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 to 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
whom 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.

Marianne makes a quick recovery, and Colonel Brandon is invited to see her, so that she can thank him for bringing her mother. They finally resolve to leave, as Marianne is much improved; Mrs. Jennings is sincerely thanked for her kindness, as is the Colonel. Marianne certainly acts more kind to the Colonel, and he leaves when the Dashwoods do, promising to visit them soon. Marianne has become calm, and seems happy, which Elinor observes with particular satisfaction, and with hope that Marianne is finally recovered from Willoughby's rejection. Although Marianne shows signs of sadness at being reminded of Willoughby by being at Barton, she is far more mature about it, keeping herself busy and refusing to let herself languish in her grief. Marianne finally speaks of Willoughby, and says she wishes she knew that he felt something for her; Elinor decides she must take the opportunity to tell her what Willoughby had said, and Marianne takes it very well. Marianne also laments at her selfishness toward Elinor, above all people, and her lack of civility and compassion toward most of their acquaintance; she is determined to amend her ways, and to act with much greater delicacy from this point onward.

Marianne has finally seen her errors of being selfish and unjust toward many; her repentance is sincere, and she also laments her impropriety with Willoughby. Marianne seems to have truly learned from her behavior and experience, and though she is still of a passionate, emotional nature, it is a distinctly positive sign that she is turning these to her own advantage, in educating herself and seeking her own improvement. Even Marianne's tone and language has changed; she no longer speaks in impassioned outbursts, with dramatic overstatements, or simply of herself and her own feelings. She considers Elinor above all, and how her conduct affected her sister, and evenly appraises recent events in her past. Marianne sounds levelheaded, and solid in her judgments, as hopefully she will continue to be. At last, Marianne has learned moderation; this is a theme which will be of great importance to Marianne's future, as it will make her conduct and her judgments more just than they once were. That Marianne also seems to have gotten over Willoughby is a very positive sign; along with the change in her conduct, it is hopeful that this will lead to her beginning to think well of the Colonel

Marianne improves rapidly, and soon receives a visit from Colonel Brandon. Her mother anxiously looks on, seeking signs of love. She believes that Marianne's attitude towards the Colonel is starting to change. Mrs. Dashwood begins to make plans to go back to Barton with her daughters. Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon insist that the Dashwoods take his carriage to make their journey easier. He promises to make a visit to the cottage at Barton soon. As they leave for home, Marianne says goodbye fondly to Mrs. Jennings, and quite cordially to Colonel Brandon. After the Dashwoods leave, Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon are left to their own devices; he goes home to Delaford, and she gossips with her maid. The Dashwoods take two days for their trip home, and Marianne seems particularly calm. Elinor is especially grateful for Marianne's seeming mental health. When they get home, Marianne seems sad, but otherwise OK - she appears to have decided to get over Willoughby. Everything reminds her of him, but she tries to get past these memories. The next day, Marianne is optimistic, and she and Elinor make plans to talk long walks and have a good summer. Marianne is determined to be more serious, and devote her time to reading and music. Elinor is pleased that her sister is taking her life seriously, instead of lolling around, indulging in her romantic fantasies. The only thing that mars her happiness is her promise to Willoughby, that she will tell Marianne everything. One day, the two sisters go for a walk. They pass the place where Marianne first met Willoughby, which sets her off on a pensive train of thought. She says that she would simply like to know that he actually felt something for her sometime. Elinor, happy with this statement, wants to know if it would settle Marianne's mind to know this. Marianne says it would, and Elinor wonders if she should tell all to her sister. Marianne goes on - apparently, her illness has made her think over a lot of things. She's realized that her own emotional weakness and imprudence are what led her to her own situation, and that she almost caused her own death by foolishness. She feels bad for everything she's put Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood through. Furthermore, she feels terrible for all the friends she's slighted or been rude to - the Middletons, Mrs. Jennings, the Palmers, the Steeles, and even John and Fanny. Most of all, Marianne feels as though she's wronged the people who mean the most to her - Elinor and their mother. She should have paid more attention to Elinor's behavior, and tried to be more like her. Even when she knew Elinor was unhappy, she wasn't sympathetic enough to her, and was too wrapped up in her own concerns about Willoughby. Elinor tells her sister that she shouldn't worry about it, and praises her for being so honest with herself. Marianne vows to be better in the future, and to be more like her sister. With regards to Willoughby, she promises that she will do her best to get over him. She only wishes she knew what had gone on with him, as it would make things easier for her. That's Elinor's cue. She reveals everything Willoughby told her, and observes her sister's reaction: Marianne is struck by it, and is clearly incredibly sad. She has a ton of questions, and weeps profusely. However, this behavior is much more measured and under control than the old Marianne. When the sisters get home, Marianne goes to her room to try and make sense of all of this, asking Elinor to tell their mother the whole story.


