Colonel Brandon's Diary (28 page)

‘But finish the letter,’ said Mrs Dashwood.

‘A letter of proper submission!’ Edward said. ‘Would they have me beg my mother’s pardon for Robert’s ingratitude to
her
and breach of honour to
me
?’

‘You may certainly ask to be forgiven,’ said Elinor, ‘be cause you have offended. 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 say against it, but, feeling that it would be easier to make concessions by word of mouth rather than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to his sister, he should go to London, and personally ask for her help.

‘And if they really
do
interest themselves in bringing about a reconciliation,’ said Marianne, ‘I shall think that even John and his wife are not entirely without merit.’

‘What do you say to the idea of calling in at Delaford on your way to London?’ I said. ‘You can see the parsonage, and we can decide on some improvements. Then I can set the work in hand.’

He agreed to the proposal and then suggested to Elinor that they should resume their rambles around the countryside. Mrs Dashwood having some housekeeping to attend to, and Margaret running out into the garden once again to play, Marianne and I were left alone.

‘And so, Colonel, I find I cannot cling to my belief that second attachments are unpardonable: Edward’s love for Elinor is a second attachment, and if I were to follow my former philosophy, then he would be condemned to a life of misery with Lucy, instead of a life of happiness with Elinor,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘And yet, perhaps in some cases it might not be possible to make a second attachment, if the first was felt too deeply,’ she went on, shaking her head. Then she raised her eyes and looked into mine. ‘You loved deeply once. Do you believe it is possible, after such an attachment, to be happy again?’

‘For a long time I thought not, but now, yes, I do think it is possible,’ I said.

‘I hope you are right,’ she said with a sigh, ‘otherwise I am destined for a lonely life.’

I said gently, ‘I do not believe that that will be your fate.’

 

 

Ferrars and I arrived at Delaford this afternoon. He complimented me on the mansion house, and then we walked down the road to the parsonage.

‘This is better than I expected, much better,’ he said. ‘From what you had told me, I was expecting some dilapidated cottage, but it is a house of good proportions and not inconsiderable dimensions.’

‘It can be added to,’ I said. ‘It would be easy to build on at the back and build another room above. The gardens, also, are capable of improvement.’

He cast his eye over the whole, and then we went in.

‘It needs new papers,’ I said, ‘and carpets on the floor.’

‘I am sure Elinor will want to choose those. I will leave it all to her,’ he said. ‘I am a lucky man, Brandon. A few weeks ago I despaired of happiness, but fate has delivered it into my hands. Now all it needs is for my mother to relent, and I will have more happiness than any man has a right to expect. I hope the same good fortune might befall you.’

He looked at me knowingly, and I could not help smiling, and he said that he hoped we would be very happy.

‘Nothing is certain,’ I said.

‘What in life is certain? But that does not mean you cannot hope. Hope is every man’s friend.’

We went out into the garden.

‘I can imagine Elinor here, cutting flowers for the house,’ he said.

‘The wall can be moved to make the garden bigger,’ I said. ‘If you take it out as far as the orchard, it will be a pretty size.’

We went on discussing improvements, and by the time we had done, we both began to feel that the parsonage could be turned into something like a gentleman’s residence without too much trouble or expense.

 

 

Ferrars left for London today. I wished him luck, and I felt he would need it, for a mother who could cast aside her son for so slight a reason was not a mother who could be relied upon to reinstate him in her affections.

 

 

I spent the morning catching up on estate business, and this afternoon I went to see Eliza. I arrived at the cottage in time to see Robert Lambton leaving it. He asked me if he might come and see me tomorrow morning, and I said yes. It was obvious from his manner that he did not want to talk to me about the farm, and from Eliza’s smiles I am expecting a happy interview.

 

 

Robert Lambton came to see me this morning. He was embarrassed, and hummed and hawed, and he obviously did not know how to begin.

He started at last, however, and, haltingly, told me that he had fallen in love with Eliza and asked for her hand in marriage.

‘And what does she say?’ I asked him.

‘I was so bold as to ask her, and she said yes,’ he said.

‘Then it only remains for my to give you my blessing . . .’ I said. I was sorry I could not give her a dowry, for although I owned a great deal of land, I had very little in the way of money, the estate not being a wealthy one. And then I realized that it was in my power to give them something after all, and I added ‘. . . and Four Lanes farm.’

He looked at me in amazement.

‘And Four Lanes farm?’ he asked, stunned.

‘I will have the papers drawn up tomorrow. You will be a landowner, Robert.’

‘I never expected . . .’ he began.

‘I know, and that is why I am so happy to give it to you. You are the very man I would have chosen for Eliza. She has had a great deal of unhappiness in her life, but now she has found happiness with you. I am more grateful to you than I can say.’

He thanked me from his heart and went to tell Eliza the good news.

She came to call on me this evening and told me they would be married in the autumn. She asked me if I would give her away, and I told her I would be proud to do so. She has matured a great deal over the last few months and improved in character and spirits, so that I have no doubt that she and Robert will be happy.

I had hoped to hear something from Ferrars, telling me of his luck in London, but there was still no letter this morning. If I have not heard anything by tomorrow, I think I will go to Barton and make enquiries there. It is as good an excuse as any for seeing Marianne again!

She likes me, I know.

It now remains to be seen if she can ever love me.

 

 

Sir John was happy to see me, as always, and laughed at me for my frequent visits. I replied by saying that he must come and visit me soon at Delaford, and he readily agreed. Then I walked down to Barton Cottage.

Margaret was playing in front of the house, whilst Marianne was cutting flowers.

She welcomed me with a smile.

