sino por su propia sensibilidad.
-Podemos bromear al respecto -dijo finalmente, recuperándose de las risas afectadas que habían alargado considerablemente la genuina alegría del momento-, pero, a fe mía, es algo muy serio. ¡Pobre Edward! Está arruinado para siempre. Lo lamento enormemente, porque sé que es una criatura de muy buen corazón, tan bien intencionado como el que más. No debe juzgarlo, señorita Dashwood, basándose en lo poco que lo conoce. ¡Pobre Edward! Es cierto que sus modales no son de lo más felices. Pero ya se sabe que no todos nacemos con las mismas capacidades, con el mismo porte. ¡Pobre muchacho! ¡Imaginarlo entre extraños! ¡Qué cosa lamentable! Pero a fe mía que es de tan gran corazón como el mejor del reino; y le digo y le aseguro que nada me ha sacudido nunca tanto como esto que ha ocurrido. No podía creerlo. Mi madre fue la primera en decírmelo, y yo, sintiendo que debía actuar con decisión, de inmediato le dije: “Mi querida señora, no sé qué se propone hacer en estas circunstancias, pero en cuanto a mí, debo decirle que si Edward se casa con esta joven, yo no lo volveré a mirar nunca más”. Eso fue lo que le dije de inmediato... ¡me sentía escandalizado más allá de todo lo imaginable! ¡Pobre Edward! ¡Se ha hundido por completo! ¡Se ha marginado para siempre de toda sociedad decente! Pero mientras se lo decía directamente a mi madre, no me extrañaba en absoluto; es lo que se podía esperar de la educación que recibió. Mi pobre madre casi enloqueció.
-¿Ha visto alguna vez a la joven?
-Sí, una vez, cuando estaba alojada en esta casa. Me había dejado caer por unos diez minutos, y me bastó con lo que vi de ella. Una simple muchacha pueblerina, desmañada, sin estilo ni elegancia, y casi sin ningún atractivo. La recuerdo perfectamente. Justo el tipo de muchacha que habría creído capaz de cautivar al pobre Edward. Apenas mi madre me contó todo el asunto, de inmediato me ofrecí a hablarle, a disuadirlo de la unión; pero, según pude darme cuenta, ya era demasiado tarde para hacer algo, pues por desgracia no estuve ahí en los primeros momentos y no supe nada de lo ocurrido hasta después de la ruptura, cuando, ya sabe usted, no me correspondía interferir. Pero si se me hubiera informado unas pocas horas antes, probablemente habría podido hacer algo. De todas maneras le habría hecho ver las cosas a Edward con toda claridad. “Mi querido amigo”, le habría dicho, “piensa en lo que haces. Estás comprometiéndote en la más desafortunada unión, que toda tu familia desaprueba de manera unánime”. En fin, no puedo evitar pensar que habría encontrado alguna manera de lograrlo. Pero ahora es demasiado tarde. Debe estar muerto de hambre, sabe usted; con toda seguridad, absolutamente muerto de hambre.
Acababa de plantear este punto con gran compostura cuando la llegada de la señora de John Dashwood puso fin al tema. Pero aunque ésta nunca lo mencionaba fuera de su propia familia, Elinor pudo ver cómo influía en su mente, visible en ese algo como expresión confundida que tenía al entrar y en un intento de cordialidad en su trato hacia ella. Incluso llegó tan lejos como mostrarse afectada por el hecho de que Elinor y su hermana dejarían tan pronto la ciudad, y había confiado en verlas más; un esfuerzo en el cual su marido, que la había acompañado a la habitación y seguía cada una de sus palabras con aire enamorado, parecía encontrar todo lo que hay de más afectuoso y agraciado.
Otra corta visita a Harley Street, en la cual Elinor recibió las felicitaciones de su hermano por viajar hasta Barton sin incurrir en ningún gasto y por el hecho de que el coronel Brandon podría seguirlas a Cleveland en uno o dos días, completó el contacto de hermano y hermanas en la ciudad; y una débil invitación de Fanny a que fueran a Norland siempre que llegaran a pasar por ahí, que de todas las cosas posibles era la menos probable, junto a una promesa más cálida, aunque menos pública, de John a Elinor respecto de una pronta visita a Delaford, fue todo lo que se dijo respecto de un futuro encuentro en el campo.
Divertía a Elinor observar que todos sus amigos parecían decididos a enviarla a Delaford, de todos los lugares, precisamente el que ahora menos querría visitar o el último en que desearía vivir; pues no sólo su hermano y la señora Jennings lo consideraban su futuro hogar, sino que incluso Lucy, al despedirse, la invitó insistentemente a que la visitara allí.
En los primeros días de abril, y en las primeras horas de la mañana, aunque tolerablemente temprano, los dos grupos, provenientes de Hanover Square y de Berkeley Street, salieron desde sus respectivos hogares para encontrarse en el camino, según lo habían convenido. Para comodidad de Charlotte y de su hijo echarían más de dos días en el viaje, y el señor Palmer, moviéndose de manera más expedita con el coronel Brandon, se les uniría en Cleveland poco después.
Marianne, aunque escasas habían sido las horas gratas pasadas en Londres y ansiosa como estaba desde hacía tanto por alejarse de allí, llegado el momento no pudo evitar una gran pena al decir adiós a la casa donde por última vez había disfrutado de aquellas esperanzas y aquella confianza en Willoughby que ahora se habían apagado para siempre. Tampoco pudo abandonar el lugar en que Willoughby se entregaba a nuevos compromisos y a nuevos planes en los que ella no tendría parte alguna, sin derramar copiosas lágrimas.
La satisfacción de Elinor en el momento de la partida fue más real. Nada había en Londres que entretuviera sus pensamientos y permaneciera en sus recuerdos; a nadie dejaba atrás de quien separarse para siempre le significara ni un instante de pena; le alegraba liberarse de la persecución de la amistad de Lucy; estaba agradecida por alejar de allí a su hermana sin que se hubiese encontrado con Willoughby desde su matrimonio, y tenía puestas sus esperanzas en lo que unos pocos meses de tranquilidad en Barton podrían hacer para devolver la paz de espíritu a Marianne, y afianzar la suya propia.
El viaje transcurrió sin contratiempos. El segundo día los llevó al querido, o repudiado, condado de Somerset, que así aparecía por turnos en la imaginación de Marianne; y en la mañana del tercer día llegaron a Cleveland.
Cleveland era una casa amplia, de moderna construcción, ubicada en la pendiente de una loma cubierta de pasto. No tenía parque, pero los jardines de agrado eran de buen tamaño; y como cualquier otro lugar de la misma importancia, tenía su monte bajo y su alameda; por un camino de grava lisa que circundaba una plantación se llegaba al frontis de la casa; el césped estaba salpicado de árboles; la casa misma se erguía al amparo de abetos, serbales y acacias, y todos juntos, entreverados con altos chopos lombardos, formaban una espesa barrera que ocultaba la vista de las dependencias.
Marianne entró en la casa con el corazón henchido de emoción por saberse a sólo ochenta millas de Barton y a no más de treinta de Combe Magna; y antes de haber estado quince minutos entre sus muros, mientras los demás ayudaban a Charlotte, que deseaba mostrarle el niño al ama de llaves, salió de nuevo, escabulléndose por los sinuosos senderos entre los arbustos que recién comenzaban a reverdecer, para alcanzar un montículo distante; y allí, desde un templete griego, su mirada, recorriendo una amplia zona de campiñas hacia el sudeste, pudo posarse tiernamente en las lejanas colinas recortadas contra el horizonte e imaginar que desde sus cumbres se alcanzaría a ver Combe Magna.
En tales momentos de preciosa, incomparable angustia, se embriagó en lágrimas de agonía por estar en Cleveland; y al volver por caminos diferentes a la casa, sintiendo el feliz privilegio de gozar de la libertad del campo, de deambular de un lugar a otro en una soberana y lujosa soledad, resolvió entregarse la mayor parte de las horas de todos los días que permanecería con los Palmeral placer de estos vagabundeos solitarios.
Volvió justo a tiempo para unirse a los demás en el momento en que salían de la casa en una excursión por las inmediaciones; y el resto de la mañana pasó rápidamente mientras paseaban con toda calma por el huerto, examinando las enredaderas en flor sobre los muros y escuchando al jardinero lamentarse por las plagas; recorrieron sin apuro el invernadero, donde la pérdida de sus plantas favoritas, incautamente expuestas y quemadas por las heladas, hicieron reír a Charlotte; y visitaron el corral de aves, donde encontró nuevos motivos de regocijo en las rotas esperanzas de la moza: gallinas que abandonaban sus nidos, o se las robaba un zorro, o nidadas de prometedores polluelos que morían antes de tiempo.
Como la mañana había estado hermosa y sin humedad en el aire, Marianne, con sus proyectos de pasar la mayor parte del tiempo afuera, no pensó que el clima podría cambiar durante su permanencia en Cleveland. Fue una gran sorpresa, entonces, encontrar que una tenaz lluvia le impedía salir después de la cena. Había confiado en un paseo vespertino al templete griego, y quizá por todo el lugar, y un anochecer nada más que frío o húmedo no la habría disuadido; pero una lluvia densa y persistente ni siquiera a ella podía parecerle un clima seco y agradable para una caminata.
Los de la casa formaban un grupo pequeño, y las horas fueron pasando tranquilamente. La señora Palmer tenía a su hijo y la señora Jennings sus bordados; hablaron de los amigos que habían dejado atrás, organizaron los compromisos de lady Middleton y varias veces se preguntaron si el señor Palmer y el coronel Brandon llegarían más allá de Reading esa noche. Elinor, aunque con escaso interés en la conversación, participaba en ella; y Marianne, que tenía el don de arreglárselas en cualquier casa para llegar a la biblioteca, sin importar cuánto la evitara la familia en general, muy pronto se agenció un libro.
La señora Palmer no escatimaba nada que su constante buen humor y espíritu amistoso pudieran ofrecer para que sus invitadas se sintieran bien acogidas. La franqueza y cordialidad de su trato más que compensaba por esa falta de compostura y elegancia que a menudo la hacía fallar en las formalidades de la cortesía; conquistaba con su afabilidad, acreditada por su rostro tan lindo; sus necedades, aunque evidentes, no desagradaban porque no era presuntuosa; y Elinor le habría podido perdonar cualquier cosa, salvo su risa.
La llegada de los dos caballeros al día siguiente, a una cena muy tardía, aportó un grato aumento de la concurrencia y una muy bienvenida variación en las conversaciones, que una larga mañana bajo la misma lluvia sostenida había reducido a niveles muy bajos.
Elinor había visto tan poco al señor Palmer, y en ese poco había visto tanta diversidad en su trato a su hermana y a ella misma, que no sabía qué esperar de él al encontrarlo en su propia familia. Lo que encontró, sin embargo, fue un comportamiento perfectamente caballeroso hacia todos sus invitados, y sólo en ocasiones áspero con su esposa y la madre de ella; lo encontró muy capaz de ser una grata compañía, y lo único que le impedía serlo siempre era una excesiva capacidad de sentirse tan superior a la gente en general como debía creerse con respecto de la señora Jennings y de Charlotte. En cuanto a los restantes aspectos de su carácter y hábitos, no mostraban, hasta donde Elinor alcanzaba a percibir, ningún rasgo inusual en personas de su sexo y edad. Le gustaba una buena mesa, pero no solía llegar a la hora; quería a su hijo, pero fingía desdén; y haraganeaba en la mesa de billar durante las mañanas en vez de dedicarlas a los negocios. En conjunto, sin embargo, a Elinor le gustaba mucho más de lo que había esperado, y en su corazón no lamentaba que no le pudiera gustar más: no lamentaba que la observación de su epicureísmo, su egoísmo y su presunción la llevaran a descansar con gusto en el recuerdo del generoso temple de Edward, sus gustos simples y tímidos sentimientos.
En esos días Elinor tuvo noticias de Edward, o al menos de algunos sucesos relacionados con sus intereses, a través del coronel Brandon, que hacía poco había estado en Dorsetshire y que, dirigiéndose a ella al mismo tiempo como amiga desinteresada del señor Ferrars y gentil confidente suya, le conversaba largamente sobre la rectoría de Delaford, describía sus deficiencias y le contaba qué pensaba hacer para solucionarlas. Su comportamiento hacia ella en esto, al igual que en todo lo demás; su sincero placer en verla tras una ausencia de tan sólo diez días; su disposición a conversar con ella y su respeto por sus opiniones, bien podían justificar que la señora Jennings estuviera convencida de que la quería, y quizá hasta habría bastado para que Elinor también lo sospechara si no creyera, como desde el comienzo, que Marianne seguía siendo su verdadera predilecta. Pero tal como eran las cosas, esa idea no se le habría pasado por la mente de no ser por las insinuaciones de la señora Jennings; y entre las dos, Elinor no podía evitar creerse mejor observadora: ella observaba los ojos del coronel, en tanto la señora Jennings sólo pensaba en su comportamiento; y mientras sus miradas de ansiosa inquietud cuando Marianne comenzó a sentir los primeros síntomas de un fuerte resfrío manifestados en dolores de cabeza y de garganta, al no estar expresadas en palabras escapaban completamente a la observación de la señora Jennings, ella podía descubrir en sus ojos los vivos sentimientos y la innecesaria alarma de un enamorado.
Dos deliciosas caminatas vespertinas al tercer y cuarto día de su estancia allí, no sólo por la grava seca entre los arbustos sino por todo el lugar, y especialmente por los rincones más alejados, donde había algo más de vida silvestre que en el resto, donde los árboles eran más añosos y la hierba más larga y húmeda, habían producido en Marianne -con la ayuda de la enorme imprudencia de quedarse con las medias y los zapatos mojados puestos- un resfrío tan violento que, aunque durante un día o dos ella intentó restarle importancia o negarlo, terminó por imponerse a través de malestares cada vez mayores, hasta no poder seguir siendo ignorado ni por ella misma ni por el interés de los demás. De todos lados le llovieron recetas que, como siempre, fueron rechazadas. Aunque se sentía débil y afiebrada, con los miembros adoloridos, tos y la garganta áspera, un buen sueño durante la noche la sanaría por completo; y fue con bastantes dificultades que Elinor pudo persuadirla, cuando se fue a la cama, de probar uno o dos de los remedios más sencillos.
Al día siguiente, Marianne se levantó a la hora acostumbrada; a todas las preguntas respondió que se encontraba mejor, e intentó convencerse a sí misma de ello dedicándose a sus ocupaciones habituales. Pero haber pasado un día completo sentada junto a la chimenea temblando de escalofríos, con un libro en la mano que era incapaz de leer, o echada en un sofá, decaída y sin fuerzas, no hablaba muy bien de su mejoría; y cuando por fin se fue temprano a la cama sintiéndose cada vez peor, el coronel Brandon quedó simplemente atónito ante la tranquilidad de Elinor, que aunque la atendió y cuidó durante todo el día, en contra de los deseos de Marianne y obligándola a tomar las medicinas necesarias en la noche, tenía la misma confianza de ella en la seguridad y eficacia del sueño, y no estaba en verdad alarmada.
Una noche muy agitada y febril, sin embargo, frustró las esperanzas de ambas; y cuando Marianne, tras insistir en levantarse se confesó incapaz de sentarse y se devolvió voluntariamente a la cama, Elinor se mostró dispuesta a aceptar el consejo de la señora Jennings y enviar por el boticario de los Palmer.
El boticario acudió, examinó a la paciente, y aunque animó a la señorita Dashwood a confiar en que unos pocos días le devolverían la salud a su hermana, al declarar que su dolencia tenía una tendencia pútrida y permitir que sus labios pronunciaran la palabra “infección”, instantáneamente alarmó a la señora Palmer, por su hijo. La señora Jennings, que desde un comienzo había creído la enfermedad más seria de lo que pensaba Elinor, escuchó con aire grave el informe del señor Harris, y confirmando los temores y preocupación de Charlotte, la urgió a alejarse de allí con su criatura; y el señor Palmer, aunque trató de vanas sus aprensiones,. se vio incapaz de resistir la enorme ansiedad y porfía de su esposa. Se decidió, entonces, su partida; y antes de una hora después de la llegada del señor Harris, partió con su hijito y la niñera a la casa de una pariente cercana del señor Palmer, que vivía unas pocas millas pasado Bath; allí, ante sus insistentes ruegos, su esposo prometió unírsele en uno o dos días, y a ese lugar su madre prometió acompañarla, también obedeciendo a sus súplicas. La señora Jennings, sin embargo, con una bondad que hizo a Elinor realmente quererla, se manifestó decidida a no moverse de Cleveland mientras Marianne siguiera enferma, y a esforzarse mediante sus más atentos cuidados en reemplazar a la madre de quien la había alejado; y en todo momento Elinor encontró en ella una activa y bien dispuesta colaboradora, deseosa de compartir todas sus fatigas y, muy a menudo, de gran utilidad por su mayor experiencia en el cuidado de enfermos.
La pobre Marianne, exánime y abatida por el carácter de su dolencia y sintiéndose completamente indispuesta, ya no podía confiar en que al día siguiente se repondría; y pensar en lo que al día siguiente habría ocurrido de no mediar su desafortunada enfermedad, agravó su malestar; porque ese día iban a iniciar su viaje a casa y, acompañadas todo el camino por un criado de la señora Jennings, sorprenderían a su madre a la mañana siguiente. Lo poco que habló fue para lamentar esta inevitable demora; y ello aunque Elinor intentó levantarle el ánimo y hacerla creer, como en ese momento ella misma lo creía, que ese retraso sería muy breve.
El día siguiente trajo poco o ningún cambio en el estado de la paciente; evidentemente no estaba mejor, y salvo el hecho de que no había ninguna mejoría, no parecía haber empeorado. El grupo se había reducido ahora aún más, pues el señor Palmer, aunque sin muchos deseos de irse, tanto por espíritu humanitario y su buen natural como por no querer parecer atemorizado por su esposa, terminó dejando que el coronel Brandon lo convenciera de seguirla, según le había prometido; y mientras preparaba su partida, el coronel Brandon mismo, haciendo un esfuerzo mucho mayor, también comenzó a hablar de irse. En este punto, sin embargo, la bondad de la señora Jennings se interpuso de muy buena manera, pues que el coronel se alejara mientras su amada sufría tal inquietud por causa de su hermana significaría privarlas a ambas de todo consuelo; y así, diciéndole sin tardanza que para ella misma era necesaria su presencia en Cleveland, que lo necesitaba para jugar al piquet con ella en las tardes mientras la señorita Dashwood estaba arriba con su hermana, etc., le insistió tanto que se quedara, que él, que al acceder cumplía con lo que su corazón deseaba en primer lugar, no pudo ni siquiera fingir por mucho rato alguna vacilación al respecto, en especial cuando los ruegos de la señora Jennings fueron cálidamente secundados por el señor Palmer, que parecía sentirse aliviado al dejar allí a una persona tan capaz de apoyar o aconsejar a la señorita Dashwood en cualquier emergencia.
A Marianne, por supuesto, la mantuvieron ajena a todas estas disposiciones. No sabía que había sido la causa de que los dueños de Cleveland tuvieran que dejar su casa antes de la semana de haber llegado. No la sorprendió no ver a la señora Palmer, y como por ello mismo no le preocupaba, nunca mencionaba su nombre.