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?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"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 tells her mother about her conversation with Willoughby, and though her mother, like herself and Marianne, thinks a little better of him, they do not miss him or have much affection for him anymore. Marianne finally says that she could not have been happy with Willoughby, after hearing of his cruelty toward Miss Williams; Elinor says that Marianne is certainly right in this appraisal, and that Willoughby was too selfish to have made her happy. Mrs. Dashwood takes this as encouragement to recommend Colonel Brandon even more heartily, although Marianne is certainly not ready for that suggestion. Elinor begins to wonder at Edward, having heard nothing of him since she left London; the family is surprised then, when one of their servants returns from the village with news that he is married to Lucy. Their servant saw them himself, and says that Lucy sends her compliments; Elinor knows now that Edward is lost to her forever, and doomed to an unhappy marriage as well. Mrs. Dashwood sees how upset Elinor is, despite her attempts to hide it; she realizes that Elinor felt more for Edward than she guessed before, and is sorry to have paid less attention to Elinor's disappointments simply because she was less open with them than Marianne was.

Marianne's transformation seems complete at this point; her affections for Willoughby are put to rest, and even her mother, who was once fond of him, has decided to forgive and forget. Marianne sees that Willoughby's selfishness and inconstancy would hardly have made her happy; perhaps she will recognize that the Colonel is very much the opposite, and be attracted to him because he is so steady in his affections and cares very much for her happiness. It seems at this point that Elinor's hopes for happiness are destroyed, as she does not have a suitor as Marianne still does. Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood do become more sensitive toward Elinor's disappointment, and come to understand her character more; for although Elinor tries hard to conceal her unhappiness, this does not mean that she doesn't feel less than Marianne does

Mrs. Dashwood hears Willoughby's story, and is just as touched as everyone else - she feels bad for him, and hopes he can be happy. However, nobody can really restore their faith in him, knowing what he's done. Elinor, as always, just wanted to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; she seems to have succeeded. That evening, Marianne shares her opinion on the whole matter for the first time - she's glad she knows everything, and doesn't wish her circumstances to be any different; after all, it's better that she didn't marry Willoughby. Elinor elaborates upon this, thinking of all the reasons why it was better to escape from Willoughby unmarried: he's self-indulgent, selfish, and they would have been poor. Everyone concludes that all was for the best, and there's nothing to regret but their own imprudence. Days pass; Marianne's condition is stable, and Margaret returns - everyone is settled. Elinor wants to know what's up with Edward. She hasn't heard anything from him since she left London, and even John and Fanny don't know what he's up to. One day, their servant, Thomas, goes to Exeter on business. When he returns, he informs the ladies that "Mr. Ferrars" is married. Marianne flips out, and Elinor's face silently expresses her horror. Mrs. Dashwood isn't sure which of her daughters to comfort. Thomas apparently ran into Lucy Steele and her new husband getting into a carriage. She said hello to him and asked him to pass on her greetings to everyone back at Barton, saying that she'll stop by and say hi soon. He caught sight of Mr. Ferrars getting into the carriage, but the latter didn't look up or say hello. Elinor comments that they're probably going to see Lucy's uncle, Edward's tutor, Mr. Pratt. Thomas says that Lucy was looking very well in general. Everyone is sobered by this whole announcement. Mrs. Dashwood is struck dumb - she's not sure how best to comfort Elinor. She realizes that despite Elinor's calm conduct, she's been majorly hurting on the inside. By being distracted by Marianne's dramatic tragedy, she's neglected to notice her quieter daughter's misery.

