feat_summary_path: finished_summaries/sparknotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_10_part_0.txt
feat_book_id: Sense and Sensibility.chapters 46-50
feat_summary_id: chapters 46-50
feat_summary: {"name": "Chapters 46-50", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210123003206/https://www.sparknotes.com/lit/sensibility/section11/", "summary": "The Dashwoods return to Barton Cottage, and Marianne continues to recover from her illness. While she and Elinor are taking a walk one day, the subject of Willoughby is broached once again. Marianne admits that she behaved imprudently in her relations with him, but Elinor consoles her by relating Willoughby's confession. Marianne feels much better knowing that his abandonment of her was not the final revelation of a long-standing deceit, but rather the result of his financial straits, and was thus not entirely willed. Marianne also acknowledges that she would never have been happy with him anyway; he has proved himself rather lacking in integrity. Elinor shares Willoughby's confession with Mrs. Dashwood as well, who pities the man but cannot fully forgive him for his treatment of Marianne. Thomas, the Dashwoods' manservant, arrives from town with the news that \"Mr. Ferrars\" has married Lucy Steele. This news distresses both Elinor and Marianne: Marianne falls into a fit of hysterics, and Elinor appears deeply disappointed. Witnessing her eldest daughter's grief, Mrs. Dashwood wonders whether she ought to have paid closer attention to Elinor's feelings over the past several months. Not long after, Elinor thinks she sees Colonel Brandon approaching Barton Cottage on horseback, but upon closer look, she realizes that the visitor is actually Edward Ferrars. When he enters the house, and she and Marianne inquire about his recent marriage, he realizes the misunderstanding and assures them that it was Robert who married Lucy Steele. Elinor is so overcome by relief that she runs out of the room, unable to contain her tears of joy. Within the next three hours, Edward proposes to Elinor and she accepts, of course, with great happiness. Over dinner that evening, he explains the unfortunate circumstances that first led to his engagement to Lucy. Edward also shares with the Dashwood sisters a note from Lucy in which she informed him of her engagement to Robert and severed all romantic ties with him. When Colonel Brandon arrives at Barton and hears the news of their engagement, he graciously offers to improve the parsonage at Delaford  to accommodate the couple comfortably. Mrs. Ferrars ultimately reconciles herself to Edward's new situation, though she continues to favor Robert as if he were her eldest son. Elinor and Edward live together at Delaford and frequently invite both Marianne and Colonel Brandon to visit, in the hope that the two will form an attachment with one another. Their plan is successful, for the Colonel and the younger sister become engaged and move in with Elinor and Edward at Delaford. The sisters continue to maintain close ties with their mother and Margaret at Barton Cottage, and the families live happily ever after.", "analysis": "Commentary When the servant Thomas first announces the news of \"Mr. Ferrars's\" marriage to Lucy Steele, Marianne bursts out in hysterics while Elinor maintains her composure in spite of her deep disappointment. Their reactions are ironic on two levels. First, Elinor was the sister with a close attachment to Edward, and thus, she has far more cause to break down in tears. Second, not only do the sisters' reactions seem reversed from what they should be, but the reactions of the men under discussion are reversed as well : it is actually Robert, not Edward, who is engaged to Lucy Steele. Several critics have objected to the implausibility of the match between Marianne and Colonel Brandon. Brandon is characterized as a clear-headed, dependable, practical man--the total opposite of the romantic and impetuous Marianne. Thus, Marianne's final acceptance of him seems completely out of character, since the marriage requires her to abandon her romantic ideals entirely. Moreover, Marianne and Colonel Brandon barely interact in the novel, especially in the concluding chapters. Thus, it seems unlikely that Marianne would come to love Brandon as she had loved Willoughby; she hardly knows him. Nonetheless, by closing the novel with their marriage, Austen shows the extent of Marianne's transformation: she writes, \"She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract by her conduct her most favourite maxims. \" If Marianne's ability to love Brandon is unconvincing, it is because of Austen's great faith in the ability of the individual to remake herself in light of shifting circumstances. The novel closes with a reminder that the most important attachment in the novel is not that between any man and woman, but between the two sisters. The sisters decide to live side-by-side together with their husbands at Delaford, thereby affirming the mutual respect and affection, which has kept them close throughout the entire novel. Ultimately, both sisters end up married to the novel's only second sons. Edward Ferrars, although strictly speaking the firstborn, is disinherited by his mother; as John Dashwood remarks, \"Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son. \" We know that Colonel Brandon is a second son because he has an older brother who married his old sweetheart, Eliza, many years before the novel's plot begins. Whereas these characters are the heroes of the novel, all the eldest sons, including John Dashwood, Robert Ferrars, and Colonel Brandon's older brother, are cast in a negative light. In Austen's day, the eldest sons were the ones who inherited all the family property according to the laws of male primogeniture. However, in spite of these inheritance laws, it is the second sons who ultimately find contentment in the novel; thus, they make happy lives for themselves despite societal and financial constraints."}
text: 
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  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 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.
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
  and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
  seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
  was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
  
  Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.  For many years of
  her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward
  a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of
  Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the
  resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.
  