Dos días habían pasado desde la partida del señor Palmer, y las condiciones de la paciente se mantenían iguales, con muy pocos cambios. El señor Harris, que la visitaba todos los días, de manera bastante audaz seguía hablando de una rápida mejoría, y la señorita Dashwood se mostraba igualmente optimista; pero los demás no tenían expectativas tan alegres. Muy al comienzo del ataque, la señora Jennings había decidido que Marianne nunca se recuperaría; y el coronel Brandon, cuyo principal servicio era escuchar los presagios de la señora Jennings, no estaba en un estado de ánimo capaz de resistir su influencia. Intentó recurrir a la razón para superar temores que la opinión diferente del boticario hacía parecer absurdos; pero la gran cantidad de horas que cada día pasaba a solas eran demasiado propicias para alimentar pensamientos tristes, y no podía borrar de su mente la convicción de que no iba a ver más a Marianne con vida.
En la mañana del tercer día, sin embargo, las sombrías predicciones de ambos resultaron casi fallidas, pues cuando llegó el señor Harris declaró a su paciente mucho mejor. Tenía el pulso más fuerte y mostraba síntomas mucho más favorables que en su visita anterior. Elinor, confirmadas sus más gratas esperanzas, era toda alegría. Estaba feliz porque, en las cartas a su madre, se había atenido a su propio juicio y no al de sus amigos, y por haberle restado importancia a la indisposición que había retrasado su partida de Cleveland, y casi se atrevió a fijar la fecha en que Marianne podría viajar.
Pero el día no terminó de manera tan auspiciosa como había comenzado. Hacia el anochecer recrudeció la enfermedad de Marianne, con más pesadez, agitación y malestar que antes. Su hermana, sin embargo, aún optimista, prefería atribuir el cambio sólo al cansancio de haber estado sentada mientras le hacían la cama; y tras hacerle tomar con todo cuidado los cordiales prescritos, con alegría la vio sumirse en un sopor que esperaba fuese muy beneficioso. Su sueño, aunque no tan tranquilo como habría esperado Elinor, duró un tiempo considerable; y ésta, ansiosa de observar por sí misma los resultados, decidió quedarse a su lado hasta que despertara. La señora Jennings, que no estaba enterada del cambio operado en la paciente, se fue a la cama más temprano que de costumbre; su doncella, una de las principales encargadas del cuidado de la enferma, estaba buscando un poco de solaz en la habitación del ama de llaves, y Elinor permanecía sola con Marianne.
El sueño de Marianne comenzó a hacerse cada vez más agitado; y Elinor, que en ningún momento dejaba de observar atentamente sus continuos cambios de posición y escuchar los reiterados, aunque inarticulados quejidos que salían de sus labios, casi deseaba sacarla de un sopor tan penoso cuando Marianne, repentinamente despierta ante un ruido imprevisto en la casa, se irguió sobresaltada, exclamando en un desvarío febril:
-Todavía no -replicó su hermana, ocultando su terror y ayudando a Marianne a tenderse nuevamente-; aunque espero que luego estará aquí. Hay un largo trecho, lo sabes, desde acá a Barton.
-Pero no debe dar la vuelta por Londres -exclamó Marianne, con el mismo tono inquieto-. Nunca la volveré a ver, si va a Londres.
Alarmada, Elinor se dio cuenta de que Marianne estaba delirando, y mientras intentaba calmarla, ansiosamente le tomó el pulso. Era más débil y rápido que nunca; y al ver que Marianne seguía desvariando acerca de mamá, su temor aumentó hasta el punto de decidirla a enviar de inmediato por el señor Harris y despachar un mensajero a Barton para hacer venir a su madre. Junto con tomar esta resolución, pensó en consultar de inmediato con el coronel Barton la mejor forma de llevarla a cabo; y así, tan pronto hubo llamado a la doncella para que la reemplazara junto a su hermana, se apresuró a bajar a la sala donde sabía que por lo general él se encontraba, aunque mucho más tarde que en el momento actual.
No era momento para vacilaciones. De inmediato le hizo presente sus temores y sus dificultades. Sus temores, el coronel no tenía ni el valor ni la confianza necesarios para intentar aplacarlos: los escuchó con silencioso desaliento; pero de sus dificultades se hizo cargo de inmediato, pues con una rapidez que parecía evidenciar que mentalmente ya había previsto la ocasión y el servicio requerido, se ofreció a ser el mensajero que traería a la señora Dashwood. Elinor no presentó ninguna objeción que no fuera fácilmente rebatida. Le agradeció con palabras breves pero fervorosas, y mientras él se apresuraba a enviar a su criado con un mensaje para el señor Harris y una orden para conseguir caballos de posta de inmediato, ella le escribió unas pocas líneas a su madre.
El consuelo de un amigo como el coronel Brandon en esos momentos, de un compañero de esa laya para su madre... ¡qué enorme gratitud despertaba en ella! ¡Un amigo cuyo juicio la iba a guiar, cuya compañía aliviaría su dolor y cuyo afecto quizá la calmaría...! En la medida en que la perturbación que debía producir en ella un llamado como ése pudiera serle suavizada, su presencia, su trato y su ayuda con toda seguridad iban a lograrlo.
El, entretanto, sintiera lo que sintiese, actuaba con toda la firmeza de una mente ordenada; hizo todos los arreglos necesarios con la mayor diligencia, y calculó con exactitud el momento en que ella podría esperar su vuelta. No perdió ni un instante en demoras de ningún tipo. Llegaron los caballos incluso antes de que se los esperara, y el coronel Brandon, limitándose a estrechar la mano de Elinor con una mirada solemne y unas pocas palabras dichas en una voz demasiado baja para que llegaran a sus oídos, se apresuró a montar en el carruaje. Eran entonces aproximadamente las doce, y Elinor volvió a los aposentos de su hermana para esperar la llegada del boticario y velar junto a ella por el resto de la noche. Fue una noche de sufrimientos casi iguales para ambas hermanas. Hora tras hora fueron pasando en insomne dolor y delirio por parte de Marianne, y la más cruel ansiedad en Elinor, antes de que apareciera el señor Harris. Se habían despertado los temores de Elinor, que la hacían pagar con creces toda su anterior seguridad, y la sirviente sentada junto a ella porque no había permitido que llamaran a la señora Jennings la torturaba aún más al insinuar las cosas que su ama había pensado desde el comienzo.
A intervalos, las ideas de Marianne seguían fijas incoherentemente en su madre, y cada vez que mencionaba su nombre, el corazón de la pobre Elinor sufría una punzada de dolor; se reprochaba haber tomado a la ligera tantos días de enfermedad, y anhelando un socorro inmediato, pensaba que pronto todo socorro sería en vano, que todo se había retrasado demasiado, y se imaginaba a su afligida madre llegando demasiado tarde a ver a su preciosa hija con vida o en uso de su razón.
Estaba a punto de enviar a buscar de nuevo al señor Harris o, si él no podía acudir, solicitar nuevos consejos, cuando el boticario -pero no antes de las cinco- hizo su aparición. Su opinión, sin embargo, compensó en algo su tardanza, pues aunque reconoció un cambio inesperado y desfavorable en su paciente, insistió en que no había un peligro grave y se refirió al alivio que un nuevo tratamiento debía procurar con una confianza que, en menor grado, se comunicó a Elinor. Prometió ir de nuevo dentro de las tres o cuatro horas siguientes, y dejó tanto a su paciente como a la preocupada acompañante más tranquilas de lo que las había encontrado.
La señora Jennings se enteró de lo ocurrido en la mañana, dando muestras de gran preocupación y con muchos reproches por no haber sido llamada a ayudar. Sus antiguos temores, que ahora revivían con mucho mejor base, no le dejaron duda alguna sobre lo ocurrido; y aunque se esforzaba en consolar a Elinor, su certeza sobre el peligro que corría su hermana no le permitía ofrecerle el consuelo de la esperanza. Su corazón estaba realmente apesadumbrado. El rápido decaer, la temprana muerte de una muchacha tan joven, tan adorable como Marianne, habría podido afectar incluso a una persona menos cercana. Pero Marianne podía esperar más de la compasión de la señora Jennings. Durante tres meses le había servido de compañía, todavía estaba a su cuidado, y se sabía que la habían herido profundamente y que había sufrido durante largo tiempo. También veía la angustia de la hermana, que era muy en especial su favorita; y en cuanto su madre, cuando la señora Jennings pensaba que probablemente Marianne sería para ella lo que Charlotte era para sí misma, sentía una genuina compasión por sus sufrimientos.
El señor Harris fue puntual en su segunda visita, pero las esperanzas que había colocado en los efectos de la anterior se vieron frustradas. Sus medicamentos habían fallado; la fiebre no había sido vencida; y Marianne, sólo más tranquila -no más dueña de sí- permanecía en un denso sopor. Elinor, captando todos, y más que todos sus temores en un solo instante, propuso solicitar más consejos. Pero él lo juzgó innecesario; aún tenía algo más que intentar, una nueva prescripción en cuyo éxito confiaba tanto como en el de la última, y su visita concluyó con animosas palabras de seguridad que llegaron a los oídos de la señorita Dashwood, pero no lograron alcanzar su corazón. Aunque se mantenía tranquila, excepto cuando pensaba en su madre, casi había perdido las esperanzas; y en este estado siguió hasta mediodía, apenas moviéndose del lado de su hermana, su mente saltando de una imagen de dolor a otra, de un amigo acongojado a otro, con su espíritu abatido al máximo por la conversación de la señora Jennings, que no tenía reparos en atribuir la gravedad y peligro de este trastorno a las muchas semanas en que Marianne ya antes había estado indispuesta a causa de su desengaño. Elinor sentía cuán razonable era esa idea, y ello le significaba un nuevo dolor añadido a sus reflexiones.
Alrededor de mediodía, sin embargo, comenzó -pero con una cautela, un temor a ilusionarse falsamente que durante algún rato la hicieron callar, incluso frente a su amiga- a imaginar, a tener la esperanza de estar percibiendo una ligera mejoría en el pulso de su hermana; esperó, vigiló, lo examinó una y otra vez; y finalmente, con una agitación más difícil de ocultar bajo un exterior calmado que toda su angustia precedente, se atrevió a comunicar sus esperanzas. La señora Jennings, aunque obligada tras un examen a reconocer una recuperación temporal, intentó que su joven amiga evitara entregarse a la idea de que continuaría así; y Elinor, recorriendo mentalmente todos los argumentos que le recomendaban desconfiar, también se dijo que no debía alimentar esperanzas. Pero era demasiado tarde. La esperanza ya había hecho su entrada; y ella, sintiendo su ansioso aletear, se inclinó sobre su hermana para aguardar... ya ni sabía qué. Pasó media hora, y los síntomas favorables seguían bendiciéndola. Incluso aparecieron otros, confirmándolos. Su respiración, su piel, sus labios, todos apelaban a Elinor con señales de mejoría, y Marianne fijó sus ojos en ella con una mirada racional, aunque lánguida. La ansiedad y la esperanza la acosaban en igual medida, impidiéndole un momento de tranquilidad hasta la llegada del señor Harris a las cuatro, cuando las seguridades que le dio, sus felicitaciones por una recuperación de su hermana que incluso sobrepasaba sus expectativas, le entregaron confianza y consuelo, y pudo dejar correr lágrimas de alegría.
Marianne estaba notablemente mejor en todo sentido, y el señor Harris la declaró por completo fuera de peligro. La señora Jennings, quizá satisfecha porque sus presagios habían recibido justificación parcial en la última alarma que habían vivido, se permitió confiar en el juicio del boticario y admitió con genuina alegría, y pronto con indudable gozo, la probabilidad de una completa recuperación.
Elinor no podía estar alegre. Su gozo era de una clase diferente, y llevaba a algo muy distinto a la alegría. Marianne devuelta a la vida, a la salud, a los amigos y a su amorosa madre, era una idea que le llenaba el corazón de exquisito consuelo y se lo expandía en fervorosa gratitud; pero no se manifestaba ni en demostraciones externas de alegría, ni en palabras o sonrisas. Todo lo que abrigaba el pecho de Elinor era satisfacción, callada y fuerte.
Siguió junto a su hermana con escasos intermedios toda la tarde, calmando cada uno de sus temores, satisfaciendo cada una de las interrogantes de su debilitado espíritu, prestando todos los auxilios necesarios y vigilando casi cada mirada y cada aliento. Por supuesto, en algunos momentos se le hizo presente la posibilidad de una recaída, recordándole lo que era la ansiedad; pero cuando sus frecuentes y minuciosos exámenes le mostraron que continuaban todos y cada uno de los síntomas de recuperación, y a las seis vio a Marianne sumirse en un sueño tranquilo, ininterrumpido y, según todas las apariencias, confortable, acalló todas sus dudas.
Se acercaba ya el momento en que podía esperarse el regreso del coronel Brandon. A las diez, creía Elinor, o no mucho más tarde, su madre se vería libre del terrible suspenso con que ahora debía ir viajando hacia ellas. ¡Quizá también el coronel era apenas un poco menos merecedor de piedad! ¡Ah, cuán lento transcurría el tiempo que aún los mantenía en la ignorancia!
A las siete, dejando a Marianne todavía entregada a un dulce sueño, se unió a la señora Jennings en la sala para tomar té. Sus temores la habían mantenido incapaz de desayunar, y en la cena el giro repentino de los acontecimientos le había impedido comer mucho; el actual refrigerio, entonces, con los sentimientos de gozo con que Elinor llegaba a él, fue muy especialmente bien recibido. Al terminar, la señora Jennings quiso convencerla de que descansara algo antes de la llegada de su madre, y le permitiera a ella tomar su lugar junto a Marianne; pero Elinor no se sentía ni fatigada ni capaz de dormir, y no iba a permitir que la mantuvieran lejos de su hermana ni por un instante. La señora Jennings subió con ella entonces hasta la pieza de la enferma para constatar que todo seguía bien, la dejó allí entregada a su cometido y a sus pensamientos, y se retiró a sus habitaciones a escribir algunas cartas y luego a dormir.
La noche era fría y tormentosa. Si hubieran sido las diez, Elinor habría estado segura de que en ese momento escuchaba un carruaje acercándose a la casa; y fue tan grande su seguridad de haberlo escuchado, a pesar de que era casi imposible que ya hubieran llegado, que se dirigió al saloncito junto a la. pieza y abrió una celosía para constatar la verdad. En seguida vio que sus oídos no la habían engañado. De inmediato tuvo a la vista el brillo de los faroles de un carruaje. A su incierta luz le pareció distinguir que era tirado por cuatro caballos; y esto, aunque era señal del enorme temor de su madre, explicó en parte tan inesperada rapidez.
Nunca, en toda su vida, había encontrado Elinor más difícil mantenerse tranquila. Saber lo que su madre debía estar sintiendo en el momento en que el carruaje se detuvo ante la puerta... sus dudas, su miedo, ¡quizá su desesperación!, ¡y lo que ella debía decir!... sabiendo eso era imposible mantener la calma. Todo lo que quedaba por hacer era apresurarse; y así, quedándose sólo hasta que pudo dejar a la doncella de la señora Jennings con su hermana, corrió escaleras abajo.
El trajín que escuchó en el vestíbulo mientras pasaba por un recibidor interior, le confirmó que ya estaban en la casa. Avanzó a toda prisa hacia la sala, entró... y allí vio únicamente a Willoughby.
Elinor, retrocediendo con una mirada de horror al verlo, obedeció al primer impulso de su corazón y se volvió a toda prisa para abandonar la habitación; su mano ya se encontraba en el tirador de la puerta cuando Willoughby la detuvo al avanzar rápidamente hacia ella y decirle, en un tono más imperativo que suplicante:
-Señorita Dashwood, media hora... diez minutos... le ruego que se quede.
-No, señor -replicó ella con firmeza-, no me quedaré. Nada tengo que ver yo en sus asuntos. Supongo que los criados olvidaron decirle que el señor Palmer no se encontraba en casa.
-Aunque me hubieran dicho -exclamó él con gran vehemencia- que el señor Palmer y toda su parentela estaban en el infierno, no me habrían movido de la puerta. Es con usted que quiero hablar, sólo con usted.
-¡Conmigo! -había enorme asombro en su voz-. Bien, señor... sea rápido, y si le es posible, menos vehemente.
-Siéntese, y acataré ambas órdenes.
Elinor vaciló; no sabía qué hacer. La posibilidad de que llegara el coronel Brandon y lo encontrara ahí se le cruzó por la mente. Pero le había prometido escucharlo, y en ello estaba comprometida su curiosidad no menos que su honor. Tras un momento de reflexión, entonces, que la llevó a concluir que la prudencia exigía darse prisa y que su consentimiento era lo que mejor podía lograrlo, caminó en silencio hacia la mesa y se sentó. El ocupó una silla frente a ella, y durante medio minuto no cruzaron palabra.
-Le ruego sea rápido, señor -le dijo Elinor en tono impaciente-, no tengo tiempo que perder.
Sentado con aire de profunda meditación, él pareció no haberla oído.
-Su hermana -dijo abruptamente un momento después- está fuera de peligro. El criado me lo dijo. ¡Gracias a Dios! Pero, ¿es verdad? ¿Realmente es verdad?
Elinor no le respondió. Repitió él entonces la pregunta, con mayor urgencia aún.
-Por el amor de Dios, dígamelo: ¿está o no está fuera de peligro?
Willoughby se levantó y cruzó la habitación.
-Si lo hubiera sabido tan sólo media hora antes... Pero ya que estoy aquí -habló con forzada vivacidad mientras volvía a la mesa-, ¿qué importa? Por esta vez, señorita Dashwood... quizá sea la última vez... alegrémonos juntos. Estoy de humor para la alegría. Dígame sinceramente -sus mejillas se iluminaron de un rubor más profundo- ¿cree que soy más un canalla o un necio?
Elinor lo contempló más estupefacta que nunca. Comenzó a pensar que debía estar ebrio: era lo único que podía explicar tan extraña visita, tan insólitos modales; y con esta impresión, se puso inmediatamente de pie, diciendo:
-Señor Willoughby, le aconsejaría en este momento que volviera a Combe. No puedo seguir perdiendo el tiempo con usted. Sea lo que fuere que desea tratar conmigo, será mejor que reflexione y me lo explique mañana.
-La comprendo -replicó él con una sonrisa expresiva y voz perfectamente tranquila-. Sí, estoy muy ebrio. Una pinta de cerveza con que acompañé las carnes frías que comí en Marlborough bastó para trastornarme.
-¡En Marlborough! -exclamó Elinor, entendiendo cada vez menos lo que ocurría.
-Sí; salí de Londres hoy a las ocho de la mañana y los únicos diez minutos que pasé fuera de mi calesín desde esa hora, fueron los que dediqué a una ligera merienda en Marlborough.
La firmeza de sus modales y la inteligencia de su mirada mientras hablaba convencieron a Elinor de que, cualquiera fuese la imperdonable locura que lo traía a Cleveland, no se trataba de ebriedad; y tras pensar durante unos instantes, dijo:
-Señor Willoughby, usted tiene que darse cuenta, y yo ciertamente así lo creo, que después de todo lo que ha pasado, su venida acá y la forma en que lo ha hecho, imponiéndome su presencia, exigen una excusa muy especial. ¿Qué pretende con esto?
-Lo que pretendo -dijo el joven con tono gravemente enérgico-, si es que puedo, es hacer que usted me odie un poco menos que ahora. Pretendo ofrecer alguna explicación, alguna disculpa por lo ocurrido en el pasado; abrirle mi corazón y convencerla de que aunque siempre he sido un bueno para nada, no siempre he sido un canalla; y, de esta forma, obtener algo semejante al perdón de Ma... de su hermana.
-¿Es ése el verdadero motivo que lo trajo aquí?
-Por mi vida que sí lo es -fue su respuesta, dicha con un fervor que trajo a la memoria de Elinor todo lo que había sido el antiguo Willoughby, y que a su pesar la hizo creerlo sincero.
-Si eso es todo, puede darse por satisfecho, pues Marianne sí... hace mucho que lo ha perdonado.