Mrs. Dashwood is happy to hear that Willoughby has good feelings toward Marianne. However, she agrees with her daughter that Marianne could not have been happily married to Willoughby. Meanwhile, Elinor is anxious to learn about Edward. One day her man-servant brings the information that Lucy is married to Mr. Ferrars; he met them in front of their carriage in Exeter. The Dashwood family is disturbed to hear this news.

Notes Marianne has finally overcome her infatuation for Willoughby. She analyzes the situation and arrives at the conclusion that she would have been miserable if she had married him. Elinor agrees with her sister. She still considers Willoughby to be selfish person, who is repenting his actions because his marriage has not turned out to be as blissful as he had expected. He has criticized Miss Grey for being heartless; had he married Marianne, he would have complained about her unfavorable financial situation. Elinor has philosophically accepted Edward's marriage to Lucy; nevertheless, she gets a shock when she is confronted with actual news of the event. Elinor is sensible, understanding and intelligent, but she is a normal girl who has feelings. Therefore, she is distraught after losing all hope of regaining Edward's affections. Austen's characterization of Elinor is more sophisticated than it at first appears. Elinor is not only the epitome of tolerance and "sense;" she is human, too. CHAPTER 48 Summary This short chapter brings happiness to the Dashwood family. The opening of the chapter shows Elinor depressed. All along she has nurtured the hope that Edward might come back to marry her one day, but after hearing about his marriage to Lucy, she loses all hope. Her nerves suffer a further setback with the sudden appearance of Edward at the cottage. The Dashwoods hide their emotions and welcome him. Elinor takes courage and inquires about Mrs. Edward Ferrars. But Edward only looks puzzled. Then he informs them that Lucy has actually gotten married to his brother, Robert. The Dashwoods are stunned to hear the news. Notes Jane Austen introduces an element of surprise in the chapter. Edward's sudden appearance at Barton Cottage creates ample suspense in the mind of the reader, since Edward arrives alone, and not with Lucy. The Dashwoods look bewildered. Elinor feels hurt, and she presumes that Edward has come to mock her. Marianne is angry at his audacity. Mrs. Dashwood looks dejected, while Margaret is confused. The family does not know how to handle the situation. They are curious about the reason for Edward's visit. The suspense ends when Edward informs them of Lucy's marriage to Robert. The news astounds them, but they are relieved. Elinor experiences a surge of emotion, and for once, she loses control. She runs out of the room and bursts into tears. Edward, shocked to see his beloved in distress, leaves the house abruptly. Both his entry and exit are quite dramatic. The Dashwoods are too dazed to react to the situation. CHAPTER 49 Summary Within a few hours of his arrival at the cottage, Edward proposes to Elinor and gets her consent. He is exhilarated and content. He relates the story of his encounter with Lucy and his secret engagement to her. He talks about having regretted his decision later. However, in order to keep up his commitment to her, he had agreed to marry her. A few days later she released him from his obligation by informing him of her marriage to Robert. Edward, relieved and absolutely overjoyed, had traveled to Barton to meet Elinor. Edward's revelation leaves the Dashwoods ecstatic. Colonel Brandon arrives and is told about the turn of events. He is glad that he will be helping Elinor by providing a position for Edward at Delaford. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Dashwood receives two letters, one from Mrs. Jennings and one from John Dashwood. In her letter Mrs. Jennings condemns Lucy's actions and sympathizes with the plight of Edward. John Dashwood writes about the repercussions of the marriage on Fanny and her mother. Mrs. Ferrars has severed all relations with Robert. He suggests to Edward that by writing a letter of apology to Mrs. Ferrars, he will be able to earn back her favor. After discussing the matter with Elinor, Edward decides to go in person to meet his sister and mother. Before undertaking the journey to Norland, he accompanies Colonel Brandon to Delaford to settle the matter of his position. Notes Edward comes back to Elinor like a penitent lover. He apologizes for his behavior and reveals his true feelings for her. Elinor forgives him easily and accepts him unconditionally. Both Edward's conduct and Elinor's acceptance of his proposal may seem unconvincing. It is not clear why Edward should keep in touch with Lucy if he had not been in love with her and why he should come to spend time with Elinor at Barton if he was committed to Lucy. Elinor's passive acceptance of Edward's explanations and proposal is somewhat out of character for her. Elinor's usual good sense and reasoning ability fail to examine Edward's conduct. Lucy's selfishness and cunning is exposed not only to Edward and the characters in the novel, but to the readers as well. She is a woman who is able to give her heart to any one who possesses wealth and respectability. Without an ounce of conscience, she transfers her affections from Edward to Robert. CHAPTER 50 Summary Mrs. Ferrars excuses Edward and becomes reconciled to his marrying Elinor. She accepts his taking orders and grants him ten thousand pounds. With a sufficient income and a living at Delaford, Edward and Elinor get married early in the autumn. All their relatives, including Mrs. Jennings, pay them a visit. They find the couple leading a happy and contented life. Lucy conquers the heart of Mrs. Ferrars through slyness and flattery. The old lady assists her and Robert liberally and also provides them with a home in town. Marianne is reconciled to the idea of marrying Colonel Brandon and soon becomes a devoted wife. Willoughby feels distressed to hear about Marianne's marriage to Colonel Brandon, as he still admires her. Mrs. Dashwood retains her cottage at Barton although she keeps making visits to Delaford. Margaret grows up into a charming girl and provides delightful company to the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings. Notes Jane Austen concludes the novel on a happy note. All the leading characters get settled in life after their problems have been sorted out. Edward acquires sufficient financial support and settles down with Elinor in Delaford. Marianne marries Colonel Brandon and becomes the mistress of Delaford mansion. Mrs. Dashwood is a contented mother, dividing her time between three daughters. Even minor characters get more than their due. Robert and Lucy settle down in the lap of luxury. The two of them, lacking intelligence and taste, resemble Shakespeare's Audrey and Touchstone in As You Like it. Jane Austen is generous in her treatment of Willoughby. He remembers Marianne with fondness and appears disappointed, but leads a comfortable life. The novel ends like a fairy tale, except for the fact that both good and bad characters are blessed.