‘I have heard nothing from Mr Ferrars, and I could wait no longer, so I thought I would come and see if you had any news. Has Mrs Ferrars relented towards her son?’ I asked.

‘She has,’ she said, cutting a final bloom. ‘But poor Edward has had to endure a great many lectures in order to bring it about. But will you not come inside? Margaret, run and fetch Elinor and Mama. They have just set out for a walk,’ she explained to me.

‘I would not wish to disturb them — ’

‘They can walk at any time. They would much rather see you, I am sure,’ she said.

I followed her into the cottage.

‘And has Mrs Ferrars restored him to the position of an elder son?’ I asked.

‘No, that would be too much to hope for. She has promised him ten thousand pounds, which is the sum she gave to Fanny on her marriage, but other than that she is content for him to take holy orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty pounds a year. And this, when his brother has a thousand a year! But it is enough. Now that Elinor has Edward, she needs nothing more to be happy.’

Mrs Dashwood and her daughters returned at that point, and the subject was much discussed.

‘Edward meant to tell you himself. He intended to call at Delaford on his way here,’ said Elinor.

‘I should have waited for him, but I was eager to discover the news.’

‘And I admire you for it,’ said Marianne warmly. ‘Where our friends are concerned, how can we abide any delay which will prevent us from learning of their happiness?’

‘Edward is expected here in a few days’ time,’ said Elinor. ‘You must stay and see him.’

‘Thank you, I will. And then you must all come to Delaford. You will be able to see the parsonage, and,’ turning to Elinor, ‘tell me what improvements you would like me to make.’

‘You are very kind, Colonel. I can think of nothing I would like better,’ she said.

I waved her thanks aside, and Mrs Dashwood said that she and her family would be glad to accept my invitation.

And so I am to have them at Delaford! Marianne is to see my home for the first time. And, perhaps, if fortune favours me, it will be her home soon, too.

 

 

Sir John called at the cottage this morning to invite the Dashwoods to dinner. Mrs Jennings was with him.

‘What a time we’ve all been having!’ she said. ‘Was there ever such news! Lucy engaged to Mr Edward Ferrars and then marrying his brother instead! And you, my dear,’ to Elinor, ‘you are to marry Edward, and never a thing did I suspect! How you must have laughed at me.’

‘I assure you — ’

‘You young people with your assurances. I never was more taken in, though I should have known. “His name begins with an F,” Miss Margaret said. And I never thought, when I met Mr Ferrars, that he was an F! And you, Miss Marianne, looking blooming, when I thought Willoughby had killed you. Ah, was there ever such a scoundrel, leading you on when all the time he was engaged to someone else.’

‘He did sincerely love Marianne,’ said Elinor, with a glance at her sister. ‘He came to see her when she was ill, and he confided his feelings to me.’

I had never suspected it, but in a few words she said that Willoughby had arrived at Cleveland when I had gone to fetch Mrs Dashwood, and that he had protested his affection for Marianne, saying that he had always loved her but that he had been forced into marriage with Miss Grey by poverty as Mrs Smith, hearing of his behaviour towards Eliza, had disinherited him.

Mrs Jennings was horrified, though whether she was more horrified to discover that Willoughby had seduced an innocent or that she had not been apprised of the gossip, it would have been difficult to say. But now that Marianne was no longer in danger she was willing to forgive him.

‘Ah, well, I dare say it was not his fault,’ she said.

‘No indeed. Nothing is ever Willoughby’s fault,’ said Marianne, with surprising asperity. ‘I have heard all his excuses, for he was good enough to make them to Elinor when I lay ill and in danger because of his behaviour, and they are compelling indeed. It was not his fault that he seduced an orphan; instead it was her fault for not being a saint. It was not his fault for leaving her without giving her his address; for, if she had had any common sense, she could have discovered it for herself.

‘It was not his fault for refusing to marry her when his relation, Mrs Smith, discovered his conduct and told him he must, for how could he be expected to marry a young woman who could bring him nothing except the child he had given her, and of whom he had already tired? Only a woman of Mrs Smith’s purity, and with her ignorance of the world, could have expected such a ridiculous thing.

‘And it was not his fault that he made love to me whilst Eliza was alone and discarded in London; nor that he abandoned me when Mrs Smith disinherited him and ran off to London, where he married the first heiress who would have him.’

‘My dear . . .’ began Mrs Dashwood in surprise.

‘No, Mama, I must speak. I have given the matter a great deal of thought, and though to begin with I was soothed by his race to my bedside, I soon saw that it was all of a piece with his earlier behaviour. If a man were judged by words, then Willoughby would be a great man indeed. But his actions, what of them? When he came to my bedside, he was already married to another woman, and he was betraying her trust by visiting me, as he had earlier betrayed mine by leaving me. And yet did he see this betrayal? No. He saw only what he always saw, that he had been cruelly used by everyone about him, and that he himself was innocent. The orphan who had not resisted his determined seduction; the benefactress who expected him, oh! how unreasonably! to marry the mother of his child; the wife who did not love him; and the wild young girl in Devonshire who threw herself at his head, driving around the countryside with him unchaperoned and giving him a lock of her hair; all these conspired against him. There could be no blame attached to him, for if they had behaved in such reprehensible ways, then what could they expect?’

‘Marianne, you do not know that he has said any such thing about you!’ said her sister. ‘He loved you, I am sure of it.’

‘Or so he said to you, but what did he say to his wife, and to his London friends? How did he explain my behaviour at the party? As the distress of a young girl he had encouraged and then abandoned, or as the wild behaviour of an unprincipled girl whose family were careless of her honour? A man who can blacken the character of one woman behind her back can do the same to another.