  In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
  feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
  present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
  feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off
  as rapidly as before.  With apprehensive caution therefore it was
  revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.  Mrs.
  Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying
  Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power;--told him, that in Miss
  Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune;--and
  enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter
  of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only
  the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than THREE; but when
  she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her
  representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she
  judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit--and
  therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own
  dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she
  issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.
  
  What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to
  be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now
  her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was
  inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
  objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two
  hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for
  the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had
  been given with Fanny.
  
  It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by
  Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses,
  seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.
  
  With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
  they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
  living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with
  an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making
  considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their
  completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments
  and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,
  as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
  till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton
  church early in the autumn.
  
  The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the
  Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the
  Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot;--could
  chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.  Mrs. Jennings's
  prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for
  she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by
  Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really
  believed, one of the happiest couples in the world.  They had in fact
  nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne,
  and rather better pasturage for their cows.
  
  They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations
  and friends.  Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was
  almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the
  expense of a journey from Sussex to do them honour.
  
  "I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as
  they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford
  House, "THAT would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one
  of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is.  But, I
  confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
  brother.  His property here, his place, his house, every thing is in
  such respectable and excellent condition!--and his woods!--I have not
  seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in
  Delaford Hanger!--And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly
  the person to attract him--yet I think it would altogether be advisable
  for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel
  Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may
  happen--for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of
  anybody else--and it will always be in your power to set her off to
  advantage, and so forth;--in short, you may as well give her a
  chance--You understand me."--
  
  But though Mrs. Ferrars DID come to see them, and always treated them
  with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by
  her real favour and preference.  THAT was due to the folly of Robert,
  and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many
  months had passed away.  The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had
  at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of
  his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous
  attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was
  given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
  re-established him completely in her favour.
  
  The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
  crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance
  of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however
  its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every
  advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and
  conscience.  When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately
  visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the view imputed
  to him by his brother.  He merely meant to persuade her to give up the
  engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection
  of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle
  the matter.  In that point, however, and that only, he erred;--for
  though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her
  in TIME, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to
  produce this conviction.  Some doubts always lingered in her mind when
  they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's
  discourse with himself.  His attendance was by this means secured, and
  the rest followed in course.  Instead of talking of Edward, they came
  gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on which he had always
  more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an
  interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily
  evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother.  He was
  proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and very proud of
  marrying privately without his mother's consent.  What immediately
  followed is known.  They passed some months in great happiness at
  Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut--and
  he drew several plans for magnificent cottages;--and from thence
  returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the
  simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was
  adopted.  The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,
  comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and
  therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks
  longer unpardoned.  But perseverance in humility of conduct and
  messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for
  the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty
  notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards,
  by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence.
  Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert or Fanny;
  and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended
  to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth,
  was spoken of as an intruder, SHE was in every thing considered, and
  always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child.  They settled in
  town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the
  best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the
  jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy,
  in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent
  domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing
  could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.
  
  What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
  puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to
  it, might have puzzled them still more.  It was an arrangement,
  however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing
  ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a
  suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving
  his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if Edward
  might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every
  particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and
  from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no
  less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an
  exchange.
  
  Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
  be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless,
  for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with
  her.  Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure
  in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing
  Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less earnest, though
  rather more liberal than what John had expressed.  It was now her
  darling object.  Precious as was the company of her daughter to her,
  she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her
  valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house was
  equally the wish of Edward and Elinor.  They each felt his sorrows, and
  their own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the
  reward of all.
  
  With such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of
  his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,
  which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody
  else--burst on her--what could she do?
  
  Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.  She was born to
  discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her
  conduct, her most favourite maxims.  She was born to overcome an
  affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment
  superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
  her hand to another!--and THAT other, a man who had suffered no less
  than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years
  before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still sought
  the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
  
  But so it was.  Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
  passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,--instead
  of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only
  pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and
  sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at nineteen,
  submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new
  home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.
  
  Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
  believed he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every past
  affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,
  and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own
  happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of
  each observing friend.  Marianne could never love by halves; and her
  whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had
  once been to Willoughby.
  
  Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
  punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of
  Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as
  the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he
  behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been happy
  and rich.  That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its
  own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he long
  thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret.  But
  that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or
  contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must
  not be depended on--for he did neither.  He lived to exert, and
  frequently to enjoy himself.  His wife was not always out of humour,
  nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs,
  and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of
  domestic felicity.
  
  For Marianne, however--in spite of his incivility in surviving her
  loss--he always retained that decided regard which interested him in
  every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
  perfection in woman;--and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him
  in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.
  
  Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
  attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
  Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an
  age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being
  supposed to have a lover.
  
  Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
  which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the
  merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked
  as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost
  within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
  between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
feat_summary_name: Chapters 46-50
target: The Dashwoods return to Barton Cottage, and Marianne continues to recover from her illness. While she and Elinor are taking a walk one day, the subject of Willoughby is broached once again. Marianne admits that she behaved imprudently in her relations with him, but Elinor consoles her by relating Willoughby's confession. Marianne feels much better knowing that his abandonment of her was not the final revelation of a long-standing deceit, but rather the result of his financial straits, and was thus not entirely willed. Marianne also acknowledges that she would never have been happy with him anyway; he has proved himself rather lacking in integrity. Elinor shares Willoughby's confession with Mrs. Dashwood as well, who pities the man but cannot fully forgive him for his treatment of Marianne. Thomas, the Dashwoods' manservant, arrives from town with the news that "Mr. Ferrars" has married Lucy Steele. This news distresses both Elinor and Marianne: Marianne falls into a fit of hysterics, and Elinor appears deeply disappointed. Witnessing her eldest daughter's grief, Mrs. Dashwood wonders whether she ought to have paid closer attention to Elinor's feelings over the past several months. Not long after, Elinor thinks she sees Colonel Brandon approaching Barton Cottage on horseback, but upon closer look, she realizes that the visitor is actually Edward Ferrars. When he enters the house, and she and Marianne inquire about his recent marriage, he realizes the misunderstanding and assures them that it was Robert who married Lucy Steele. Elinor is so overcome by relief that she runs out of the room, unable to contain her tears of joy. Within the next three hours, Edward proposes to Elinor and she accepts, of course, with great happiness. Over dinner that evening, he explains the unfortunate circumstances that first led to his engagement to Lucy. Edward also shares with the Dashwood sisters a note from Lucy in which she informed him of her engagement to Robert and severed all romantic ties with him. When Colonel Brandon arrives at Barton and hears the news of their engagement, he graciously offers to improve the parsonage at Delaford  to accommodate the couple comfortably. Mrs. Ferrars ultimately reconciles herself to Edward's new situation, though she continues to favor Robert as if he were her eldest son. Elinor and Edward live together at Delaford and frequently invite both Marianne and Colonel Brandon to visit, in the hope that the two will form an attachment with one another. Their plan is successful, for the Colonel and the younger sister become engaged and move in with Elinor and Edward at Delaford. The sisters continue to maintain close ties with their mother and Margaret at Barton Cottage, and the families live happily ever after.
feat_summary_analysis: Commentary When the servant Thomas first announces the news of "Mr. Ferrars's" marriage to Lucy Steele, Marianne bursts out in hysterics while Elinor maintains her composure in spite of her deep disappointment. Their reactions are ironic on two levels. First, Elinor was the sister with a close attachment to Edward, and thus, she has far more cause to break down in tears. Second, not only do the sisters' reactions seem reversed from what they should be, but the reactions of the men under discussion are reversed as well : it is actually Robert, not Edward, who is engaged to Lucy Steele. Several critics have objected to the implausibility of the match between Marianne and Colonel Brandon. Brandon is characterized as a clear-headed, dependable, practical man--the total opposite of the romantic and impetuous Marianne. Thus, Marianne's final acceptance of him seems completely out of character, since the marriage requires her to abandon her romantic ideals entirely. Moreover, Marianne and Colonel Brandon barely interact in the novel, especially in the concluding chapters. Thus, it seems unlikely that Marianne would come to love Brandon as she had loved Willoughby; she hardly knows him. Nonetheless, by closing the novel with their marriage, Austen shows the extent of Marianne's transformation: she writes, "She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract by her conduct her most favourite maxims. " If Marianne's ability to love Brandon is unconvincing, it is because of Austen's great faith in the ability of the individual to remake herself in light of shifting circumstances. The novel closes with a reminder that the most important attachment in the novel is not that between any man and woman, but between the two sisters. The sisters decide to live side-by-side together with their husbands at Delaford, thereby affirming the mutual respect and affection, which has kept them close throughout the entire novel. Ultimately, both sisters end up married to the novel's only second sons. Edward Ferrars, although strictly speaking the firstborn, is disinherited by his mother; as John Dashwood remarks, "Robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son. " We know that Colonel Brandon is a second son because he has an older brother who married his old sweetheart, Eliza, many years before the novel's plot begins. Whereas these characters are the heroes of the novel, all the eldest sons, including John Dashwood, Robert Ferrars, and Colonel Brandon's older brother, are cast in a negative light. In Austen's day, the eldest sons were the ones who inherited all the family property according to the laws of male primogeniture. However, in spite of these inheritance laws, it is the second sons who ultimately find contentment in the novel; thus, they make happy lives for themselves despite societal and financial constraints.