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.

Another pause.

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.

Although Elinor knew before that Edward and Lucy would probably be married, she is still pained at the news, since she had hope that they might be separated by some mischance. She wishes to hear more news, but none comes; they expect Colonel Brandon any day, so Elinor can ask him if the couple are indeed settled at Delaford. Elinor is convinced that the Colonel has arrived at the cottage, but is surprised to find that it is Edward instead. They all try to hide their anxiety, and their conversation is awkward at best; but, when Mrs. Dashwood inquires about his wife, he informs them that it is his brother who has been married to Lucy, and not him. Elinor immediately runs from the room, crying out of joy; Edward then senses Elinor's regard for him, and is very happy too.

This new development has hardly been foreshadowed in Austen's text; Robert and Lucy hardly seemed to know each other before in town, and Robert had proclaimed Lucy plain and undesirable before. Their personalities being similar, and their scruples almost nonexistent, it is perhaps not a surprise that they would be drawn together. However, perhaps it is a failure of Austen's that this is a bombshell with absolutely no prior indications, and seems more like a convenient development than a natural event in the text

Elinor finds herself mulling over the event of Edward's marriage - she realizes that she'd hoped that something would come up to prevent it, but now that it's happened, she feels incredibly hurt. She's surprised that he and Lucy were married so soon, before he could possibly have been ordained. She wonders how he must have felt, being so close to Barton. She supposes that the Ferrars must be settled at Delaford already, and envisions their life there. Elinor had thought that someone in London might have seen fit to tell her of Edward and Lucy's marriage, and she's surprised when no letter arrives with details. She even asks her mother to write to Colonel Brandon , eager for any news. However, no word has arrived. As soon as she asks this, though, Colonel Brandon himself arrives - but wait, it's not the Colonel. In fact, it's Edward! Elinor tells herself to be calm. Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood both freak out as well, unsure of what they should do. They silently await his arrival. Edward enters, looking ill with anxiety. Mrs. Dashwood breaks the ice by shaking his hand and wishing him happiness. Marianne and Margaret both retreat, leaving Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood to deal with the visitor. Mrs. Dashwood asks if Mrs. Ferrars is well, and Elinor, following up, asks if she's at Longstaple. Edward is shocked - his mother isn't anywhere near here! Elinor pointedly asks about Mrs. Edward Ferrars. All eyes turn to Edward. Edward stammers, confused - does Elinor mean Mrs. Robert Ferrars instead? Everyone is shocked: what's the meaning of this? This is the deal - it turns out that Robert, Edward's younger brother just married Lucy Steele. Whoa. Our minds are blown. Elinor isn't sure how to react, so she flees the room and bursts into tears of joy. Edward also doesn't know what to do, so he sits in silence for a moment, then simply leaves. Everyone is totally perplexed.