-¡Lo ha hecho! -exclamó el joven, con el mismo tono intenso-. Entonces me ha perdonado antes de que hubiera debido hacerlo. Pero me perdonará otra vez, y esta vez por motivos mucho más valederos. Ahora, ¿querrá escucharme?
Elinor asintió con un gesto de la cabeza.
-No sé -dijo, tras una pausa llena de expectación por parte de Elinor, de cavilaciones en él-, cómo se habrá explicado usted mi comportamiento con su hermana, o qué motivos diabólicos me habrá atribuido. Tal vez le sea difícil pensar mejor de mí; sin embargo, vale la pena intentarlo, y le contaré todo. Al comienzo de mi intimidad con su familia, no tenía yo ninguna otra intención, ningún otro interés en la relación que pasar momentos agradables mientras duraba mi forzada permanencia en Devonshire, más agradables de los que había disfrutado hasta entonces. Su hermana, con su aspecto adorable y atractivas maneras, no podía dejar de encantarme; y su trato hacia mí, casi desde el principio fue... ¡Es increíble, cuando pienso en cómo fue su trato, y en cómo era ella, que mi corazón haya sido tan insensible! Pero al comienzo, debo confesarlo, sólo halagó mi vanidad. Sin preocuparme por su felicidad, pensando sólo en mi propia diversión, permitiéndome sentimientos que toda mi vida había estado acostumbrado a consentir, me esforcé con todos los medios a mi alcance por hacerme agradable a ella, sin ninguna intención de corresponder a su afecto.
En este punto, la señorita Dashwood, lanzándole una mirada del más airado desprecio, lo detuvo diciéndole:
-No vale la pena, señor Willoughby, que siga hablando, o que yo siga escuchándolo. A un comienzo como éste nada puede seguirle. No me angustie haciéndome oír más sobre este asunto.
-Insisto en que lo escuche todo -replicó él-. Nunca fui dueño de una gran fortuna y siempre he sido de gustos caros, siempre me he asociado con gente de ingresos mayores que los míos. Desde mi mayoría de edad, o incluso antes, creo, año tras año han aumentado mis deudas; y aunque la muerte de mí anciana prima, la señora Smith, me liberaría de ellas, dado que se trata de un hecho incierto y posiblemente muy distante, durante algún tiempo había tenido la intención de reconstruir mi situación a través del matrimonio con una mujer de fortuna. Una relación con su hermana no era, por tanto, pensable; y así me encontraba actuando con una ruindad, egoísmo y crueldad que ninguna mirada de indignación o desprecio, ni siquiera la suya, señorita Dashwood, podría censurar bastante, y siempre con el propósito de conquistar su afecto, sin intenciones de corresponderlo. Pero hay una cosa que puede decirse a mi favor, incluso en ese horrendo estado de egoísta vanidad, y es que no sabía la profundidad del dañó que tramaba, porque en ese entonces no sabía lo que era amar. Pero, ¿alguna vez lo he sabido? Bien puede dudarse de ello, pues si realmente hubiera amado, ¿podría acaso haber sacrificado mis sentimientos a la vanidad, a la avaricia? O, lo que es peor, ¿podría haber sacrificado los suyos? Pero lo he hecho. Para evitar una pobreza relativa, que su afecto y compañía habrían despojado de todos sus horrores, he perdido, elevándome a una situación de fortuna, todo lo que hubiese hecho de ella una bendición.
-Entonces -dijo Elinor, algo aplacada-, sí se sintió durante un tiempo encariñado con ella.
-¡Haber resistido tantos atractivos, haber rechazado tal ternura! ¡Qué hombre en el mundo lo habría hecho! Sí, poco a poco, sin darme cuenta, me encontré sinceramente enamorado de ella; y las horas más felices de mi vida fueron las que pasé con ella, cuando sentía que mis intenciones eran estrictamente honorables y mis sentimientos intachables. Incluso entonces, sin embargo, cuando estaba completamente decidido a plantearle mi amor, me permití contra todo decoro postergar día a día el momento de hacerlo, llevado por mi renuencia a establecer un compromiso mientras siguiera en tan grandes apuros económicos. No voy a justificar esto... ni la detendré si usted quiere explayarse sobre lo absurdo, y peor que absurdo, de dudar en comprometer mi palabra allí donde mi honor ya estaba comprometido. Los hechos han demostrado cuán neciamente astuto fui, trabajando tanto para regalarme la posibilidad de hacerme despreciable y desgraciado para siempre. Por último, sin embargo, me resolví y decidí que en la primera oportunidad en que pudiera hablarle a solas, justificaría las atenciones que sin cesar le había prodigado y le declararía abiertamente un afecto que ya había hecho tanto por mostrarle. Pero entre tanto, en el intervalo de las pocas horas que transcurrirían antes de que se me presentara la oportunidad de hablar con ella en privado, algo ocurrió, una desafortunada circunstancia que destruyó toda mi resolución y, con ella, todo mi bienestar. Algo se descubrió -aquí vaciló y bajó los ojos-. La señora Smith había sabido, de una u otra forma, me imagino que a través de algún pariente lejano que quería privarme de su favor, sobre un asunto, una relación... pero no es necesario que me explaye sobre eso -añadió, mirándola ruborizado y con aire interrogativo-, a través de su amistad tan íntima... probablemente está al tanto de toda la historia desde hace mucho.
-Lo estoy -respondió Elinor, también ruborizándose, y volviendo a endurecer su corazón contra cualquier sentimiento de compasión hacia él-, estoy enterada de todo. Y de qué forma podrá disculpar con sus explicaciones ni la más pequeña parte de su culpa en ese atroz asunto, es más de lo que puedo imaginar.
-Recuerde -exclamó Willoughby-, por boca de quién le llegó esa historia. ¿Podía acaso ser imparcial? Admito que debí respetar la condición y la persona misma de esa joven. No es mi intención justificarme, pero tampoco puedo permitirle a usted suponer que no tengo nada que argumentar; que porque sufrió, era irreprochable; y que porque yo era un libertino, ella debía ser una santa. Si la vehemencia de sus pasiones, la debilidad de su entendimiento... pero no quiero defenderme. Su afecto por mí mereció un mejor trato, y a menudo recuerdo con enormes sentimientos de culpa esa ternura que durante un muy breve lapso tuvo el poder de crear en mí una réplica. Cómo quisiera, de todo corazón, que ello nunca hubiera ocurrido. Pero el daño que me hice a mí es mayor que el suyo; y he dañado a alguien cuyo afecto por mí (¿puedo decirlo? ) era apenas menos ardiente que el de ella, y cuya inteligencia... ¡Ah! ¡Cuán infinitamente superior!
-Pero su indiferencia hacia esa desdichada niña..., debo decirlo, por desagradable que me sea discutir un asunto como éste..., su indiferencia no es excusa para la cruel manera en que la abandonó. No imagine que ninguna debilidad, ninguna carencia natural de entendimiento en ella, disculpa la insensible crueldad que usted mostró. Usted tiene que haber sabido que mientras se divertía en Devonshire con nuevos planes, siempre alegre, siempre feliz, ella se veía reducida a la más total indigencia.
-Pero, le doy mi palabra, yo no lo sabía -replicó Willoughby con enorme vehemencia-; no recordaba no haberle dado mi dirección, y el simple sentido común le debería haber indicado cómo encontrarla.
-Bien, señor, ¿y qué dijo la señora Smith?
-De inmediato me censuró la ofensa que había cometido, y puede deducirse cuán grande fue mi confusión. La pureza de su vida, sus ideas convencionales, su ignorancia del mundo... todo estaba en contra mía. No podía yo negar el asunto, y vanos fueron todos mis esfuerzos por suavizarlo. Estaba predispuesta de antemano, según creo, a dudar de la moralidad de mi conducta en general, y además estaba disgustada con la muy escasa atención, el brevísimo tiempo que le había dedicado en esa visita mía. En pocas palabras, terminó en una ruptura total. Una sola cosa me habría salvado. En lo más extremado de su moralidad, ¡pobre mujer!, ofreció olvidar el pasado si me casaba con Eliza. Eso era impensable... y así fui formalmente expulsado de su favor y de su casa. Debía salir de allí a la mañana siguiente, y la noche anterior la pasé reflexionando en cuál debía ser mi conducta futura. La lucha fue grande..., pero terminó demasiado pronto. Mi afecto por Marianne, mi total seguridad sobre el cariño de ella, todo fue insuficiente para contrarrestar el miedo a la pobreza, o hacer mella en esas falsas ideas sobre la necesidad de riqueza que tan naturales me eran, y que una sociedad dispendiosa me había enseñado a cultivar. Tenía motivos para creerme seguro de la aceptación de mi actual esposa, si optaba por ella, y logré persuadirme de que ésa era la única salida que la prudencia común aconsejaba. Todavía, sin embargo, me aguardaba una dura situación antes de poder partir de Devonshire; estaba comprometido a cenar con ustedes ese mismo día y, por tanto, necesitaba una excusa para faltar a ese compromiso. Me debatí largamente entre escribir esa excusa o presentarla en persona. Sentía que sería terrible ver a Marianne, e incluso dudaba si podría verla de nuevo y seguir siendo capaz de persistir en mi decisión. En ese punto, sin embargo, subestimé mi propia capacidad, según ha sido demostrado por los hechos; porque fui, la vi, vi que era desdichada, y la dejé desdichada... y la dejé, esperando no verla nunca más.
-Pero, ¿por qué fue, señor Willoughby? -dijo Elinor, con tono de reproche-. Una nota habría bastado. ¿Por qué fue necesario ir en persona?
-Fue necesario a mi orgullo. No soportaba irme de allí en una forma que permitiera que ustedes, o el resto de los vecinos, sospechara nada de lo que realmente había ocurrido entre la señora Smith y yo, y decidí entonces detenerme en su casa de camino a Honiton. Ver a su querida hermana, sin embargo, fue terrible; y para empeorar las cosas, la encontré sola. Ustedes habían salido, no sé a dónde. ¡Tan sólo la tarde anterior la había dejado tan completa y firmemente decidido en mi interior a hacer lo correcto! En unas pocas horas nos habríamos comprometido para siempre; ¡y recuerdo qué feliz, qué alegre me sentía mientras iba de la casa a Allenham, satisfecho conmigo mismo, encantado con todo el mundo! Pero en ese encuentro, el último de nuestra amistad, llegué a ella con un sentimiento de culpa que casi me quitó toda capacidad de fingir. Su dolor, su desilusión, su profunda pena cuando le dije que debía dejar Devonshire tan de repente... jamás los olvidaré. ¡Y ello unido a tanta fe, tanta confianza en mí! ¡Oh, Dios! ¡Qué canalla sin sentimientos fui!
Callaron ambos por algunos instantes. Elinor fue la primera en hablar.
-¿Le dijo que volvería pronto?
-No sé lo que le dije -replicó él, impaciente-; menos de lo que me exigía el pasado, sin ninguna duda, y con toda probabilidad mucho más de lo que justificaba el futuro. No puedo pensar en eso... no servirá de nada. Y después llegó su querida madre, a torturarme más aún con toda su bondad y confianza. ¡Gracias a Dios que sí me torturó! ¡Qué infeliz me sentí! Señorita Dashwood, no puede imaginarse qué consuelo es mirar hacia atrás y ver cuán infeliz me sentí. Es tan enorme el rencor que me guardo por la estúpida, canallesca locura de mi propio corazón, que todos los sufrimientos que en el pasado tuve por su causa, hoy no son sino sentimientos de triunfo y gozo. En fin, fui, abandoné todo lo que amaba, y me dirigí hacia quienes, en el mejor de los casos, sólo sentía indiferencia. Mi viaje a la ciudad, en mi propio carruaje, tan tedioso, sin nadie con quien hablar... ¡qué pensamientos alegres, que gratas perspectivas por delante! Y cuando recordaba Barton, ¡qué imagen consoladora! ¡Ah, sí fue un viaje espléndido!
-En fin, señor -dijo Elinor, que aunque compadeciéndolo, se impacientaba por verlo partir-, ¿y es eso todo?
-¡Todo! No. ¿Ha olvidado acaso lo que ocurrió en la ciudad? ¡Esa carta infame! ¿Se la mostró?
-Sí, vi todas las notas que se escribieron.
-Cuando recibí la primera (que me llegó de inmediato, pues todo el tiempo estuve en la ciudad), lo que sentí fue, como se dice comúnmente, imposible de expresar. En palabras más sencillas, quizá demasiado sencillas para despertar ninguna emoción, mis sentimientos fueron muy, muy dolorosos. Cada línea, cada palabra fue, en la trillada frase que prohibiría su querida autora, si estuviera aquí, una puñalada en mi corazón. Saber que Marianne estaba en la ciudad fue, en el mismo lenguaje, un rayo. ¡Rayos y puñaladas! ¡Cómo me habría reprendido! Su gusto, sus opiniones... creo que las conozco mejor que las mías, y con toda seguridad las aprecio más.
El corazón de Elinor, que había recorrido toda una gama de emociones en el curso de esta extraordinaria conversación, volvió a ablandarse una vez más; aun así, sintió que era su deber refrenar en su compañero ideas como la última que había expresado.
-Eso no está bien, señor Willoughby. Recuerde que está casado. Hábleme sólo de aquello que su conciencia estima necesario que yo escuche.
-La nota de Marianne, en que me decía que yo todavía le era tan querido como antes; que pese a las muchas, muchas semanas en que habíamos estado separados, ella seguía tan fiel en sus sentimientos y tan llena de confianza en la fidelidad de los míos como siempre, despertó todos mis remordimientos. Digo que los despertó, porque el tiempo y Londres, las ocupaciones y la disipación, de alguna manera los habían adormecido y me había estado transformando en un villano completamente endurecido, creyéndome indiferente a ella y eligiendo creer que también yo debía haberle llegado a ser indiferente; diciéndome que nuestra relación en el pasado no había sido más que un pasatiempo, un asunto trivial; encogiéndome de hombros como prueba de ello, y acallando todo reproche, venciendo todo escrúpulo con el recurso de decirme en silencio de vez en cuando, “Estaré feliz de todo corazón cuando la sepa bien casada”. Pero su nota me hizo conocerme mejor. Sentí que me era infinitamente más querida que ninguna otra mujer en el mundo, y que me estaba comportando con ella de la manera más infame. Pero en ese momento ya todo estaba definido entre la señorita Grey y yo. Retroceder era imposible. Todo lo que tenía que hacer era evitarlas a ustedes dos. No le respondí a Marianne, intentando por ese medio impedir que volviera a reparar en mí; y durante algún tiempo incluso estuve decidido a no acudir a Berkeley Street; pero, por último, juzgando más sabio fingir que sólo se trataba de una relación fría y ordinaria, esperé una mañana a que hubieran salido de la casa y dejé mi tarjeta.
-¡Esperó a que saliéramos de la casa!
-Sí, incluso eso. Le sorprendería saber cuán a menudo las vi, cuántas veces estuve a punto de toparme con ustedes. Entré en innumerables tiendas para evitar que me vieran desde el carruaje en que iban. Viviendo en Bond Street como yo lo hacía, casi no había día en que no divisara a una de ustedes; y lo único que pudo mantenemos apartados durante tanto tiempo fue mi permanente alerta, un constante e imperioso deseo de mantenerme fuera de la vista de ustedes. Evitaba a los Middleton tanto como me era posible, al igual que a todos los que podían resultar conocidos comunes. Pero sin saber que se encontraban en la ciudad, me tropecé con sir John, creo, el día en que llegó, al día siguiente de mi visita a casa de la señora Jennings. Me invitó a una fiesta, a un baile en su casa esa noche. Aunque no me hubiera dicho para convencerme que usted y su hermana estarían allí, habría sentido que era algo demasiado probable como para atreverme a ir. La mañana siguiente trajo otra breve nota de Marianne, todavía afectuosa, franca, ingenua, confiada... todo lo que podía hacer más odiosa mi conducta. No pude responderle. Lo intenté, y no pude redactar ni una sola frase. Pero creo que no había momento del día en que no pensara en ella. Si puede compadecerme, señorita Dashwood, compadézcase de mi situación como era en ese entonces. Con la mente y el corazón llenos de su hermana, ¡tenía que representar el papel de feliz enamorado frente a otra mujer! Esas tres o cuatro semanas fueron-las peores de todas. Y así, finalmente, como no es necesario que le diga, inevitablemente nos encontramos. ¡Y a qué dulce imagen rechacé! ¡Qué noche de agonía fue ésa! ¡De un lado, Marianne, hermosa como un ángel, diciendo mi nombre con tan dulces acentos! ¡Oh, Dios! ¡Alargándome la mano, pidiéndome una explicación con esos embrujadores ojos fijos en mi rostro con tan expresiva solicitud! Y Sophia, celosa como el demonio, por el otro lado, mirando todo lo que... En fin, qué importa ahora; ya todo ha terminado. ¡Qué noche aquella! Huí de ustedes apenas pude, pero no antes de haber visto el dulce rostro de Marianne blanco como la muerte. Esa fue la última vez que la vi, la última imagen que tengo de ella. ¡Fue una visión terrible! Pero cuando hoy la imaginé muriendo de verdad, fue una especie de alivio pensar que sabía exactamente cómo aparecería ante los últimos que la verían en este mundo. La tuve frente a mí, siempre frente a mí durante todo el camino, con el mismo rostro y el mismo color.
A esto siguió una breve pausa en que ambos callaron, pensativos. Willoughby, levantándose primero, la rompió diciendo:
-Bien, debo apresurarme e irme. ¿Seguro que su hermana está mejor, fuera de peligro? -Sí, estamos seguros.
-También su pobre madre, ¡con lo que adora a Marianne!
-Pero la carta, señor Willoughby, su propia carta; ¿no tiene nada que decir al respecto?
-Sí, sí, ésa en particular. Su hermana me escribió la mañana siguiente misma, como sabe. Ya sabe usted lo que allí decía. Yo estaba desayunando donde los Ellison; y desde el lugar donde me alojaba me llevaron su carta, junto con otras. Y pasó que Sophia la vio antes que yo; y su porte, la elegancia del papel, la letra, todo le despertó inmediatas sospechas. Ya antes le habían llegado vagos informes sobre una relación mía con una joven en Devonshire, y lo ocurrido la noche anterior ante su vista le había indicado quién era la joven, poniéndola más celosa que nunca. Fingiendo entonces ese aire juguetón que es delicioso en la mujer que uno ama, abrió ella misma la carta y leyó su contenido. Fue un buen pago a su desfachatez. Leyó las palabras que la hicieron infeliz. Yo podría haber soportado su infelicidad, pero su cólera, su inquina, de cualquier forma había que calmarlas. Y así, ¿qué piensa del estilo epistolar de mi esposa? Delicado, tierno, verdaderamente femenino, ¿verdad?
-¡Su esposa! Pero si la carta venía de su puño y letra.
-Sí, pero mi único crédito es haber copiado servilmente frases que me avergonzaba firmar. El original fue enteramente de ella, sus propias felices ideas y gentil redacción. Pero, ¿qué podía hacer yo? Estábamos comprometidos, estaban preparando todo, casi habían fijado la fecha... pero hablo como un necio. ¡Preparaciones! ¡Fecha! Hablando sinceramente, necesitaba su dinero, y en una situación como la mía tenía que hacer cualquier cosa para evitar un rompimiento. Y después de todo, ¿qué importancia podía tener para la opinión de Marianne y sus amigos sobre mi carácter, el lenguaje en que estuviera formulada mi respuesta? Debía servir a un solo propósito. Tenía que mostrarme como un villano, y poco importaba que lo hiciera con una venia o una bravuconada. “Mi reputación ante ellas está arruinada para siempre”, me dije; “estoy para siempre proscrito de su lado; ya me creen un individuo sin principios, esta carta se limitará a hacerlas creerme un sinvergüenza”. Tales eran mis razonamientos mientras, en una especie de desesperada indiferencia, copiaba las palabras de mi esposa y me separaba de las últimas reliquias de Marianne. Sus tres cartas, desgraciadamente las guardaba en mi cartera, o habría podido negar su existencia y conservarlas como un tesoro para siempre. Debí incluirlas, y ni siquiera pude besarlas. Y el mechón de su cabello, también lo había llevado siempre conmigo en mi cartera, que ahora la señora registraba con la más cautivante virulencia... Ese querido mechón... todo, cada recuerdo me fue arrancado.
