Sense and Sensibility / Чувство и чувствительность. Уровень 3

“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 be ill – for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!”

“Disappointment?”

“Yes. Mrs. Smith has sent me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham. I am here now to take my farewell of you.”

“To London! – and are you going this morning?”

“Almost this moment.”

“This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith’s 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 year.”

“And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? Oh Willoughby, do you wait for an invitation here?”

He only replied,

“You are too good.”

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For a few moments everyone was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke,

“I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you will always be welcome. I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge.”

“My engagements at present,” replied Willoughby, confusedly, “are of such a nature – that – I dare not flatter myself – ”

He stopped. 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 left the room. He stepped into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Elinor’s uneasiness was equal to her mother’s. She thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby’s behaviour, his embarrassment, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother’s invitation, greatly disturbed her. Maybe some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister. But Marianne loved him much, and a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

In about half an hour her mother returned, her eyes were red.

“Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,” said she, as she sat down to work.

“It is all very strange. So suddenly! Last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate. And now… Something very important happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You saw the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they quarrel? Why didn’t he accept your invitation?”

“Elinor, I have explained everything to myself in the most satisfactory way. I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it. Perhaps because she has other views for him, This is what happened. He is aware that she disapproves the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged to absent himself from Devonshire for a while. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?”

“Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.”

“Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! Do you suspect him of anything?”

“I can hardly tell. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of his behaviour. Willoughby can undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I hope that he has.”

“Do not blame him, however.”

“It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they are engaged) from Mrs. Smith – and if that is the case, it is wise for Willoughby to leave Devonshire at the moment. 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.”

“I want no proof of their affection,” said Elinor; “but of their engagement I do.”

“Actions speak 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? Have we not perfectly understood each other? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? 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.”

“If you see them at the altar, you will suppose they are going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I require no such proof. 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? 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 was involuntary, and I will not encourage it.”

“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. Who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?”

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret. They did not see Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without a word. Her eyes were red and swollen. She avoided the looks of them all, she did not eat, and after some time, she burst into tears and left the room.

Chapter XVI

Marianne was awake the whole night, and she wept a lot. She got up with a headache, and was unable to talk.

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of Allenham. Then she spent hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying. No letter from Willoughby came. Marianne’s mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs. Dashwood found explanations whenever she wanted them,

“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.”

“Why do you not ask Marianne at once,” said Elinor, “whether she is or she is not engaged to Willoughby?”

“I will not ask such a question. If they are not engaged, such an enquiry will inflict distress! At any rate it will be most ungenerous. I know Marianne’s heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that is enough.”

It was several days before Willoughby’s name was mentioned before Marianne. Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were not very nice; their witticisms added pain to many painful hours. One morning, Marianne joined her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself. Elinor and Marianne walked along the road through the valley, chiefly in silence. Beyond the entrance of the valley, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage.

Amongst the objects, they soon discovered a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes 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.”

“It is he,” cried Marianne, “I am sure he has. His coat, his horse. I know that!”

They walked and were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again, and welcomed Edward Ferrars.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to Barton.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth than even Elinor herself. 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.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he was staying with some friends near Plymouth.

Elinor talked of their present residence, its conveniences and so on. His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry.

Chapter XVII

Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment. Edward’s arrival was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.

“What are Mrs. Ferrars’s views for you at present, Edward?” said she, when dinner was over; “are you still going to be a great orator?”

“No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no talents for a public life!”

“But how will your fame be established? How will you become famous? 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!”

“You have no ambition, I know. Your wishes are all moderate.”

“As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as everybody else to be happy; but, like everybody else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.”

“Yes!” cried Marianne. “What have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?”

“Grandeur has nothing,” said Elinor, “but wealth has much to do with it.”

“Elinor!” said Marianne, “money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it.”

“Marianne has no shyness at all,” said Elinor.

“Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority,” replied Edward.

“And you are reserved,” said Marianne, “and that is worse.”

“Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?” Edward asked.

“Yes, very.”

“I do not understand you,” replied he. “Reserved! How, in what manner? What must I tell you? What can you suppose?”

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh, she said to him,

“Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls everyone 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, and he sat for some time silent and dull.

Chapter XVIII

Elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. It was evident that he was unhappy.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down. Marianne soon left them to themselves. But after few steps 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. Marianne began to describe her own admiration of these parts, and to question him, when Edward interrupted her,

“You must not enquire, Marianne. I shall offend you by my ignorance. I shall call hills steep, not bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, not irregular and rugged. I know nothing of the picturesque.”

“I am afraid it is true,” said Marianne; “but why do you boast of it?”

“I suspect,” said Elinor, “that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward here falls into another.”

“I am convinced,” said Edward, “that you really feel all the delight. But your sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. 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. Happy villagers please me better than the finest banditti in the world.”

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor only laughed.

Marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She was sitting by Edward, and his hand passed so directly before her. She saw a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre.

“I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,” she cried. “Is that Fanny’s hair? But I think her hair is darker.”

Edward coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied,

“Yes; it is my sister’s hair.”

Elinor met his eye, and thought that the hair was her own. But where and how did he get it?

Edward’s embarrassment lasted some time. He was particularly grave the whole morning.

Before the middle of the day, Sir John and Mrs. Jennings visited them. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars began with an F, preparing ground for future jokes.

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.

“You must drink tea with us tonight,” said he, “we shall be quite alone – and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, we shall be a large party.”

“And after that – a dance,” said Mrs. Jennings. “And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne.”

“A dance!” cried Marianne. “Impossible! Who will dance?”

“Who! Yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers.”

Chapter XIX

Edward remained a week at the cottage. His spirits, during the last two or three days, were greatly improved. He valued their kindness beyond anything, and his greatest happiness was there. He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested towns; but either to Norland or London, he must go. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own. Elinor was disappointed, however, and vexed, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself.

“I think, Edward,” said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the last morning, “you will be a happier man if you have any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions.”

“I 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. We never agreed 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. I have been idle since my Oxford studies.”

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day. Elinor found time every day to think of Edward, and of Edward’s behaviour, – with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.

One morning, soon after Edward’s leaving, she was quite alone. She 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 stepped across the turf, and spoke to her.

“Well,” said he, “we have brought you some strangers. How do you like them?”

“Hush! they will hear you.”

“Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see her. Where is Marianne? Has she run away? I see her instrument is open.”

“She is walking, I believe.”

Mrs. Jennings impatiently joined them, coming 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.”

Elinor stood up. Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers. Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came downstairs 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. 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 twenty-five. He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without a word, and took up a newspaper from the table, and began to read it.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, admired of the parlour and everything in it.

“Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charming! Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last! I always thought it such a sweet place, ma’am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful everything is! I’d like such a house for myself! And 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 looked with surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked very loud. Mrs. Palmer laughed heartily.

Lady Middleton asked 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 will see a monstrous pretty girl.”

Mrs. Palmer’s eye saw the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.

“Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I can look at them for ever.”

And then she sat 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 that the room was small, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John invited them all to spend the next day at the park.

“Why do they ask us?” said Marianne, as soon as they were gone. “The rent of this cottage is low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we must dine at the park whenever anyone is staying either with them, or with us.”

Chapter XX

As the Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, merry as before. She took them by the hand, and expressed great delight.

“I am very glad to see you!” said she, seating herself between Elinor and Marianne, “We must go, for the Westons come to us next week, you know. I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope. I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I can get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover Square. You must come, indeed.”

They thanked her; but refused.

“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 began complaining of the weather.

“How horrid all this is!” said he. “Such weather makes everything and everybody disgusting. Why does not Sir John have a billiard room in his house? Sir John is as stupid as the weather.”

Chapter XXI

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.

In Exeter, Mrs. Jennings met two young ladies, who were her relatives. This was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park. The young ladies arrived: their appearance was not unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture. Lady Middleton declared them to be very agreeable girls. Sir John went directly to the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of Miss Steele and her sister’s arrival. They are the sweetest girls in the world! Sir John wanted the whole family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man!

“Do come now,” said he, “pray come – you must 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. And they both want to see you, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world. I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I am sure.”

But Sir John did not prevail and only obtained a promise of their visit in a day or two, and then left 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 twenty-two, they acknowledged considerable beauty. Her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air. Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon noticed that.

The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest sister 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 to get new friends. Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles. To do him justice, he did everything in his power to promote their unreserve.

Elinor did not suppose that Sir John would not laugh at her and Edward, as he did with respect to Marianne. Indeed it was his favourite joke of the two. In the eldest of Miss Steeles these jokes raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman.

“His name is Ferrars,” said Sir John, 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. “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?[13]”

Chapter XXII

Marianne, who had never much toleration for impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed to be pleased with the Miss Steeles. Lucy missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation 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 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 the want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind; and she could have no satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance.

“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 are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law’s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?”

Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

“Indeed!” replied Lucy; “I wonder at that, for I thought you saw her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?”

“No,” returned Elinor; “I know nothing of her.”

“I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way,” said Lucy; “but perhaps there may be reasons for that.”