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
mother 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.

     "DEAR SIR,

     "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,

     "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
                                        "LUCY FERRARS.

     "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 he 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 than 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."

He agreed that he might.

"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.

Edward came to Barton with the intent of proposing marriage to Elinor, now that he is free; Elinor accepts and he gains Mrs. Dashwood's consent to the match during the afternoon. Edward admits that any regard he had for Lucy was formed out of idleness and lack of knowledge of the world; but during the four years they were engaged, he soon came to regret the match, although he could not break with Lucy in good conscience. The entire family is unbelievably happy that Edward got an honorable release from his engagement, and that Elinor and Edward are to be wed; Elinor is absolutely overcome, since she had expected him to be lost forever to her. Edward also reveals that after leaving London, he received a letter from Lucy saying that she had married his brother Robert, and has not seen her since. After receiving the letter, he also set out for Barton immediately, now at liberty to do as he had wished. Colonel Brandon soon comes to visit, and they are all at Barton for some time; Edward will still accept the position at Delaford, although he and Elinor still will not have enough money to live on comfortably. Edward and the Colonel become good friends, since they are suited in sense and temperament; Edward goes to Delaford with the Colonel to see his new home, and then decides to go to town to attempt reconciliation with his family, and hope to regain financial support from them.

Austen still does not explain exactly how Robert and Lucy managed to become a couple, but Edward's statement that their vanities must have bound them together is probably the best explanation for their sudden elopement. How ironic that Robert commits the grave offense against his family of marrying Lucy, yet it is Edward who is left without support; hopefully this is remedied somehow, although news of Edward's engagement to Elinor will hardly be more welcome than news of his engagement to Lucy. In the end, Lucy proves just as unscrupulous, vain, and malicious as Elinor suspected she might be. She ditches Edward because of money, when it suits her to do so; she sends the message to the Dashwoods to lead them to the painful conclusion that she has married Edward, and then she even takes all her sister's money and leaves her in town. It would hardly be fair if Robert got to keep Edward's inheritance now, and would be just desserts if Lucy was stuck with Robert, and had even less money than she would have with Edward. But, it is almost certain that considering the selfishness and folly of the couple, theirs will hardly be a joyful marriage at all