-Está muy equivocado, señor Willoughby, son muy censurables sus palabras -dijo Elinor, mientras su voz, a su pesar, traicionaba la compasión que sentía-; no debía hablar de esta forma, ni de la señora Willoughby ni de mi hermana. Usted hizo su propia elección. Nadie se la impuso. Su esposa tiene derecho a su gentileza, a su respeto al menos. Debe quererlo, o no se habría casado con usted. Tratarla en forma descortés, hablar de ella despreciativamente, no repara lo hecho a Marianne, ni creo que alivie su propia conciencia.
-No me hable de mi esposa -dijo él, con un profundo suspiro-. Ella no merece su compasión. Sabía que no la quería cuando nos casamos. Bien, nos casamos, vinimos a Combe Magna buscando ser felices, y después volvimos a la ciudad buscando estar alegres. Y ahora, ¿me compadece, señorita Dashwood? ¿O he dicho todo esto en vano? En su opinión, ¿soy, aunque sea tan sólo un poco, soy menos culpable que antes? No siempre fueron incorrectas mis intenciones. ¿He justificado algo de mi culpa?
-Sí, ciertamente ha eliminado algo de ella, una pequeña parte. Ha probado ser, en general, menos culpable de lo que lo había creído. Ha demostrado que su corazón es menos perverso, mucho menos perverso. Pero me es difícil saber, en cuanto a la infelicidad que ha causado, me es difícil saber cómo podría haber sido peor.
-¿Le contará a su hermana, cuando se haya recuperado, lo que le he dicho? Permítame aligerar un poco mi culpa también en su opinión. Me dice que ya me ha perdonado. Permítame creer que un mejor conocimiento de mi corazón, de mis actuales sentimientos, arrancará de ella un perdón más espontáneo, más natural, más dulce, menos señorial. Cuéntele de mi desdicha y mi arrepentimiento, dígale que mi corazón nunca le fue infiel, y si lo desea, que en la actualidad me es más querida que nunca.
-Le diré todo cuanto sea necesario para lo que, relativamente, pueda llamarse su justificación. Pero no me ha explicado el motivo específico de su actual visita, ni cómo supo de su enfermedad.
-Anoche, en el foyer del Drury Lane, me topé con sir John Middleton, y cuando vio quién era (nuestro primer encuentro en estos dos meses), me dirigió la palabra. Que hubiera cortado conmigo desde mi matrimonio, no me causaba sorpresa ni resentimiento. En ese momento, sin embargo, con su alma buena, honesta y tonta, llena de indignación contra mí y preocupación por su hermana, no pudo resistir la tentación de contarme lo que él creyó que debía, aunque no pensó que lo hiciese, afectarme de manera tan terrible. Tan bruscamente como pudo, entonces, me contó que Marianne Dashwood se estaba muriendo de una fiebre pútrida en Cleveland; una carta de la señora Jennings recibida esa mañana anunciaba que el peligro era inminente, el temor había alejado a los Palmer, etc. El golpe fue demasiado fuerte para permitirme fingir insensibilidad, incluso ante el poco perspicaz sir John. Su corazón se ablandó al ver cómo sufría el mío; y una parte tan grande de su inquina se había esfumado cuando nos despedimos, que casi llegó a estrecharme la mano, mientras me recordaba una vieja promesa sobre un cachorro pointer. Lo que sentí al escuchar que su hermana estaba muriendo, y muriendo creyéndome el mayor villano del mundo, despreciándome, odiándome en sus últimos momentos... porque, ¿cómo saber qué horrendos planes no me habrían imputado? Estaba seguro de que al menos una persona podía hacerme aparecer capaz de todo. ¡Lo que sentí fue atroz! Rápidamente tomé una decisión, y hoy a las ocho de la mañana ya me encontraba en mi carruaje. Ahora ya lo sabe todo.
Elinor no respondió. Sus pensamientos estaban silenciosamente fijos en el daño irreparable que una independencia demasiado temprana, y los consiguientes hábitos de ocio, disipación y lujos, habían causado en la mente, el carácter, la felicidad de un hombre que, a todas las ventajas de una buena apariencia y talentos, unía una disposición naturalmente franca y honesta, y temperamento sensible y afectuoso. El mundo lo había hecho extravagante y vanidoso; la extravagancia y la vanidad lo habían hecho insensible y egoísta. La vanidad, mientras Willoughby sacrificaba a otro en aras de su propio triunfo culpable, lo había involucrado en un verdadero afecto al que la extravagancia -o al menos su hija, la necesidad- había exigido renunciar. Cada uno de estos defectos, al conducirlo al mal, también lo había conducido al castigo. El afecto que contra todo honor, contra sus sentimientos, contra sus mejores intereses había aparentemente querido arrancar de sí, ahora, cuando ya no le era permitido, dominaba todos sus pensamientos; y la unión por cuya causa, sin ningún escrúpulo, había hecho desgraciada a su hermana, parecía haberse transformado en una fuente de infelicidad para él mismo de naturaleza mucho más incurable. De este ensimismamiento la sacó después de algunos minutos Willoughby, quien, saliendo de un ensimismamiento al menos igual de doloroso, se levantó preparándose para partir y dijo:
-No sirve de nada que permanezca aquí; debo irme.
-No, a Combe Magna. Tengo algo que hacer allí; en uno o dos días más seguiré a la ciudad. Adiós.
Le alargó la mano. Ella no pudo rehusar darle la suya; él se la estrechó afectuosamente.
-Pero, ¿usted sí piensa mejor ahora de mí? -dijo, soltándola y apoyándose en la repisa de la chimenea, como si hubiera olvidado que iba a marcharse.
Elinor le aseguró que así era; que lo perdonaba, lo compadecía, que le deseaba lo mejor, incluso que fuera feliz, a lo que añadió un consejo gentil sobre el comportamiento más adecuado para lograrlo. Su respuesta no fue muy animadora.
-En cuanto a eso -dijo-, tendré que arreglármelas lo mejor que pueda. En la felicidad doméstica no puedo ni pensar. Sin embargo, si usted y su familia tienen algún interés en mi suerte y en mis actos, puede ser la manera... puede ponerme en guardia... al menos, puede ser algo por lo que vivir. A Marianne, de todas maneras, la he perdido para siempre. Incluso si, por algún bendito azar, me encontrara libre de nuevo...
Elinor lo detuvo con un reproche.
-Bien -dijo él-, una vez más, adiós. Me iré ahora y viviré temiendo que ocurra una sola cosa. -¿A qué se refiere?
-Está muy equivocado. Nunca podrá estar más fuera de su alcance de lo que está ahora.
-Pero será de otro. Y si ese otro fuera el mismo que, entre todos los hombres, menos soporto... Pero no me quedaré a privarme de toda su compasiva buena voluntad al mostrarle que allí donde he hecho más daño, menos puedo perdonar. Adiós, ¡que Dios la bendiga!
Y con estas palabras, salió casi corriendo de la habitación.
Durante un buen rato tras la partida de Willoughby, incluso después de haberse perdido en la distancia el ruido de su carruaje, Elinor permaneció demasiado abatida por un enjambre de ideas muy diferentes entre sí, pero cuyo resultado general era la tristeza, para ni siquiera pensar en su hermana.
Willoughby, el mismo a quien sólo hacía media hora había detestado como el más despreciable de los hombres; Willoughby, a pesar de todos sus defectos, despertaba en ella una conmiseración tal por los sufrimientos que esos mismos defectos habían producido, que ahora la hacían pensar en él, apartado para siempre de su familia, con una ternura, con una pena más proporcionadas, como pronto reconoció para sí misma, a sus deseos que a sus méritos. Sintió que su influencia sobre ella se veía incrementada por circunstancias que razonablemente no habrían debido pesar: por el poco común atractivo de su apariencia; por sus modales francos, afectuosos y vivaces, que no hay mérito en poseer; y por ese todavía fervoroso amor por Marianne, en el que ni siquiera era inocente complacerse. Pero sintió todo esto mucho, mucho antes de sentir debilitarse su influjo.
Cuando finalmente volvió junto a la inconsciente Marianne, la encontró recién despertándose, renovada por tan largo y dulce sueño, tal como lo había esperado. El corazón de Elinor estaba colmado a plenitud. El pasado, el presente, el futuro; la visita de Willoughby, ver a Marianne a salvo y la esperada llegada de su madre, la llenaron de una agitación que impidió toda señal de fatiga y la hizo temer tan sólo que pudiera traicionarse frente a su hermana. Poco fue el tiempo, sin embargo, en que la afectó ese temor, pues antes de media hora de la partida de Willoughby, el ruido de otro carruaje la hizo bajar nuevamente. Ansiosa de evitar a su madre innecesarios momentos de terrible suspenso, corrió de inmediato al vestíbulo y llegó a la puerta principal justo a tiempo de recibirla y sostenerla mientras entraba.
La señora Dashwood, cuyo terror a medida que se aproximaban a la casa le había producido casi la convicción de que Marianne ya había dejado de existir, no pudo sacar la voz para preguntar por ella, ni siquiera para dirigirse a Elinor; pero ésta, sin esperar saludos ni preguntas, de inmediato le dio las buenas noticias; y su madre, tomándolas con su usual vehemencia, en un momento estuvo tan abrumada por la felicidad como antes lo había estado por sus temores. Entre su hija y el amigo de ésta la sostuvieron hasta llevarla a la sala; y allí, derramando lágrimas de alegría, aunque todavía incapaz de hablar, abrazó una y otra vez a Elinor, separándose de ella a intervalos para estrechar la mano del coronel Brandon con una mirada que expresaba al mismo tiempo su gratitud y su certeza de que él compartía con ella la dicha del momento. El, sin embargo, la compartía en un silencio incluso mayor que el de ella.
Apenas se recuperó la señora Dashwood, su primer deseo fue ver a Marianne; y en dos minutos estuvo junto a su niña amada, a quien la ausencia, la infelicidad y el peligro habían hecho más querida aún. El placer de Elinor al ver lo que cada una de ellas sentía al encontrarse sólo se vio refrenado por el temor de estarle robando a Marianne horas de sueño; pero la señora Dashwood podía ser tranquila, podía hasta ser prudente cuando se trataba de la vida de una hija; y Marianne, contenta de saber que su madre estaba a su lado y consciente de estar demasiado débil para conversar, se sometió rápidamente al silencio y quietud ordenados por todos quienes la cuidaban. La señora Dashwood insistió en velar su sueño durante toda la noche, y Elinor, obedeciendo a los ruegos de su madre, se fue a la cama. Pero el descanso, que una noche completa sin dormir y tantas horas de la más agobiadora ansiedad parecían hacer tan necesario, se vio impedido por la excitación de su ánimo. Willoughby, “el pobre Willoughby”, como ahora se permitía llamarlo, estaba constantemente en sus pensamientos; no podía sino haber escuchado. su justificación ante el mundo, y ora se culpaba, ora se absolvía por haberlo juzgado tan duramente antes. Pero su promesa de contárselo a su hermana le era invariablemente dolorosa. Temía hacerlo, temía los efectos que pudiera tener en Marianne; dudaba si, tras tal explicación, ella podría alguna vez ser feliz con otra persona; y durante algunos instantes deseó que Willoughby enviudara; luego, recordando al coronel Brandon, se lo reprochó, sintiendo que sus sufrimientos y su constancia, mucho más que los de su rival, merecían tener como recompensa a Marianne, y deseó que ocurriera cualquier cosa menos la muerte de la señora Willoughby.
La comisión del coronel Brandon en Barton no había tenido un impacto demasiado fuerte sobre la señora Dashwood, porque ésta ya abrigaba fuertes temores en relación con Marianne; estaba tan inquieta por ella que ya había decidido ir a Cleveland ese mismo día, sin aguardar mayores informes, y los preparativos de su viaje estaban tan avanzados antes de la llegada del coronel, que esperaban de un momento a otro la llegada de los Carey a buscar a Margaret, a quien su madre no quería llevar donde hubiera peligro de una infección.
Marianne seguía recuperándose día a día, y la radiante alegría en el semblante y en el ánimo de la señora Dashwood daban fe de que era, como repetidamente se confesaba, una de las mujeres más felices del mundo. Elinor no podía escuchar sus palabras, ni contemplar sus manifestaciones, sin preguntarse a veces si su madre alguna vez recordaba a Edward. Pero la señora Dashwood, confiada en el moderado relato de sus desilusiones que le había hecho llegar Elinor, permitió que la exuberancia de su alegría la llevara a pensar sólo en lo que podía aumentarla. Marianne le había sido devuelta tras un peligro en el cual -así había comenzado a sentir- ella misma, con su propio errado juicio, había contribuido a ponerla, pues había estimulado su desdichado afecto por Willoughby; y en su recuperación tenía aún otro motivo de alegría, en el cual Elinor no había pensado. Así se lo hizo saber tan pronto como se presentó la oportunidad de una conversación privada entre ellas.
-Por fin estamos solas. Mi querida Elinor, todavía no conoces toda mi felicidad. El coronel Brandon ama a Marianne; él mismo me lo ha dicho.
Elinor, sintiéndose alternativamente contenta y apenada, sorprendida y no sorprendida, era toda silenciosa atención.
-Nunca reaccionas como yo, querida Elinor, o me extrañaría ahora tu compostura. Si alguna vez me hubiera puesto a pensar en qué sería lo mejor para mi familia, habría concluido que el matrimonio del coronel Brandon con una de ustedes era lo más deseable. Y creo que, de las dos, Marianne puede ser la más feliz con él.
Elinor estuvo medio tentada de preguntarle por qué creía eso, sabiendo que no podría darle razón alguna que se sustentara en consideraciones imparciales sobre edad, caracteres o sentimientos; pero su madre siempre se dejaba llevar por su imaginación en todos los temas que le interesaban y, así, en vez de preguntar, lo dejó pasar con una sonrisa.
-Me abrió completamente el corazón ayer mientras veníamos hacia acá. Fue muy de improviso, muy impremeditado. Yo, como puedes imaginártelo, no podía hablar de nada sino de mi niña; él no podía ocultar su angustia; vi que era tan grande como la mía, y él, quizá pensando que la mera amistad, tal como son hoy las cosas, no podría justificar una simpatía tan ardiente (o tal vez no pensando en nada, supongo), dejándose invadir por sentimientos irresistibles, me dio a conocer su profundo, tierno y firme afecto por Marianne. La ha amado, querida Elinor, desde la primera vez que la vio.
En esto, sin embargo, Elinor percibió no el lenguaje, no las declaraciones del coronel Brandon, sino los adornos con que su madre solía enriquecer todo aquello que la deleitaba, amoldándolo a su propia infatigable fantasía.
-Su afecto por ella, que sobrepasa infinitamente todo lo que Willoughby sintió o fingió, mucho más cálido, más sincero, más constante, como sea que lo llamemos, ¡ha subsistido incluso al conocimiento de la desdichada predilección de Marianne por aquel joven despreciable! ¡Y sin egoísmos, sin alimentar esperanzas! ¿Cómo pudo verla feliz con otro? ¡Qué nobleza de espíritu! ¡Qué franqueza, qué sinceridad! Con él nadie puede engañarse.
-Nadie duda -dijo Elinor- sobre la reputación del coronel Brandon como hombre excelente.
-Sé que es así -replicó su madre con gran seriedad-, o después de la advertencia que hemos tenido, sería la última en estimular este afecto, o ni siquiera de complacerme en él. Pero el que haya ido a buscarme como lo hizo, con una amistad tan diligente, tan pronta, basta como prueba de que es uno de los hombres más estimables del mundo.
-Su reputación, sin embargo -respondió Elinor no descansa en un gesto de bondad, al cual su afecto por Marianne, si dejamos fuera el simple espíritu humanitario, lo habría impulsado. La señora Jennings, los Middleton, hace tiempo que lo conocen íntimamente, y lo respetan y aman por igual; e incluso yo, aunque desde hace poco, lo conozco bastante, y lo valoro y estimo tanto que, si Marianne puede ser feliz con él, estaré tan dispuesta como usted a pensar que nuestra relación con él es para nosotros la mayor de las bendiciones. ¿Qué le respondió usted? ¿Le dio alguna esperanza?
-¡Ah, mi amor! No podía ahí hablar de esperanzas ni para él ni para mí. Marianne podía estar muriendo en ese momento. Pero él no pedía que le dieran esperanzas ni que lo animaran. Lo que hacía era una confidencia involuntaria, un desahogo irreprimible frente a una amiga capaz de consolarlo, no una petición a una madre. Aunque después de algunos momentos, porque en un comienzo me sentía bastante abrumada, sí dije que si ella vivía, como confiaba en que ocurriría, sería mi mayor felicidad promover el matrimonio entre ambos; y desde que llegamos, con la maravillosa seguridad que desde ese momento tenemos, se lo he repetido de diversas maneras, lo he animado con todas mis fuerzas. El tiempo, le digo, un poco de tiempo, se encargará de todo; el corazón de Marianne no se va a desperdiciar para siempre en un hombre como Willoughby. Sus propios méritos pronto deberán ganárselo.
-A juzgar por el ánimo del coronel, sin embargo, no ha logrado contagiarle su optimismo.
-No. El cree que el amor de Marianne está demasiado arraigado para que cambie antes de mucho tiempo; e incluso suponiendo que su corazón vuelva a estar libre, no confía lo suficiente en él para pensar que, con tanta diferencia de edad y manera de ser, él pueda atraerla. En eso, sin embargo, se equivoca mucho. La supera en años únicamente hasta el punto en que ello constituye una ventaja, al darle firmeza de carácter y de principios; y su manera de ser, estoy convencida de ello, es exactamente la que puede hacer feliz a tu hermana. Y su aspecto, también sus modales, todos juegan a su favor. Mi simpatía por él no me ciega; por supuesto que no es tan apuesto como Willoughby; pero, al mismo tiempo, hay algo mucho más agradable en su semblante. Siempre hubo una cierta cosa, recuerda, en los ojos de Willoughby, ahí a ratos, que no me gustaba.
Elinor no lo recordaba; pero su madre, sin esperar su conformidad, continuó:
-Y sus modales, los modales del coronel, no sólo me agradan más de lo que nunca hicieron los de Willoughby, sino que son de un estilo que estoy segura atrae mucho más a Marianne. La gentileza, la genuina preocupación por los demás que muestra, su varonil y no afectada sencillez, son mucho más acordes con la verdadera manera de ser de tu hermana, que la vivacidad, a menudo artificial e inoportuna, del otro. Tengo plena seguridad de que si Willoughby hubiera resultado en verdad tan amable como ha demostrado ser lo contrario, aun así Marianne no habría sido tan feliz con él como lo será con el coronel Brandon.
Hizo una pausa. Su hija no podía concordar con ella, pero no se escuchó su desacuerdo y, por tanto, no significó ninguna ofensa.
-En Delaford no estará lejos de mí -añadió la señora Dashwood-, incluso si permanezco en Barton; y con toda probabilidad, pues he sabido que es una aldea grande, debe haber alguna casa pequeña o cabaña cerca que nos acomode tanto como la actual.
¡Pobre Elinor! ¡He aquí un nuevo plan para llevarla a Delaford! Pero era fuerte de espíritu.
-¡Su fortuna, también! Porque a mi edad, tú sabes que todos se preocupan de eso; y aunque ni sé ni deseo saber a cuánto asciende, estoy segura de que debe ser considerable.
En ese momento los interrumpió la entrada de un tercero, y Elinor se retiró a meditar sobre todas estas cosas a solas, a desearle éxito a su amigo y, aun deseándoselo, a sentir un agudo dolor por Willoughby.
La enfermedad de Marianne, aunque muy debilitante por naturaleza, no había sido tan larga como para demorar su recuperación; y su juventud, su natural energía y la presencia de su madre la facilitaron de tal manera, que ya a los cuatro días de haber llegado la señora Dashwood pudo trasladarse al saloncito de la señora Palmer. Una vez allí, ella misma solicitó que enviaran por el coronel Brandon, pues estaba impaciente por agradecerle haber traído a su madre.
La reacción del coronel al entrar a la habitación, al ver cuánto había cambiado el aspecto de Marianne y al recibir la pálida mano que de inmediato le extendió, hizo pensar a Elinor que la enorme emoción que mostraba debía nacer de algo más que su afecto por ella o de saber que los demás estaban al tanto de sus sentimientos; y pronto descubrió en su tristeza y en la forma en que había cambiado de color al mirar a su hermana, la probable reproducción en su memoria de incontables escenas de angustia vividas en el pasado, vueltas a vivir por esa semejanza entre Marianne y Eliza de que ya había hablado, y ahora reforzada por los ojos hundidos, la piel sin vida, su aspecto de postrada debilidad y el cálido reconocimiento de una deuda especial con él.
Para la señora Dashwood, no menos atenta que su hija a lo que ocurría pero con ideas que iban por muy diferentes rumbos y, por tanto, a la espera de muy distintos efectos, el comportamiento del coronel se originaba en las más simples y obvias sensaciones, mientras en las palabras y gestos de Marianne quería ver el nacimiento de algo más que mera gratitud.
Después de uno o dos días, con Marianne recuperando visiblemente las fuerzas de doce en doce horas, la señora Dashwood, impulsada tanto por sus propios deseos como por los de su hija, comenzó a hablar de volver a Barton. De las medidas que ella tomara dependían las de sus dos amigos: la señora Jennings no podía dejar Cleveland mientras estuvieran allí las Dashwood, y el coronel Brandon, obedeciendo al pedido unánime de todas ellas, debió considerar su permanencia como sujeta a los mismos términos, si no igualmente indispensable. A su vez, en respuesta al pedido conjunto de la señora Jennings y del coronel, la señora Dashwood debió aceptar el carruaje de éste en su viaje de regreso, por la comodidad de su hija enferma; y el coronel, frente a la invitación de la señora Dashwood y la señora Jennings, cuyo diligente buen carácter la hacía ser amistosa y hospitalaria en nombre de otras personas tanto como en el propio, se comprometió gustoso a recuperarlo haciendo una visita a la casita de Barton en el curso de algunas semanas.
Llegó el día de la separación y la partida; y Marianne, después de una larga y muy especial despedida de la señora Jennings, tan llena de gratitud, tan llena de respeto y buenos deseos como en lo más íntimo y secreto de su corazón reconocía deberle por sus antiguos desaires, y diciendo adiós al coronel Brandon con la cordialidad de una amiga, subió al carruaje ayudada por él, que parecía empeñado en que ocupara al menos la mitad del espacio. Siguieron a continuación la señora Dashwood y Elinor, dejando a los que allí quedaban entregados a conversar sobre las viajeras y sentir el desaliento que los invadía, hasta que la señora Jennings fue llamada a su propio coche, donde encontró consuelo en los comentarios de su doncella sobre la pérdida de sus dos jóvenes acompañantes; e inmediatamente después, el coronel Brandon emprendió su solitario viaje a Delaford.
Dos días estuvieron las Dashwood en el camino, y Marianne soportó el viaje en ambos sin verdadera fatiga. Todo cuanto el más diligente afecto y los cuidados más solícitos podían hacer por su comodidad, lo hizo incansablemente cada una de sus dos acompañantes; y ambas se vieron recompensadas por el reposo físico que logró y la tranquilidad de su espíritu. Esta última era para Elinor especialmente gratificante. Después de contemplar a Marianne semana tras semana en constante sufrimiento, de verla con el corazón oprimido por una angustia que no tenía el valor suficiente para expresar ni la fortaleza necesaria para ocultar, constataba ahora en ella, con un gozo que nadie podía sentir de la misma forma, una aparente serenidad que si era -como esperaba que fuese- resultado de la reflexión, con el tiempo podía traerle contentamiento y alegría.
A medida que se aproximaban a Barton, eso sí, e iban pasando por los lugares donde cada sembrado y cada árbol traía algún recuerdo penoso en particular, Marianne se fue quedando callada y pensativa; y volviendo el rostro para que no la vieran, no dejó de mirar fijamente por la ventanilla. Pero Elinor no pudo ni admirarse ni culparla por ello; y cuando al ayudarla a bajar del carruaje vio que había estado llorando, lo consideró una emoción demasiado natural en sí misma para despertar una respuesta menos tierna que la piedad y, dada la discreción con que se había manifestado, merecedora de todo encomio. En todo su comportamiento subsiguiente fue viendo las huellas de una mente decidida a realizar un esfuerzo razonable, pues apenas entraron a su salita de estar, Marianne la recorrió con una mirada decidida y firme, como resuelta a acostumbrarse de inmediato a la vista de cada objeto al que podía estar asociado el recuerdo de Willoughby. Habló poco, pero cada una de sus frases apuntaba a la alegría; y aunque ocasionalmente se le escapaba un suspiro, nunca lo dejaba pasar sin compensarlo con una sonrisa. Después de cenar intentó tocar el piano. Se acercó a él, pero la pieza que primero saltó a su vista fue una ópera, regalo de Willoughby a ella, que contenía algunos de sus duetos favoritos y en cuya primera página él había escrito su nombre, con su propia letra. Eso no iba a resultar. Meneó la cabeza, hizo la partitura a un lado y tras dejar correr los dedos sobre las teclas durante un minuto, se quejó de que los tenía débiles y volvió a cerrar el instrumento; junto con eso, sin embargo, declaró firmemente que en el futuro debía practicar mucho.
La mañana siguiente no produjo ninguna mengua en estos felices síntomas. Al contrario, fortalecida en mente y cuerpo por el descanso, sus gestos y sus palabras parecían genuinamente animados mientras anticipaba el placer del retorno de Margaret y comentaba cómo se restituiría con ello el querido grupo familiar, y cómo sus actividades compartidas y alegre compañía eran la única felicidad que cabía desear.
-Cuando el tiempo se estabilice y haya recuperado las fuerzas -decía-, haremos largos paseos juntas todos los días. Iremos hasta la granja junto a la colina y veremos cómo siguen los niños; caminaremos hasta las nuevas plantaciones de sir John en Barton Cross y cerca de la abadía; iremos muy seguido a las viejas ruinas del convento e intentaremos explorar sus cimientos hasta donde nos dijeron que alguna vez llegaron. Sé que seremos felices. Sé que el verano transcurrirá alegremente. Pretendo no levantarme nunca después de las seis y desde esa hora hasta la cena repartiré cada instante entre la música y la lectura. Me he formado un plan y estoy decidida a continuar mis estudios seriamente. Ya conozco demasiado bien nuestra biblioteca para recurrir a ella por algo más que simple entretenimiento. Pero hay muchas obras que vale la pena leer en Barton Park, y otras más modernas que sé que puedo pedir prestadas al coronel Brandon. Con sólo leer seis horas diarias, en un año habré logrado un grado de instrucción que ahora sé que me falta.
Elinor la alabó por un plan nacido de un motivo tan noble como ése, aunque sonrió al ver la misma ansiosa fantasía que la había llevado a los mayores extremos de lánguida indolencia y egoístas quejumbres, ahora ocupada en introducir excesos en un plan de tan racionales actividades y virtuoso autocontrol. Su sonrisa, sin embargo, se transformó en un suspiro cuando recordó que aún no cumplía la promesa hecha a Willoughby, y temió tener que comunicar algo que otra vez podría alterar la mente de Marianne y destruir, al menos por un tiempo, esta grata perspectiva de hacendosa tranquilidad. Deseosa, entonces, de postergar esa hora funesta, resolvió esperar hasta que la salud de su hermana estuviera más firme para contárselo. Pero el único destino de tal decisión era no ser cumplida.
Marianne llevaba dos o tres días en casa antes de que el tiempo se compusiera lo suficiente para que una convaleciente como ella se aventurara a salir. Pero por fin amaneció una mañana suave y templada, capaz de dar ánimos a los deseos de la hija y a la confianza de la madre; y Marianne, apoyada en el brazo de Elinor, fue autorizada a pasear en el prado frente a la casa todo lo que quisiera, mientras no se cansara.
Las hermanas partieron con el paso lento que exigía la debilidad de Marianne en un ejercicio no intentado hasta ese momento; y se habían alejado de la casa apenas lo suficiente para tener una visión completa de la colina, la gran colina detrás de la casa, cuando deteniéndose con la vista vuelta hacia ella, Marianne dijo con toda calma:
-Ahí, exactamente ahí -señalando con una mano-, en ese montículo, ahí me caí; y ahí vi por primera vez a Willoughby.
La voz se le extinguió al pronunciar esa palabra, pero recuperándose de inmediato, añadió:
-¡Cómo agradezco descubrir que puedo contemplar ese lugar con tan poco dolor! ¿Alguna vez hablaremos sobre ese tema, Elinor? -lo dijo con voz vacilante-. ¿O no será bueno? Yo sí puedo hablar de ello ahora, espero, y en la forma en que debo hacerlo.
Elinor la invitó con gran ternura a que se desahogara.
-En cuanto a lamentarse -dijo Marianne-, ya he terminado con eso, en lo que a él concierne. No pretendo hablarte de lo que han sido mis sentimientos hacia él, sino de lo que son ahora. Actualmente, si pudiera tener certeza sobre una cosa, si pudiera pensar que no siempre estuvo representando un papel, no siempre engañándome...; pero, sobre todo, si alguien pudiera darme la seguridad de que nunca fue tan malvado como en ocasiones me lo han representado mis temores, desde que supe la historia de esa desdichada niña...
Se detuvo. Elinor recibió con alegría sus palabras, atesorándolas, mientras le respondía:
-Si se te pudiera dar seguridad sobre eso, ¿crees que lograrías el sosiego?
-Sí. Mi paz mental depende doblemente de ello; pues no sólo es terrible sospechar tales propósitos de alguien que ha sido lo que él fue para mí, sino además, ¿cómo me hace aparecer a mí? En una situación como la mía, ¿qué cosa sino el más vergonzosamente indiscreto afecto pudo exponerme a...?
-Entonces, ¿cómo explicas su comportamiento?
-Querría pensar... ¡ah, cómo me gustaría poder pensar que sólo era voluble... muy, muy voluble!
Elinor no dijo más. Deliberaba internamente sobre la conveniencia de comenzar su historia de inmediato o posponerla hasta que Marianne estuviera más fuerte, y siguieron caminando lentamente durante unos minutos, sin hablar.
-No le estoy deseando un gran bien -dijo finalmente Marianne con un hondo suspiro- cuando le deseo que sus pensamientos íntimos no sean más ingratos que los míos. Ya con eso sufrirá bastante.
-¿Estás comparando tu comportamiento con el suyo?
-No. Lo comparo con lo que debió ser; lo comparo con el tuyo.
-Tu situación y la mía no se han parecido mucho.
-Se han parecido más de lo que se parecieron nuestros comportamientos. No dejes, queridísima Elinor, que tu bondad defienda lo que sé ha de censurar tu criterio. Mi enfermedad me ha hecho pensar, me ha dado tiempo tranquilo y calma para meditar con seriedad las cosas. Mucho antes de haberme recuperado lo suficiente para hablar, perfectamente podía reflexionar. Sopesé el pasado: todo lo que vi en mi propio comportamiento, desde el comienzo de nuestra relación con él el otoño pasado, fue una serie de imprudencias contra mí misma y de falta de amabilidad hacia los demás. Vi que mis propios sentimientos habían preparado el camino para mis sufrimientos y que mi falta de fortaleza en el dolor casi me había llevado a la tumba. Estaba consciente de que yo misma había sido la causa de mi enfermedad al descuidar mi propia salud de una forma tal que incluso en ese tiempo sentía incorrecta. Si hubiera muerto, habría sido autodestrucción. No supe el peligro en que me había puesto hasta que desapareció ese peligro; pero con sentimientos como aquellos a los que estas reflexiones dieron origen, me extraña haberme recuperado; me asombra que la misma intensidad de mi deseo de vivir, de tener tiempo para la expiación ante mi Dios y ante todos ustedes, no me haya matado de inmediato. Si hubiera muerto, ¡en qué singular angustia te habría dejado, a ti, mi cuidadora, mi amiga, mi hermana! ¡Tú, que habías visto todo el irritable egoísmo de mis últimos días; que habías conocido todos los secretos de mi corazón! ¡Cómo habría perdurado en tus recuerdos! ¡Y mi madre, también! ¡Cómo podrías haberla consolado! No puedo poner en palabras cuánto me odié. Cada vez que dirigía la mirada hacia el pasado, veía un deber que había descuidado o alguna falta que había dejado pasar. A todos parecía haber causado algún daño. A la amabilidad de la señora Jennings, a su ininterrumpida amabilidad, había respondido con desagradecido menosprecio. Con los Middleton, con los Palmer, con los Steele, hasta con los conocidos más corrientes, había sido insolente e injusta; mi corazón había permanecido insensible a sus méritos y mi temperamento irritado ante sus mismas atenciones. A John, a Fanny (sí, incluso a ellos, aunque sea poco lo que se merecen), les había dado menos de lo que les es debido. Pero a ti, a ti por sobre todo, por sobre mi madre, te había ofendido. Yo, sólo yo, conocía tu corazón y sus penas; y aun así, ¿en qué me influyó? No en hacerme más compasiva, beneficiándome a mí o a ti. Tenía tu ejemplo ante mí; pero, ¿de qué me sirvió? ¿Fui más considerada contigo y tu bienestar? ¿Imité la forma en que te contenías o suavicé tus ataduras haciéndome cargo de algunas de las muestras de deferencia general o gratitud personal que hasta ese momento habían recaído enteramente en ti? No; cuando te sabía desdichada no menos que cuando te creía en paz, dejé sin cumplir todo lo que el deber o la amistad me exigían; apenas admitía que el dolor existiera sino en mí, y sólo lloraba por ese corazón que me había abandonado y agraviado, dejando que tú, a quien profesaba un cariño sin límites, sufrieras por mi causa.
En este punto se detuvo el rápido fluir de las recriminaciones que a sí misma se dirigía; y Elinor, impaciente por dar alivio, aunque demasiado honesta para halagar, de inmediato le ofreció los elogios y el apoyo que su franqueza y arrepentimiento tan bien merecían. Marianne le oprimió la mano y replicó:
-Eres muy buena. El futuro debe ser mi prueba. Me he hecho un plan, y si soy capaz de cumplirlo, lograré el dominio de mis sentimientos y mejoraré mi temperamento. Ya no significarán preocupaciones para los demás ni tormentos para mí misma. Viviré ahora únicamente para mi familia. Tú, mi madre, Margaret, de ahora en adelante serán todo mi mundo; entre ustedes se repartirá todo mi cariño. Nunca más habrá nada que me incite a alejarme de ustedes o del hogar; y si me junto con otras personas, será sólo para mostrar un espíritu más humilde, un corazón enmendado, y hacer ver que puedo llevar a cabo las cortesías, las más pequeñas obligaciones de la vida, con gentileza y paciencia. En cuanto a Willoughby, sería ocioso decir que pronto o alguna vez lo olvidaré. Ningún cambio de circunstancias u opiniones podrá vencer su recuerdo. Pero estará sujeto a las normas y frenos de la religión, la razón y la ocupación constante.
Hizo una pausa, y añadió en voz más baja:
-Si tan sólo pudiera conocer su corazón, todo sería más fácil.
Elinor, que desde hacía algún rato deliberaba sobre la conveniencia o inconveniencia de aventurarse a hacer su relato de inmediato, escuchó esto sin sentirse en absoluto más decidida que al comienzo; y advirtiendo que, como la deliberación no conducía a nada, la determinación debía hacerse cargo de todo, pronto se encontró enfrentándose a ello.
Condujo el relato, así lo esperaba, con destreza; preparó con cuidado a su ansiosa oyente; relató con sencillez y honestidad los principales puntos en que Willoughby sustentaba su defensa; apreció debidamente su arrepentimiento y sólo morigeró sus declaraciones relativas a su amor actual por Marianne. Ella no pronunció palabra; temblaba, tenía los ojos clavados en el suelo y los labios más blancos de lo que la enfermedad los había dejado. De su corazón brotaban mil preguntas, pero no se atrevía a plantear ninguna. Escuchó cada palabra con anhelante ansiedad; su mano, sin que ella se diera cuenta, estrechaba fuertemente la de su hermana y las lágrimas le cubrían las mejillas.
Elinor, temiendo que se hubiera fatigado, la condujo a casa; y hasta que llegaron a la puerta, adivinando fácilmente a qué estaría dirigida su curiosidad aunque en ningún momento pudo manifestarla en preguntas, no le habló de otra cosa que de Willoughby y de lo que habían conversado; y fue cuidadosamente minuciosa en todos los pormenores de lo que había dicho y de su aspecto, allí donde sin peligro podía permitirse una descripción detallada. No bien entraron en la casa, Marianne la besó con gratitud y apenas articulando en medio de su llanto tres palabras, “Cuéntaselo a mamá”, se separó de su hermana y subió lentamente las escaleras. Elinor por ningún motivo iba a perturbar una tan entendible búsqueda de soledad como ésa; y pensando con gran ansiedad en sus posibles resultados, al mismo tiempo que tomaba la decisión de no volver a poner el tema si Marianne no lo hacía, se dirigió a la salita a cumplir su último mandato.
La señora Dashwood no dejó de conmoverse al escuchar la reivindicación de su antiguo favorito. Se alegró al verlo absuelto de parte de las culpas que se le imputaban; le tenía lástima; deseaba que fuera feliz. Pero no se podía hacer revivir los sentimientos del pasado. Nada podía restituirlo con su palabra intacta y un carácter sin tacha ante Marianne. Nada podía hacer desaparecer el conocimiento de lo que ella había sufrido por su causa, ni eliminar la culpa de su comportamiento con Eliza. Nada podía devolverle, entonces, el lugar que había ocupado en el afecto de la señora Dashwood, ni perjudicar los intereses del coronel Brandon.
Si, como su hija, la señora Dashwood hubiera escuchado la historia de Willoughby de sus propios labios; si hubiera sido testigo de su angustia y experimentado el influjo de su semblante y actitud, es probable que su compasión hubiera sido mayor. Pero no estaba en manos de Elinor ni tampoco deseaba despertar tales sentimientos en otras personas con una explicación detallada, como había ocurrido en un comienzo con ella. La reflexión había aportado tranquilidad a sus juicios y moderado su opinión sobre lo que Willoughby se merecía; deseaba, por tanto, decir sólo la más simple verdad y exponer aquellos hechos que realmente se podían atribuir a su carácter sin embellecerlos con ninguna pincelada de afecto que pudiera despertar la fantasía y conducirla por caminos errados.
Al anochecer, cuando estaban todas juntas, Marianne comenzó a hablar voluntariamente de él otra vez, pero no sin un esfuerzo que se hizo patente en el agitado, intranquilo ensimismamiento en que antes había estado sumida durante algún tiempo, en el rubor que subió a su rostro al hablar, en su voz vacilante.
-Deseo asegurarles a ambas -dijo-, que veo todo... como ustedes pueden desear que lo haga.
La señora Dashwood la habría interrumpido de inmediato con consoladora ternura, si Elinor, que realmente deseaba escuchar la opinión imparcial de su hermana, no le hubiera demandado silencio con un gesto impaciente. Marianne continuó lentamente:
-Es un gran alivio para mí lo que Elinor me dijo en la mañana: he escuchado exactamente lo que deseaba escuchar -durante algunos momentos se le apagó la voz; pero, recuperándose, siguió hablando, y más tranquila que antes-: Con ello me doy por completo satisfecha. No deseo que nada cambie. Nunca habría podido ser feliz con él después de saber todo esto, como tarde o temprano lo habría sabido. Le habría perdido toda confianza, toda estima. Nada habría podido evitar que sintiera eso.
-¡Lo sé, lo sé! -exclamó su madre-. ¡Feliz con un hombre de conducta libertina! ¿Con uno que así había roto la paz del más querido de nuestros amigos y el mejor de los hombres? ¡No, un hombre como ése jamás habría podido hacer feliz el corazón de mi Marianne! En su conciencia, en su sensible conciencia habría pesado todo lo que debiera haber pesado en la de su marido.
-Juzgas todo esto -dijo Elinor- exactamente como debe juzgarlo una persona de mente capaz y recto entendimiento; y me atrevo a decir que encuentras (al igual que yo, y no sólo en ésta sino en muchas otras circunstancias), motivos suficientes para convencerte de que el matrimonio con Willoughby te habría traído muchas inquietudes y desilusiones en las que te habrías visto con escaso apoyo de un afecto que, de su parte, habría sido muy incierto. Si se hubieran casado, habrían sido siempre pobres. Incluso él mismo se reconoce inmoderado en sus gastos, y toda su conducta indica que privarse de algo es una frase ausente en su vocabulario. Sus demandas y tu inexperiencia juntas, con un ingreso muy, muy pequeño, los habrían puesto en apuros que no por haberte sido completamente desconocidos antes, o no haber pensado nunca en ellos, te serían menos penosos. Sé que tu sentido del honor y de la honestidad te habría llevado, al darte cuenta de la situación, a intentar todos los ahorros que te parecieran posibles; y quizá, mientras tu frugalidad disminuyera sólo tu bienestar, podrías haberla resistido, pero más allá de eso (y, ¿qué podría haber hecho hasta el mayor de tus esfuerzos aislados para detener una ruina que había comenzado antes de tu matrimonio? ), más allá de eso, si hubieras intentado, incluso de la forma más razonable, limitar sus diversiones, ¿no habría sido de temer que en vez de inducir a alguien de sentimientos tan egoístas para que consintiera en ello, habrías terminado por debilitar tu influencia en su corazón y hacerlo arrepentirse de la unión que le había significado tales dificultades?
A Marianne le temblaron los labios y repitió “¿egoísta?” con un tono que implicaba “¿de verdad lo crees egoísta?”
-Todo su comportamiento -replicó Elinor-, desde el comienzo al final de esta historia, ha estado basado en el egoísmo. Fue el egoísmo lo primero que lo hizo jugar con tus sentimientos y lo que después, cuando los suyos se vieron comprometidos, lo llevó a retardar su confesión y lo que finalmente lo alejó de Barton. Su propio placer o su propia tranquilidad fueron siempre los principios que guiaron su conducta.
-Es muy cierto. Mi felicidad nunca fue su objetivo.
-En la actualidad -continuó Elinor-, lamenta lo que hizo. Y, ¿por qué lo lamenta? Porque ha descubierto que no le sirvió. No lo ha hecho feliz. Ya no tiene problemas económicos, no sufre en ese aspecto, y sólo piensa en que se casó con una mujer de temperamento menos amable que el tuyo. Pero, ¿se sigue de eso que si se hubiera casado contigo seria feliz? Las dificultades habrían sido diferentes. Habría sufrido por las inquietudes económicas que, ahora que no las tiene, han perdido importancia para él. Habría tenido una esposa de cuyo carácter no se habría podido quejar, pero habría vivido siempre necesitado, siempre pobre; y probablemente muy luego habría aprendido a valorizar mucho más las innumerables comodidades que da un patrimonio libre de deudas y una buena renta, incluso para la felicidad hogareña, que el simple carácter de una esposa.
-No me cabe la menor duda de ello -dijo Marianne-; y no me arrepiento de nada... de nada excepto de mi propia necedad.
-Di más bien la imprudencia de tu madre, hijita -dijo la señora Dashwood-; es ella la responsable.
Marianne no la dejó seguir; y Elinor, satisfecha al ver que cada una reconocía su propio error, deseó evitar todo examen del pasado que pudiera hacer flaquear el espíritu de su hermana; así, retomando el primer tema, continuó de inmediato:
-De toda esta historia, creo que hay una conclusión que se puede extraer con toda justicia: que todos los problemas de Willoughby surgieron de la primera ofensa contra la moral, su comportamiento con Eliza Williams. Ese crimen fue el origen de todos los males menores que le siguieron y de todo su actual descontento.
Marianne asintió de todo corazón a esa observación; y su madre reaccionó a ella con una enumeración de los perjuicios infligidos al coronel Brandon y de sus méritos, en la cual había todo el entusiasmo capaz de originarse en la fusión de la amistad y el interés. Su hija, sin embargo, no pareció haberle prestado demasiada atención.
Tal como lo había esperado, Elinor vio que en los dos o tres días siguientes Marianne no continuó recuperando sus fuerzas como lo había estado haciendo; pero mientras su determinación se mantuviera sin claudicar y siguiera esforzándose por parecer alegre y tranquila, su hermana podía confiar sin vacilaciones en que el tiempo terminaría por sanarla.
Volvió Margaret y nuevamente se reunió toda la familia, otra vez se establecieron apaciblemente en la casita de campo, y si no continuaron sus habituales estudios con la misma energía que habían puesto en ello cuando recién llegaron a Barton, al menos proyectaban retomarlos vigorosamente en el futuro.
Elinor comenzó a impacientarse por tener algunas noticias de Edward. No había sabido nada de él desde su partida de Londres, nada nuevo sobre sus planes, incluso nada seguro sobre su actual lugar de residencia. Se habían escrito algunas cartas con su hermano a causa de la enfermedad de Marianne, y en la primera de John venía esta frase: “No sabemos nada de nuestro infortunado Edward y nada podemos averiguar sobre un tema tan vedado, pero lo creemos todavía en Oxford”. Esa fue toda la información sobre Edward que le proporcionó la correspondencia, porque en ninguna de las cartas siguientes se mencionaba su nombre. No estaba condenada, sin embargo, a permanecer demasiado tiempo en la ignorancia de sus planes.
Una mañana habían enviado a su criado a Exeter con un encargo; y a su vuelta, mientras servía a la mesa, respondía a las preguntas de su ama sobre los resultados de su cometido. Entre sus informes ofreció voluntariamente el siguiente:
-Supongo que sabe, señora, que el señor Ferrars se ha casado.
Marianne tuvo un violento sobresalto, clavó su mirada en Elinor, la vio ponerse pálida y se dejó caer en la silla presa del histerismo. La señora Dashwood, cuyos ojos habían seguido intuitivamente la misma dirección mientras respondía a la pregunta. del criado, sintió un fuerte impacto al advertir por el semblante de Elinor la magnitud de su dolor; y un momento después, igualmente angustiada por la situación de Marianne, no supo a cuál de sus hijas prestar atención primero.
Advirtiendo tan sólo que la señorita Marianne parecía enferma, el criado fue lo bastante sensato para llamar a una de las doncellas, la cual la condujo a otra habitación ayudada por la señora Dashwood. Para ese entonces Marianne ya estaba mejor, y su madre, dejándola al cuidado de Margaret y de la doncella, volvió donde Elinor, que aunque todavía se encontraba muy descompuesta, había recuperado el uso de la razón y de la voz lo suficiente para haber comenzado a interrogar a Thomas sobre la fuente de su información. La señora Dashwood se hizo de inmediato cargo de esa tarea y Elinor pudo beneficiarse de la información sin el esfuerzo de tener que ir tras ella.
-¿Quién le dijo que el señor Ferrars se había casado, Thomas?
-Con mis propios ojos vi al señor Ferrars, señora, esta mañana en Exeter, y también a su señora, la que fue señorita Steele. Estaban ahí parados frente a la puerta de la posada New London en su coche, cuando yo fui con un mensaje de Sally, la de la finca, a su hermano, que es uno de los postillones. Justo miré hacia arriba cuando pasaba al lado del coche, y así vi de frente que era la más joven de las señoritas Steele; así que me saqué el sombrero y ella me reconoció y me llamó, y preguntó por usted, señora, y por las señoritas, especialmente la señorita Marianne, y me encargó que le enviara sus respetos y los del señor Ferrars, sus mayores respetos y atenciones, y les dijera cuánto sentían no tener tiempo para venir a visitarlas, pero tenían prisa en seguir porque todavía les faltaba un buen trecho por recorrer, pero de todas maneras a la vuelta se asegurarían de pasar a verlas.
-Pero, ¿ella le dijo que se había casado, Thomas?
-Sí, señora. Se sonrió y dijo que había cambiado de nombre desde la última vez que había estado por estos lados. Siempre fue una joven muy amistosa y de trato fácil, y muy bien educada. Así que me tomé la libertad de desearle felicidades.
-¿Y el señor Ferrars estaba con ella en el carruaje?
-Sí, señora, justo lo vi sentado ahí, echado para atrás, pero no levantó los ojos. El caballero nunca fue muy dado a conversar.
El corazón de Elinor podía explicar fácilmente por qué el caballero no se había mostrado; y la señora Dashwood probablemente imaginó la misma razón.
-¿No había nadie más en el carruaje?
-Venían directo de la ciudad, según me dijo la señorita Lucy... la señora Ferrars.
-¿Pero iban más hacia el oeste?
-Sí, señora, pero no para quedarse mucho. Volverán luego y entonces seguro que pasan por aquí.
La señora Dashwood miró ahora a su hija, pero Elinor sabía bien que no debía esperarlos. Reconoció a Lucy entera en el mensaje, y tuvo la certeza de que Edward nunca vendría por su casa. En voz baja le observó a su madre que probablemente iban donde el señor Pratt, cerca de Plymouth.
Thomas parecía haber terminado sus informes. Elinor parecía querer saber más.
-¿Los vio partir antes de irse?
-No, señora; ya estaban sacando los caballos, pero no pude quedarme más; temía atrasarme. -¿Parecía estar bien la señora Ferrars?
-Sí, señora, dijo que estaba muy bien; a mi ver siempre fue una joven muy guapa y parecía enormemente contenta.
A la señora Dashwood no se le ocurrió nada más que preguntar, y Thomas y el mantel, ahora igualmente innecesarios, poco después fueron sacados de allí. Marianne ya había mandado decir que no iba a comer nada más; también la señora Dashwood y Elinor habían perdido el apetito, y Margaret podía sentirse muy bien con esto de que, a pesar de las innumerables inquietudes que ambas hermanas habían experimentado en el último tiempo, a pesar de los muchos motivos que habían tenido para descuidar las comidas, nunca antes habían tenido que quedarse sin cenar.
Cuando les llevaron el postre y el vino y la señora Dashwood y Elinor quedaron a solas, permanecieron mucho rato juntas en similares meditaciones e idéntico silencio. La señora Dashwood no se aventuró a hacer ninguna observación y no osó ofrecer consuelo. Se daba cuenta ahora de que se había equivocado al confiar en la imagen que Elinor había estado dando de sí misma; y concluyó correctamente que en su momento le había quitado importancia a todo lo que le ocurría sólo para evitarle a ella mayores sufrimientos, considerando cuánto estaba sufriendo ya por Marianne. Se dio cuenta de que la cuidadosa, considerada solicitud de su hija la había llevado al error de pensar que el afecto que un día había comprendido tan bien, era en realidad mucho menos serio de lo que solía creer o de lo que ahora se veía que era. Temía que, al dejarse convencer de esa forma, había sido injusta, desconsiderada... no, casi cruel con Elinor; que la aflicción de Marianne, por ser más evidente, más patente a sus ojos, había absorbido demasiado de su ternura, llevándola a casi olvidar que en Elinor podía tener a otra hija sufriendo tanto como ella, con un dolor que ciertamente había sido menos buscado y que había soportado con mucho mayor fortaleza.
Elinor había descubierto la diferencia entre esperar que ocurriera un hecho desagradable, por muy seguro que se lo pudiera considerar, y la certeza misma. Había descubierto que, mientras Edward seguía soltero, a pesar de sí misma siempre le había dado cabida a la esperanza de que algo iba a suceder que impediría su matrimonio con Lucy; que algo -una decisión que él tomara, alguna intervención de amigos o una mejor oportunidad de establecerse para la dama- surgiría para permitir la felicidad de todos ellos. Pero ahora se había casado, y ella culpó a su propio corazón por esa recóndita tendencia a formarse ilusiones que hacía tanto más dolorosa la noticia.
Al comienzo se sorprendió de que se hubiera casado tan luego, antes (según se lo imaginaba) de su ordenación y, por consiguiente, antes de haber entrado en posesión del beneficio. Pero no tardó en ver cuán probable era que Lucy, cautelando sus propios intereses y deseosa de tenerlo seguro lo antes posible, pasara por alto cualquier cosa menos el riesgo de la demora. Se habían casado, lo habían hecho en la ciudad, y ahora se dirigían a toda prisa donde su tío. ¡Qué habría sentido Edward al estar a cuatro millas de Barton, al ver al criado de su madre, al escuchar el mensaje de Lucy!
Supuso que pronto se habrían instalado en Delaford... Delaford, allí donde tantas cosas conspiraban para interesarla, el lugar que quería conocer y también evitar. Tuvo la rápida imagen de ellos en la casa parroquial; vio en Lucy la administradora activa, ingeniándoselas para equilibrar sus aspiraciones de elegancia con la máxima frugalidad, y avergonzada de que se fuera a sospechar ni la mitad de sus manejos económicos; en todo momento con su propio interés en mente, procurándose la buena voluntad del coronel Brandon, de la señora Jennings y de cada uno de sus amigos pudientes. No sabía bien cómo veía a Edward ni cómo deseaba verlo: feliz o desdichado..: ninguna de las dos posibilidades la alegraba; alejó entonces de su mente toda imagen de él.
Elinor se hacía ilusiones con que alguno de sus conocidos de Londres les escribiría anunciándoles el suceso y dándoles más detalles; pero pasaban los días sin traer cartas ni noticias. Aunque no estaba segura de que alguien pudiera ser culpado por ello, criticaba de alguna manera a cada uno de los amigos ausentes. Todos eran desconsiderados o indolentes.
-¿Cuándo le escribirá al coronel Brandon, señora? -fue la pregunta que brotó de su impaciencia por que algo se hiciera al respecto.
-Le escribí la semana pasada, mi amor, y más bien espero verlo llegar a él en vez de noticias suyas. Le insistí que viniera a visitarnos, y no me sorprendería verlo entrar hoy o mañana, o cualquier día.
Esto ya era algo, algo en qué poner las expectativas. El coronel Brandon debía tener alguna información que darles.
No bien acababa de concluir tal cosa, cuando la figura de un hombre a caballo atrajo su vista hacia la ventana. Se detuvo ante su reja. Era un caballero, era el coronel Brandon en persona. Ahora sabría más; y tembló al imaginarlo. Pero no era el coronel Brandon... no tenía ni su porte, ni su altura. Si fuera posible, diría que debía ser Edward. Volvió a mirar. Acababa de desmontar... no podía equivocarse... era Edward. Se alejó y se sentó. “Viene desde donde el señor Pratt a propósito para vernos. Tengo que estar tranquila; tengo que comportarme dueña de mí misma”.
En un momento se dio cuenta de que también los otros habían advertido el error. Vio que su madre y Marianne mudaban de color; las vio mirarla y susurrarse algo entre ellas. Habría dado lo que fuera por ser capaz de hablar y por hacerles comprender que esperaba no hubiera la menor frialdad o menosprecio hacia él en el trato. Pero no pudo sacar la voz y se vio obligada a dejarlo todo a la discreción de su madre y hermana.
No cruzaron ni una sílaba entre ellas. Esperaron en silencio que apareciera su visitante. Escucharon sus pisadas a lo largo del camino de grava; en un momento estuvo en el corredor, y al siguiente frente a ellas.
Al entrar en la habitación su semblante no mostraba gran felicidad, ni siquiera desde la perspectiva de Elinor. Tenía el rostro pálido de agitación, y parecía temeroso de la forma en que lo recibirían y consciente de no merecer una acogida amable. La señora Dashwood, sin embargo, confiando cumplir así los deseos de aquella hija por quien se proponía en lo más hondo de su corazón dejarse guiar en todo, lo recibió con una mirada de forzada alegría, le estrechó la mano y le deseó felicidades.
Edward se sonrojó y tartamudeó una respuesta ininteligible. Los labios de Elinor se habían movido a la par de los de su madre, y cuando la actividad hubo terminado, deseó haberle dado la mano también. Pero ya era demasiado tarde y, con una expresión en el rostro que pretendía ser llana, se volvió a sentar y habló del tiempo.
Marianne, intentando ocultar su aflicción, se había retirado fuera de la vista de los demás tanto como le era posible; y Margaret, entendiendo en parte lo que ocurría pero no por completo, pensó que le correspondía comportarse dignamente, tomó asiento lo más lejos de Edward que pudo y mantuvo un estricto silencio.
Cuando Elinor terminó de alegrarse por el clima seco de la estación, se sucedió una horrible pausa. La rompió la señora Dashwood, que se sintió obligada a desear que hubiera dejado a la señora Ferrars en muy buena salud. Apresuradamente él respondió que sí.
Elinor, decidiéndose a hacer un esfuerzo, aunque temerosa del sonido de su propia voz, dijo:
-¿Está en Longstaple la señora Ferrars?
-¡En Longstaple! -replicó él, con aire sorprendido-. No, mi madre está en la ciudad.
-Me refería -dijo Elinor, tomando una de las labores de encima de la mesa- a la señora de Edward Ferrars.
No se atrevió a levantar la vista; pero su madre y Marianne dirigieron sus ojos a él. Edward enrojeció, pareció sentirse perplejo, la miró con aire de duda y, tras algunas vacilaciones, dijo:
-Quizá se refiera... mi hermano... se refiera a la señora de Robert Ferrars.
-¡La señora de Robert Ferrars! -repitieron Marianne y su madre con un tono de enorme asombro; y aunque Elinor no fue capaz de hablar, también le clavó los ojos con el mismo impaciente desconcierto. El se levantó de su asiento y se dirigió a la ventana, aparentemente sin saber qué hacer; tomó unas tijeras que se encontraban por allí, y mientras cortaba en pedacitos la funda en que se guardaban, arruinando así ambas cosas, dijo con tono apurado:
-Quizá no lo sepan, no hayan sabido que mi hermano se ha casado recién con... con la menor... con la señorita Lucy Steele.
Sus palabras fueron repetidas con indecible asombro por todas, salvo Elinor, que siguió sentada con la cabeza inclinada sobre su labor, en un estado de agitación tan grande que apenas sabía dónde se encontraba.
-Sí -dijo él-, se casaron la semana pasada y ahora están en Dawlish.
Elinor no pudo seguir sentada. Salió de la habitación casi corriendo, y tan pronto cerró la puerta, estalló en lágrimas de alegría que al comienzo pensó no iban a terminar nunca. Edward, que hasta ese momento había mirado a cualquier parte menos a ella, la vio salir a la carrera y quizá vio -o incluso escuchó- su emoción, pues inmediatamente después se sumió en un estado de ensueño que ninguna observación ni pregunta afectuosa de la señora Dashwood pudo penetrar; finalmente, sin decir palabra, abandonó la habitación y salió hacia la aldea, dejándolas estupefactas y perplejas ante un cambio en las circunstancias tan maravilloso y repentino, entregadas a un desconcierto que sólo podían paliar a través de conjeturas.
Por inexplicables que le parecieran a toda la familia las circunstancias de su liberación, lo cierto era que Edward era libre; y a todas les fue fácil predecir en qué ocuparía esa libertad: tras experimentar los beneficios de un compromiso imprudente, contraído sin el consentimiento de su madre, como lo había hecho ya por más de cuatro años, al fracasar ése no podía esperarse de él nada menos que verlo contrayendo otro.
La diligencia que debía cumplir en Barton era, de hecho, bastante simple. Sólo se trataba de pedirle a Elinor que se casara con él; y considerando que no era totalmente inexperto en tales cometidos, podría extrañar que se sintiera tan incómodo en esta ocasión como en verdad se sentía, tan necesitado de estímulo y aire fresco.
No es necesario, sin embargo, contar en detalle lo que tardó su caminata en llevarlo a tomar la decisión adecuada, cuánto demoró en presentarse la oportunidad de ponerla en práctica, de qué manera se expresó y cómo fue recibido. Lo único que importa decir es esto: que cuando todos se sentaron a la mesa a las cuatro, alrededor de tres horas después de su llegada, había conseguido a su dama, había logrado el consentimiento de la madre, y era el más feliz de los hombres. Y ello no sólo en el embelesado discurso del enamorado, sino en la realidad de la razón y la verdad. Ciertamente su dicha era más que la común. Un triunfo mayor que el corriente en los amores correspondidos le henchía el corazón y le elevaba el espíritu. Se había liberado, sin culpa alguna de su parte, de ataduras que por largo tiempo lo habían hecho infeliz y lo habían mantenido unido a una mujer a quien hacía mucho había dejado de amar; y, de inmediato, había alcanzado en otra mujer esa seguridad por la que debió desesperar desde el mismo momento en que la había empezado a desear. Había transitado no desde la duda o el suspenso, sino desde la desdicha a la felicidad; y habló del cambio abiertamente con una alegría tan genuina, fácil y reconfortante como nunca le habían conocido antes sus amigas.
Le había abierto el corazón a Elinor, le confesó todas sus debilidades y trató su primer e infantil enamoramiento de Lucy con toda la dignidad filosófica de los veinticuatro años.
-Fue un apego tonto y ocioso de mi parte -dijo-, consecuencia del desconocimiento del mundo... y de la falta de ocupación. Si mi madre me hubiera dado alguna profesión activa cuando a los dieciocho años me sacaron de la tutela del señor Pratt, creo... no, estoy seguro de que nada habría ocurrido jamás, pues aunque salí de Longstaple con lo que en ese tiempo creía la más invencible devoción por su sobrina, aun así, si hubiera tenido cualquier actividad, cualquier cosa en que ocupar mi tiempo y que me hubiera mantenido alejado de ella por unos pocos meses, pronto habría superado esos amores de fantasía, especialmente si hubiera compartido más con otras personas, como en ese caso habría debido hacerlo. Pero en vez de emplearme en algo, en vez de contar con una profesión elegida por mí, o que se me permitiera elegir una, volví a casa a dedicarme al más completo ocio; y durante el año que siguió, carecí hasta de la ocupación nominal que me habría dado la pertenencia a la universidad, puesto que no ingresé a Oxford sino hasta los diecinueve años. No tenía, por tanto, nada en absoluto que hacer, salvo creerme enamorado; y como mi madre no hacía del hogar algo en verdad agradable, como en mi hermano no encontraba ni un amigo ni un compañero y me disgustaba conocer gente nueva, no es raro que haya ido con frecuencia a Longstaple, que siempre sentí mi hogar y donde tenía plena seguridad de ser bienvenido; así, pasé allí la mayor parte del tiempo entre mis dieciocho y diecinueve años. Veía en Lucy todo lo que hay de amable y complaciente. Era bonita también... al menos eso pensaba yo en ese tiempo; y conocía a tan pocas mujeres que no podía hacer comparaciones ni detectar defectos. Tomando todo en cuenta, por tanto, creo que por insensato que fuera nuestro compromiso, por insensato que haya resultado ser después en todo sentido, en ese tiempo no fue una muestra de insensatez extraña o inexcusable.
Era tan grande el cambio que unas pocas horas habían producido en el estado de ánimo y la felicidad de las Dashwood, tan grande, que no pudieron menos que esperar todas las satisfacciones de una noche en vela. La señora Dashwood, demasiado feliz para lograr alguna tranquilidad, no sabía cómo demostrar su amor a Edward o ensalzar a Elinor suficientemente, cómo agradecer bastante su liberación sin vulnerar su delicadeza, ni cómo ofrecerles oportunidad para conversar libremente entre ellos y al mismo tiempo disfrutar, como era su deseo, de la presencia y compañía de ambos.
Marianne podía manifestar su felicidad únicamente a través de las lágrimas. Podía caer en comparaciones, en lamentos; y su alegría, aunque tan sincera como el amor por su hermana, ni le levantaba el ánimo ni podía ponerse en palabras.
Pero Elinor, ¿cómo describir sus sentimientos? Desde el momento en que supo que Lucy se había casado con otro, que Edward estaba libre, hasta el instante en que él justificó las esperanzas que tan de inmediato habían seguido, tuvo alternativamente todas las emociones, menos la calma. Pero cuando hubo pasado el segundo momento -cuando desaparecieron todas sus dudas, todas sus cuitas; cuando pudo comparar su situación con la del último tiempo; cuando lo vio honorablemente libre de su anterior compromiso; cuando vio que aprovechaba su libertad para dirigirse a ella y declararle un amor tan tierno, tan constante como ella siempre lo había supuesto-, se sintió abrumada, dominada por su propia felicidad; y a pesar de la afortunada tendencia de la mente humana a aceptar rápidamente cualquier cambio para mejor, se necesitaron varias horas para devolverle la serenidad a su ánimo o algún grado de tranquilidad a su corazón.
Edward se quedaría ahora al menos una semana en la cabaña, pues más allá de cualquier otra obligación que debiera cumplir, le era imposible dedicar menos de una semana a disfrutar de la compañía de Elinor, o que alcanzaran a decir en menos tiempo la mitad de lo que debían decirse sobre el pasado, el presente y el futuro; pues aunque unas pocas horas pasadas en la difícil tarea de hablar incesantemente bastan para despachar más temas de los que pueden realmente tener en común dos criaturas racionales, con los enamorados es diferente. Entre ellos nunca se da por terminada ninguna materia ni se da por comunicado algo a no ser que se lo haya repetido veinte veces.
El matrimonio de Lucy, la inagotable y explicable sorpresa que les había producido a todos, por supuesto alimentó una de las primeras conversaciones de los enamorados; y el particular conocimiento que Elinor tenía de cada una de las partes hizo que, desde todos los puntos de vista, le pareciera una de las circunstancias más extraordinarias e inconcebibles que hubieran llegado a sus oídos. Cómo era que se habían juntado, y qué atractivo podía haber influido en Robert para llevarlo a casarse con una muchacha de cuya belleza ella misma lo había escuchado hablar sin ninguna admiración; una muchacha que además estaba comprometida con su hermano y por quien ese hermano había sido marginado de la familia, era más de lo que podía comprender. Para su corazón era algo maravilloso; para su imaginación, hasta ridículo; pero a su razón, a su juicio, le parecía un verdadero enigma.
La única explicación que se le ocurría a Edward era que, quizá, habiéndose encontrado primero por azar, la vanidad de uno había sido tan bien trabajada por los halagos de la otra, que eso había llevado poco a poco a todo lo demás. Elinor recordaba lo comentado por Robert en Harley Street respecto de cuánto podría haber logrado él de haber intervenido a tiempo en los asuntos de su hermano. Se lo contó a Edward.
-Eso es muy propio de Robert -fue su inmediato comentario-. Y es lo que seguramente tenía en mente -agregó luego- al comienzo de su relación con Lucy. Y al comienzo quizá todo lo que también quería ella era lograr que interpusiera sus buenos oficios en mi favor. Después pueden haber surgido otros planes.
Durante cuánto tiempo esto había estado ocurriendo entre ellos, él tampoco podía imaginarlo, pues en Oxford, donde había elegido quedarse desde su salida de Londres, no tenía manera de saber de ella sino por ella misma, y hasta el último momento sus cartas no fueron ni menos frecuentes ni menos afectuosas de lo que siempre habían sido. Ni la menor sospecha, entonces, lo preparó para lo que iba a seguir; y cuando finalmente reventó la noticia en una carta de la misma Lucy, creía que durante algún tiempo se había quedado pasmado entre la maravilla, el horror y la alegría de tal liberación. Puso la carta en manos de Elinor:
Con la certeza de haber perdido hace tiempo su afecto, me he sentido en libertad de entregar el mío a otra persona, y no dudo de que con él seré tan feliz como solía pensar que lo sería con usted; pero rehusó aceptar la mano cuando el corazón pertenecía a otra. Sinceramente deseo sea feliz con su elección, y no será mi culpa si no somos siempre buenos amigos, como nuestro cercano parentesco hace ahora apropiado. Sin ninguna duda le puedo decir que no le guardo rencor alguno, y estoy segura de que será demasiado generoso para hacer nada que nos perjudique. Su hermano se ha ganado todo mi afecto, y como no podríamos vivir el uno sin el otro, acabamos de volver del altar y nos dirigimos ahora a Dawlish a pasar unas pocas semanas, lugar que su querido hermano tiene gran curiosidad por conocer, pero pensé molestarlo primero con estas pocas líneas, y para siempre quedaré,
Su sincera amiga y hermana, que bien lo quiere, Lucy Ferrars
He quemado todas sus cartas, y le devolveré su retrato a la primera oportunidad. Por favor destruya las páginas que le he enviado con mis pobres frases; pero el anillo con mi cabello, tendré el mayor gusto en dejárselo.
Elinor la leyó y la devolvió sin ningún comentario.
-No te preguntaré qué opinas de ella en cuanto a composición -dijo Edward-. Por nada del mundo habría querido, en otros tiempos, que tú vieras una de sus cartas. En una cuñada ya es bastante malo,- ¡pero en una esposa! ¡Cómo me han hecho sonrojar algunas de sus páginas! Y creo poder decir que desde los primeros seis meses de nuestro descabellado... asunto, ésta es la única carta que he recibido de ella en que el contenido compensó las faltas en el estilo.
-Como sea que hayan comenzado -dijo Elinor tras una pausa-, ciertamente están casados. Y tu madre se ha ganado un castigo muy justo. La independencia económica que otorgó a Robert por resentimiento contigo le ha permitido a él elegir a su antojo; y, de hecho, ha estado sobornando a un hijo con mil libras anuales para que termine haciendo lo mismo que la hizo desheredar al otro cuando lo intentó. Supongo que difícilmente le dolerá menos ver casada a Lucy con Robert que contigo.
-Le va a doler más, porque Robert fue siempre su favorito. Le dolerá más y, de acuerdo con el mismo principio, lo va a perdonar mucho más rápido.
Edward no sabía en qué estaban las relaciones entre ellos en ese momento, pues no había hecho ningún intento por comunicarse con nadie de su familia. Había dejado Oxford a las veinticuatro horas de haber recibido la carta de Lucy, y teniendo en mente como único objetivo encontrar el camino más rápido a Barton, no había tenido tiempo para trazar ningún plan de conducta con el que ese camino no estuviera íntimamente ligado. Nada podía hacer hasta estar seguro de cuál sería su destino con la señorita Dashwood; y es de suponer que por su rapidez en hacer frente a ese destino, a pesar de los celos con que alguna vez había pensado en el coronel Brandon, a pesar de la modestia con que evaluaba sus propios merecimientos y de la gentileza con que hablaba de sus dudas, en última instancia no esperaba una recepción demasiado cruel. Sin embargo, tenía que decir que sí la había temido, y lo hizo con muy lindas palabras. Lo que podría decir sobre el tema un año después, queda a la imaginación de maridos y esposas.
Elinor no tenía duda alguna de que con el mensaje que había enviado a través de Thomas, Lucy ciertamente había querido engañar, rubricando su partida con un trazo de malicia contra él; y a Edward mismo, viendo ahora con toda claridad cómo era su carácter, no le costaba creerla capaz de la máxima malevolencia en una mezquindad caprichosa. Aunque hacía tiempo, incluso antes de su relación con Elinor, había comenzado a estar consciente de la ignorancia y falta de amplitud de algunas de sus opiniones, lo había atribuido a las carencias de su educación; y hasta la recepción de su última carta, siempre la había creído una muchacha bien dispuesta y de buen corazón, y muy apegada a él. Nada sino ese convencimiento podría haberle impedido terminar un compromiso que, incluso mucho antes de que su descubrimiento lo hiciera objeto del enojo de su madre, había sido para él una fuente continua de inquietud y arrepentimiento.
-Pensé que era mi deber -dijo-, independientemente de mis sentimientos, darle la opción de continuar o no el compromiso cuando mi madre me repudió y a todas luces quedé sin un amigo en el mundo que me tendiera una mano. En una situación como ésa, donde parecía no haber nada que pudiera tentar la avaricia o la vanidad de criatura viviente alguna, ¿cómo podía yo suponer, cuando ella insistió tan intensa y apasionadamente en compartir mi destino, cualquiera éste fuese, que sus motivos fueran distintos al afecto más desinteresado? E incluso ahora, no logro entender qué la llevó o qué ventaja imaginó que le reportaría encadenarse a un hombre al cual no estimaba en absoluto y cuya única posesión en el mundo eran mil libras. No podía haber previsto que el coronel Brandon me daría un beneficio.
-No, pero podía suponer que algo favorable podía ocurrirte; que, con el tiempo, tu propia familia podía ablandarse. Y en todo caso no perdía nada al continuar con el compromiso, pues, como lo dejó bien en claro, no se sentía obligada por él ni en sus deseos ni en sus acciones. En todo caso se trataba de una relación respetable y probablemente la hacía ganar en la consideración de sus amistades; y si nada mejor se presentaba, era mejor para ella casarse contigo que quedarse soltera.
Por supuesto, Edward se convenció de inmediato de que nada podía ser más natural que el comportamiento de Lucy, ni más palmario que sus motivos.
Elinor le reprendió haber pasado tanto tiempo con ellas en Norland, donde debía haber estado consciente de su propia veleidad, con la dureza que siempre ponen las damas al reprender la imprudencia que las halaga.
-Te comportaste muy mal -le dijo-, pues, para no decir nada de mis propias convicciones, con ello llevaste a nuestros amigos a imaginar y esperar algo que, dada tu situación en ese momento, no podía darse.
Edward sólo pudo presentar como excusa el desconocimiento de su propio corazón y una equivocada confianza en la fuerza de su compromiso.
-Fui tan tonto como para creer que, dado que había empeñado mi palabra con otra persona, no había peligro en estar contigo, y que la conciencia de mi compromiso iba a resguardar mis sentimientos haciéndolos tan seguros y sagrados como mi honor. Te admiraba, pero me decía que era sólo amistad; y hasta que comencé a compararte con Lucy, no me di cuenta de hasta dónde había llegado. Después de eso, supongo que no fue correcto quedarme tanto en Sussex, y los argumentos con los que intentaba reconciliarme con la conveniencia de hacerlo no eran mejores que éstos: es a mí a quien pongo en peligro; no le hago daño a nadie sino a mí mismo.
Elinor sonrió, meneando la cabeza. Edward se alegró al saber que esperaban la visita del coronel Brandon a la casa, pues no sólo deseaba conocerlo mejor, sino convencerlo de que ya no resentía que le hubiera dado el beneficio de Delaford, “pues con los poco entusiastas agradecimientos que recibió de mi parte en esa ocasión”, dijo, “puede seguir creyendo que todavía no le perdono habérmelo ofrecido”.
Se asombraba ahora de no haber ido todavía a conocer el lugar. Pero era tan escaso el interés que había puesto en todo el asunto, que todo lo que sabía de la casa, del jardín y las tierras beneficiales, de la extensión de la parroquia, las condiciones de la tierra y el importe de los diezmos, se lo debía a la misma Elinor, que había escuchado tantas veces al coronel Brandon y le había prestado tanta atención que ahora tenía completo dominio sobre el tema.
Después de todo esto, tan sólo quedaba una cosa no aclarada entre ellos, una dificultad por vencer. Los unía su mutuo afecto y tenían la más cálida aprobación de sus verdaderos amigos; el conocimiento íntimo que tenían el uno del otro era una base segura para su felicidad... y sólo les faltaba con qué vivir. Edward tenía dos mil libras y Elinor mil, y sumado a ello el beneficio de Delaford, era todo lo que podían considerar como propio; pues a la señora Dashwood le era imposible adelantarles nada, y ninguno de los dos estaba tan enamorado como para pensar que trescientas cincuenta libras al año bastarían para proveerlos de todas las comodidades de la vida.
Edward no desesperaba totalmente de un cambio favorable hacia él en su madre, y en eso descansaba para lo que faltaba a sus ingresos. Pero Elinor no tenía igual confianza; pues como Edward seguía sin poder casarse con la señorita Morton y, en su halagador lenguaje, la señora Ferrars se había referido a la unión con ella únicamente como un mal menor al de su elección de Lucy Steele, temía que la ofensa de Robert sólo serviría para enriquecer a Fanny.
Cuatro días después de la llegada de Edward apareció el coronel Brandon, con lo que se completó la satisfacción de la señora Dashwood y pudo tener el honor, por primera vez desde que vivía en Barton, de tener más compañía de la que su casa podía acoger. Se permitió a Edward retener sus privilegios de primer visitante y, así, el coronel Brandon debía ir todas las noches a sus antiguos aposentos en la finca, desde los cuales volvía cada mañana lo suficientemente temprano para interrumpir el primer tête-à-tête de los enamorados después del desayuno.
Después de tres semanas de permanencia en Delaford, donde, al menos al atardecer, poco tenía que hacer excepto calcular la desproporción entre treinta y seis y dieciséis, el coronel Brandon llegó a Barton en un estado de ánimo tan decaído que, para alegrarse, requirió toda la mejoría en la apariencia de Marianne, toda la afabilidad de su recepción y todo el estímulo de las palabras de su madre. Entre tales amigos, sin embargo, y con tales halagos, pronto revivió. Todavía no le había llegado ningún rumor sobre el matrimonio de Lucy; no sabía nada de lo ocurrido y, por consiguiente, pasó las primeras horas de su visita escuchando y asombrándose. La señora Dashwood le explicó todo, dándole nuevos motivos para alegrarse por el servicio hecho al señor Ferrars, dado que a la postre había resultado en beneficio de Elinor.
Sería innecesario decir que la buena opinión que los caballeros tenían uno del otro mejoró junto con aumentar su mutuo conocimiento, pues no podía ser de otra manera. La semejanza en sus principios y buen juicio, en disposición y manera de pensar, probablemente habría bastado para unirlos como amigos sin necesidad de ninguna otra cosa que los acercara; pero el hecho de estar enamorados de dos hermanas, y dos hermanas que se querían, hizo inevitable e inmediata una estimación que en otras condiciones quizá debió haber esperado los efectos del tiempo y el discernimiento.
Las cartas provenientes de la ciudad, que unos días antes habrían estremecido cada nervio del cuerpo de Elinor, ahora llegaban para ser leídas con menos emoción que gusto. La señora Jennings escribió para contarles toda la fantástica historia, para desahogar su honesta indignación contra la veleidosa muchacha que había dejado plantado a su novio y derramar compasión por el pobre Edward que, estaba segura, había adorado a aquella despreciable pícara y, según todos los informes, se encontraba ahora en Oxford con el corazón casi completamente destrozado. “A mi parecer”, continuaba, “nunca se ha hecho nada de manera tan solapada, pues no hacía ni dos días que Lucy había venido a visitarme y se había quedado un par de horas conmigo. Nadie tuvo ninguna sospecha de lo que ocurría, ni siquiera Nancy que, ¡pobre criatura!, llegó acá llorando al día siguiente, terriblemente alarmada por miedo a la señora Ferrars y por no saber cómo llegar a Plymouth; pues Lucy, según parece, le pidió prestado todo su dinero antes de casarse, suponemos que para lucirse, y la pobre Nancy no tenía ni siquiera siete chelines en total; así que me alegró mucho darle cinco guineas que le permitieran llegar a Exeter, donde piensa quedarse tres o cuatro semanas en casa de la señora Burguess con la esperanza, así le digo yo, de toparse otra vez con el reverendo. Y debo confesar que lo peor de todo es la mala voluntad de Lucy de no llevársela en su calesa. ¡Pobre señor Edward! No puedo sacármelo de la cabeza, pero deben hacer que vaya a Barton y la señorita Marianne debe intentar consolarlo”.
El tono del señor Dashwood era más solemne. La señora Ferrars era la más desdichada de las mujeres, la sensibilidad de la pobre Fanny había soportado agonías y él estaba maravillado y lleno de gratitud al ver que no habían sucumbido bajo tal golpe. La ofensa de Robert era imperdonable, pero la de Lucy era infinitamente peor. Nunca más iba a mencionarse el nombre de ninguno de los dos ante la señora Ferrars, e incluso si en el futuro se la pudiera convencer de perdonar a su hijo, jamás iba a reconocer a su esposa como hija ni admitirla en su presencia. Trataba racionalmente el secreto con que habían manejado todo el asunto entre ellos como una enorme agravante del crimen, pues si los demás hubieran sospechado algo podrían haber tomado las medidas necesarias para evitar el matrimonio; y apelaba a Elinor para que antes se uniera a sus lamentos por el no cumplimiento del compromiso entre Lucy y Edward, que servirse de ello para seguir sembrando la desgracia en la familia. Y continuaba de la siguiente forma:
“La señora Ferrars todavía no ha mencionado el nombre de Edward, lo que no nos sorprende; pero lo que nos asombra enormemente es no haber recibido ni una línea de él sobre lo ocurrido. Quizá, sin embargo, ha guardado silencio por temor a ofender y, por tanto, le escribiré unas líneas a Oxford insinuándole que su hermana y yo pensamos que una carta en que muestre la sumisión adecuada, dirigida quizá a Fanny y enseñada por ésta a su madre, no sería tomada a mal; pues todos conocemos la ternura del corazón de la señora Ferrars y que nada desea más que estar en buenos términos con sus hijos”.
Este párrafo tenía una cierta importancia para los planes y el proceder de Edward. Lo decidió a intentar una reconciliación, aunque no exactamente de la manera en que sugerían su cuñado y su hermana.
-¡La sumisión adecuada! -repitió-; ¿pretenden que le pida perdón a mi madre por la ingratitud de Robert con ella y la forma en que ofendió mi honor? No puedo mostrar ninguna sumisión. Lo ocurrido no me ha hecho más humilde ni más arrepentido. Me ha hecho muy feliz, pero eso no les interesa. No sé de ningún gesto de sumisión que yo deba realizar.
-Bien puedes pedir que te perdonen -dijo Elinor-, porque has ofendido; y pensaría que ahora hasta podrías llegar a manifestar algún malestar por haber contraído el compromiso que despertó el enojo de tu madre.
Edward estuvo de acuerdo en que podría hacerlo.
-Y cuando te haya perdonado, quizá sea conveniente alguna pequeña muestra de humildad cuando informes a tu madre de un segundo compromiso casi tan imprudente a sus ojos como el primero.
Nada tuvo que objetar a esto Edward, pero aún se resistía a la idea de una carta en que se mostrara adecuadamente sumiso; y así, para hacerle más fácil la empresa, dado que manifestaba mucho mayor disposición a hacer concesiones de palabra que por escrito, se resolvió que en vez de escribirle a Fanny, debía ir a Londres y suplicarle personalmente que interpusiera sus buenos oficios en su favor.
-Y si ellos sí se comprometen -dijo Marianne, en su nueva personalidad benevolente en esforzarse por una reconciliación, tendré que pensar que ni siquiera John y Fanny están por completo desprovistos de méritos.
Después de los sólo tres o cuatro días que duró la visita del coronel Brandon, los dos caballeros abandonaron Barton juntos. Se dirigirían de inmediato a Delaford, de manera que Edward pudiera conocer personalmente su futuro hogar y ayudar a su protector y amigo a decidir qué mejoras eran necesarias; y desde ahí, tras quedarse un par de noches, iba a continuar su viaje a la ciudad.
Después de la apropiada resistencia por parte de la señora Ferrars, una resistencia bastante enérgica y firme para salvarla del reproche en el que siempre parecía temerosa de incurrir, el de ser demasiado amable, Edward fue admitido en su presencia y elevado otra vez a la categoría de hijo.
En el último tiempo su familia había sido extremadamente fluctuante. Durante muchos años de su vida había tenido dos hijos; pero el crimen y aniquilamiento de Edward unas semanas atrás la habían privado de uno; el similar aniquilamiento de Robert la había dejado durante quince días sin ninguno; y ahora, con la resurrección de Edward, otra vez tenía uno.
Edward, sin embargo, a pesar de que nuevamente se le permitía vivir, no sintió segura la continuación de su existencia hasta haber revelado su actual compromiso; pues temía que el hacer pública tal circunstancia daría un nuevo giro a su estado y lo llevaría a la tumba con la misma velocidad que antes. Lo reveló entonces con recelosa cautela y fue escuchado con inesperada placidez. Al comienzo la señora Ferrars intentó razonar con él para disuadirlo de casarse con la señorita Dashwood, recurriendo a todos los argumentos a su alcance; le dijo que en la señorita Morton encontraría una mujer de más alto rango y mayor fortuna, y reforzó tal afirmación observando que la señorita Morton era hija de un noble y dueña de treinta mil libras, mientras la señorita Dashwood sólo era la hija de un caballero particular, y no tenía más de tres mil; pero cuando descubrió que aunque Edward estaba perfectamente de acuerdo con lo certero de su exposición, no tenía ninguna intención de dejarse guiar por ella, juzgó más sabio, dada la experiencia del pasado, someterse... Y así, tras la displicente demora que le debía a su propia dignidad y que se le hacía necesaria para prevenir cualquier sospecha de benevolencia, -promulgó su decreto de consentimiento al matrimonio de Edward y Elinor.
A continuación fue necesario considerar qué debía hacer para mejorar sus rentas: y aquí se vio claramente que aunque Edward era ahora su único hijo, de ninguna manera era el primogénito; pues aunque Robert recibía infaliblemente mil libras al año, no se hizo la menor objeción a que Edward se ordenara por doscientas cincuenta como máximo; tampoco se prometió nada para el presente ni para el futuro más allá de las mismas diez mil libras que habían constituido la dote de Fanny. .
Eso, sin embargo, era lo que Edward y Elinor deseaban, y mucho más de lo que esperaban; y la señora Ferrars, con sus evasivas excusas, parecía la única persona sorprendida de no dar más.
Así, habiéndoseles asegurado un ingreso suficiente para cubrir sus necesidades, después de que Edward tomó posesión del beneficio no les quedaba nada por esperar sino que estuviera lista la casa, a la cual el coronel Brandon le estaba haciendo importantes mejoras en su ansiedad por acomodar a Elinor; y tras esperar algún tiempo que las completaran -tras experimentar, como es lo habitual, las mil desilusiones y retrasos de la inexplicable lentitud de los trabajadores-, Elinor, como siempre, quebrantó la firme decisión inicial de no casarse hasta que todo estuviera listo, y la ceremonia tuvo lugar en la iglesia de Barton a comienzos de otoño.
Pasaron el primer mes después de su matrimonio en la casa solariega, desde donde podían supervisar los progresos en la rectoría y dirigir las cosas tal como las querían en el lugar mismo; podían elegir el empapelado, planificar dónde plantar grupos de arbustos y diseñar un recorrido hasta la casa. Las profecías de la señora Jennings, aunque algo embarulladas, se cumplieron en su mayor parte: pudo visitar a Edward y a su esposa en la parroquia para el día de san Miguel, y encontró en Elinor y su esposo, tal como lo pensaba, una de las parejas más felices del mundo. De hecho, ni a Edward ni a Elinor les quedaban deseos por cumplir, salvo el matrimonio del coronel Brandon y Marianne y pastos algo mejores para sus vacas.
Recibieron la visita de casi todos sus parientes y amigos en cuanto se instalaron. La señora Ferrars acudió a inspeccionar la felicidad que casi le avergonzaba haber autorizado, y hasta los Dashwood incurrieron en el gasto de un viaje desde Sussex para hacerles los honores.
-No diré que estoy desilusionado, mi querida hermana -dijo John, mientras paseaban juntos una mañana ante las rejas de la casa de Delaford-; eso sería exagerar, puesto que tal como son las cosas, en verdad has resultado una de las mujeres más afortunadas del mundo. Pero confieso que me daría gran placer poder llamar hermano al coronel Brandon. Sus bienes en este lugar, su propiedad, su casa, ¡todo tan admirable, tan en magníficas condiciones! ¡Y sus bosques! ¡En ninguna parte de Dorsetshire he visto madera de tal calidad como la guardada ahora en los cobertizos de Delaford! Y aunque quizá Marianne no sea exactamente la persona capaz de atraerlo, pienso que sería en general aconsejable que la invitaras muy seguido a quedarse contigo, pues como el coronel Brandon parece pasar mucho tiempo en casa... imposible decir lo que podría ocurrir... Cuando dos personas están mucho juntas y no ven mucho a nadie más... Y siempre estará en tus manos hacer resaltar su mejor lado, y todo eso; en fin, bien puedes ofrecerle una oportunidad... tú me entiendes.
Pero aunque la señora Ferrars sí vino a verlos y siempre los trató con un fingido afecto decoroso, nunca recibieron el insulto de su verdadero favor y preferencias. Eso se lo habían ganado la insensatez de Robert y la astucia de su esposa, y lo habían conseguido antes de que hubieran transcurrido muchos meses. La egoísta sagacidad de Lucy, que al comienzo había arrastrado a Robert a tal embrollo, fue el principal instrumento para librarlo de él; pues apenas encontró la más pequeña oportunidad de ejercitarlas, su respetuosa humildad, sus asiduas atenciones e interminables zalemas reconciliaron a la señora Ferrars con la elección de su hijo y la reinstalaron completamente en su favor.
Todo el proceder de Lucy en este asunto y la prosperidad con que se vio coronado, pueden así exhibirse como un muy estimulante ejemplo de lo que una intensa, incesante atención a los propios intereses, por más obstáculos que parezca tener el camino hacia ellos, podrá hacer para lograr todas las ventajas de la fortuna, sin sacrificar otra cosa que tiempo y conciencia. La primera vez que Robert buscó verla y la visitó en Bartlett's Buildings, su única intención era la que su hermano le atribuyó. Sólo quería convencerla de desistir del compromiso; y como el único obstáculo que imaginaba posible era el afecto de ambos, lógicamente esperaba que una o dos entrevistas bastarían para resolver el asunto. En ese punto, sin embargo, y sólo en ése, se equivocó; pues aunque Lucy muy luego lo hizo confiar en que, a la larga, su elocuencia la convencería, siempre se necesitaba otra visita, otra conversación para lograr tal convencimiento. Al separarse, siempre subsistían en la mente de ella algunas dudas, que sólo podían aclararse con otra conversación de media hora con él. De esta manera se aseguraba una nueva visita, y el resto siguió su curso natural. En vez de hablar de Edward, paulatinamente llegaron a hablar sólo de Robert... un tema sobre el cual él siempre tenía más que decir que sobre el otro y en el cual ella pronto mostró un interés que casi se equiparaba al de él; y, en pocas palabras, rápidamente fue evidente para ambos que él había suplantado por completo a su hermano. Estaba orgulloso de su conquista, orgulloso de jugarle una mala pasada a Edward, y muy orgulloso de casarse en privado sin el consentimiento de su madre. Ya se sabe lo que siguió de inmediato. Pasaron algunos meses muy felices en Dawlish, pues ella tenía muchos parientes y viejos conocidos con quienes deseaba cortar, y él dibujó muchos planos para magníficas casas de campo. Y cuando desde allí volvieron a la ciudad, obtuvieron el perdón de la señora Ferrars con el sencillo expediente de pedírselo, camino adoptado a instancias de Lucy. En un principio, como es lógico, el perdón alcanzó únicamente a Robert; y Lucy, que no tenía ninguna obligación con su suegra y, por tanto, no había transgredido nada, permaneció unas pocas semanas más sin ser perdonada. Pero la perseverancia en un comportamiento humilde, más mensajes donde asumía la culpa por la ofensa de Robert y gratitud por la dureza con que era tratada, le procuraron con el tiempo un altanero reconocimiento de su existencia que la abrumó por su condescendencia y que luego la condujo a pasos muy rápidos al más alto estado de afecto e influencia. Lucy se hizo tan necesaria a la señora Ferrars como Robert o Fanny; y mientras Edward nunca fue perdonado de todo corazón por haber pretendido alguna vez casarse con ella, y se referían a Elinor, aunque superior a Lucy en fortuna y nacimiento, como una intrusa, ella siempre fue considerada y abiertamente reconocida como una hija favorita. Se instalaron en la ciudad, recibieron un muy generoso apoyo de la señora Ferrars, estaban en los mejores términos imaginables con los Dashwood y, dejando de lado los celos y mala voluntad que siguieron subsistiendo entre Fanny y Lucy, en los que por supuesto sus esposos tomaban parte, junto con los frecuentes desacuerdos domésticos entre los mismos Robert y Lucy, nada podría superar la armonía en que vivieron todos juntos.
Lo que Edward había hecho para ver enajenados sus derechos de mayorazgo podría haber extrañado a muchos, de haberlo descubierto; y lo que Robert había hecho para ser el sucesor de ellos, los sorprendería incluso más. Fue, sin embargo, un arreglo justificado por sus consecuencias, si no por su causa; pues nunca hubo señal alguna en el estilo de vida de Robert ni en sus palabras que hiciera sospechar que lamentara la magnitud de su renta, ya sea por dejarle demasiado poco a su hermano o adjudicarle demasiado a él; y si se pudiera juzgar a Edward por el pronto cumplimiento de sus deberes en cada cosa, por un cada vez mayor apego a su esposa y a su hogar y por la constante alegría de su espíritu, se lo podría suponer no menos contento con su suerte que su hermano ni menos libre de desear ningún cambio en ella.
El matrimonio de Elinor sólo la separó de su familia en esa mínima medida necesaria para que la casita de Barton no quedara abandonada por completo, pues su madre y hermanas pasaban más de la mitad del tiempo con ella. Las frecuentes visitas de la señora Dashwood a Delaford estaban motivadas tanto por el placer como por la prudencia; pues su deseo de juntar a Marianne y al coronel Brandon era apenas menos acentuado, aunque algo más generoso, que el manifestado por John. Era ahora su causa preferida. Por preciada que le fuera la compañía de su hija, nada deseaba tanto como renunciar a ella en bien de su estimado amigo; y ver a Marianne instalada en la casa solariega era también el deseo de Edward y Elinor. Todos se condolían de las penas del coronel y se sentían responsables por aliviarlas; y Marianne, por consenso general, debía ser el consuelo de todas ellas.
Con tal alianza en su contra; con el íntimo conocimiento de la bondad del coronel; con el convencimiento del enorme afecto que él le profesaba, que finalmente, aunque mucho después de haberse hecho evidente para todos los demás, se abrió paso en ella, ¿qué podía hacer?
Marianne Dashwood había nacido destinada a algo extraordinario. Nació para descubrir la falsedad de sus propias opiniones y para impugnar con su proceder sus máximas favoritas. Nació para vencer un afecto surgido a la edad de diecisiete años, y sin ningún sentimiento superior a un gran aprecio y una profunda amistad, ¡voluntariamente le entregó su mano a otro! Y ese otro era un hombre que había sufrido no menos que ella con ocasión de un antiguo afecto; a quien dos años antes había considerado demasiado viejo para el matrimonio, ¡y que todavía buscaba proteger su salud con una camiseta de franela!
Pero así ocurrieron las cosas. En vez de sacrificada a una pasión irresistible, como alguna vez se había enorgullecido en imaginarse a sí misma; incluso en vez de quedarse para siempre junto a su madre con la soledad y el estudio como únicos placeres, según después lo había decidido al hacerse más tranquilo y sobrio su juicio, se encontró a los diecinueve años sometiéndose a nuevos vínculos, aceptando nuevos deberes, instalada en un nuevo hogar, esposa, ama de una casa y señora de una aldea.
El coronel Brandon era ahora tan feliz como todos quienes lo querían creían que merecía serlo; en Marianne encontraba el consuelo a todas sus aflicciones pasadas; su afecto y su compañía le reanimaban la mente y devolvieron la alegría a su espíritu; y que Marianne encontraba su propia felicidad en hacer la de él, era algo indudable para cada amigo que la veía y que a todos deleitaba. Marianne nunca pudo amar a medias; y con el tiempo le llegó a entregar todo su corazón a su esposo, como lo había hecho una vez con Willoughby.
Willoughby no pudo escuchar del matrimonio de Marianne sin sentir una punzada de dolor; y pronto su castigo estuvo completo con el voluntario perdón de la señora Smith, la cual, al declarar que debía agradecer su clemencia al matrimonio con una mujer de carácter, le dio motivos para pensar que, si hubiera procedido honorablemente con Marianne, podría haber sido al mismo tiempo feliz y rico. No debe ponerse en duda la sinceridad del arrepentimiento por su mal proceder, que le había acarreado su propio castigo; ni tampoco que durante mucho tiempo pensó en el coronel Brandon con envidia y en Marianne con nostalgia. Pero no hay que esperar que quedara por siempre desconsolado, que huyera de la sociedad o contrajera un temperamento habitualmente sombrío, o que muriera con el corazón roto... porque nada de eso ocurrió. Vivió esforzándose, y a menudo divirtiéndose. ¡No siempre su esposa estaba de mal humor ni su hogar falto de comodidades! Y en sus criaderos de perros y caballos y en todo tipo de deportes encontró un grado no despreciable de felicidad doméstica.
Por Marianne, sin embargo -a pesar de la descortesía de haber sobrevivido a su pérdida-, siempre mantuvo ese decidido afecto que lo hacía interesarse en todos sus asuntos y que lo llevó a transformarla en su secreta pauta de perfección femenina; y así, muchas beldades prometedoras terminaron desdeñadas por él después de algunos días, como sin punto de comparación con la señora Brandon.
La señora Dashwood tuvo la suficiente prudencia de quedarse en la cabaña, sin intentar un traslado a Delaford; y afortunadamente para sir John y la señora Jennings, en el momento en que se vieron privados de Marianne, Margaret había llegado a una edad muy apropiada para bailar y que ya podía permitir se le supusieran enamorados.
Entre Barton y Delaford había esa permanente comunicación que surge naturalmente de un gran cariño familiar; y de los méritos y las alegrías de Elinor y Marianne, no hay que poner en último lugar el hecho de que, aunque hermanas y viviendo casi a la vista una de la otra, pudieron hacerlo sin desacuerdos entre ellas ni producir tensiones entre sus esposos.