Apparently, Edward had come to Barton to ask Elinor to marry him. He left the house so abruptly to get some fresh air, gained confidence, then returned immediately to accomplish his mission. Three hours later, everything is settled, and everyone is immensely happy. Yay! Edward is happier than they've ever seen him , and he's genuinely cheerful and open to everyone, especially Elinor. He explains what happened with his engagement to Lucy - they'd fallen in love as teenagers, but as grownups, they'd grown apart. Part of the problem was that he hadn't had a clear path to employment once he left school, and no companions or friends - really, the only person he was close to as a youth was Lucy, so he had no basis for comparison. That night, everyone is so excited that nobody can sleep. It's a good kind of excitement, though - that of pure joy and relief. Marianne can only express her joy through crying, and has no words for her feelings. Elinor was so excited that even she lost her composure for a moment, before she pulled it together and was able to tell him how much she loves him - still, she's far from the normal calm Elinor we're used to. Edward stays at the cottage for a week, and he and Elinor spend the whole time enjoying each other's company and planning for the future. Lucy's marriage to Robert is a topic of much discussion as well - how did it happen? Everyone is mystified. Edward and Elinor discuss the possibility of plotting on Lucy's part; they decide that she probably began with the best intentions of gaining Robert's good favor for her marriage to Edward, but things changed somewhere along the line. Edward tells Elinor all about his breakup with Lucy. She'd written him a rather awkward letter, after she and Robert were already married, and requested that he destroy all her letters. He was horrified by the badness of her writing, but pleased by the content - everyone agrees that all's well that ends well. Mrs. Ferrars has even got her comeuppance, since the very daughter-in-law she hoped to eliminate by disowning Edward has cropped up again with Robert. Edward hasn't been in contact with his family since this all happened, and he's not sure what is going to happen. Elinor realizes that Lucy had meant to deceive the Dashwoods and hurt Elinor in particular by leading Thomas to believe that she had married Edward, not Robert. It's clear that Lucy is not actually a nice girl, but clearly something of an evil one. He wishes he'd known about it before his mother found out about everything - he would have broken up with Lucy had he known her real nature. He can't imagine why Lucy stuck with him for so long - why would she have stayed with him, even when he was disowned? Elinor figures that Lucy probably thought that she could gain from the association anyway, and that she'd assumed that in the end his family would give in. Elinor teases him for spending so much time at Norland with her when he was otherwise engaged with Lucy, but she doesn't mean it. He earnestly defends himself, saying that he thought he was safe from falling in love with Elinor if he was engaged already. Needless to say, he was wrong. Edward is glad that Colonel Brandon is coming to visit. He's excited to get to know his benefactor better; he used to resent Colonel Brandon because he though the Colonel was engaged to Elinor and he'd assumed that that's why he was offered the job at Delaford. Now that everything's cleared up, though, he's excited to make a new friend. As for money, Elinor has a thousand pounds of her own, and Edward has two thousand - combined with the Delaford living, that doesn't give them quite enough to live on. Edward hopes that his mother might change her mind toward him, but Elinor's not so sure. It seems to her that Robert's offensive marriage will just mean that Fanny will get more of the Ferrars fortune. A few days after Edward arrives, Colonel Brandon shows up. Mrs. Dashwood is overjoyed that everyone's together, but it means that they're out of room at the cottage, and Colonel Brandon has to stay at Barton Park. However, he comes to visit every day. He's been much revived by his three weeks at home, and is even more revived by Marianne's improvement in health. Mrs. Dashwood tells him all the surprising news about Lucy and Robert, and the Colonel is especially happy that he's helped Edward and Elinor out. Edward and Colonel Brandon become great friends quickly, not only because they're quite similar in personality, but also because they're in love with two sisters. Mrs. Jennings sends a letter from town relating the whole story of Lucy and Robert, which Elinor is now able to read with humor, not anxiety. John also writes, lamenting how unfortunate Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny are. Both Robert and Lucy are in her bad book, and even if she un-disowns Robert, she'll never forgive Lucy. Mrs. Ferrars hasn't said anything about Edward yet, but John thinks that Edward should write a conciliatory note to his mother - perhaps she will forgive him . Edward isn't sure what to do and doesn't want to write, as John suggests, a letter of "submission," so Elinor counsels him to write a letter asking for forgiveness, perhaps with a little humility thrown in there for good measure. Colonel Brandon and Edward leave together to visit Delaford, after which Edward will go to London.

That very afternoon the couple became engaged. Edward explained to Elinor how he had happened to become engaged to Lucy Steele, and how "it was not, at the time, an unnatural or inexcusable piece of folly." He then showed her the letter that he had received from Lucy informing him that she felt he didn't really love her and that she had found someone who could in Robert. Colonel Brandon came for a short time, and letters from Mrs. Jennings and John Dashwood brought news once again of Robert's marriage to Lucy. John felt that Edward should send a letter of apology to Mrs. Ferrars, but Edward decided to go to London in person to see his sister Fanny and "personally intreat her good offices in his favour," hoping that she might be able to bring about a reconciliation with his mother.

By a strange twist of fare, it is the sensible sister, Elinor, who marries her first love and is willing to share his life on the small salary of a country parson. With love, Elinor develops sensibility; her feelings when Edward at last proposes to her are as strong as any which Marianne has experienced, for "she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity."