After a joyous wedding, fashionable honeymoon, a formidable meeting with his father, Viscount —, and several months at his estate, Yates began to feel his interminable passion rising again. For the third time he had been disappointed in Lovers’ Vows and he was determined, absolutely determined, that nothing would stand in the way of his final triumph. He only needed to find the perfect company: someone in possession of a large house, with a numerous acquaintance, and young people enough to fill every part. His own small house (comparably small) would simply not do! He pondered it for an evening and suddenly it came to him, was his good friend Willoughby not staying near Barton Park? Sir John was just the amiable sort of fellow who would love to host a home theatrical!
Mrs. Louisa Yates was as eager as he could wish her to be, and without any further ado, the young married couple set out for Devonshire with several fresh copies of Lovers’ Vows and an infectious love of acting.
They arrived late one evening in October to find a large assembled party. This was high luck! Sir John had new tenants: the Dashwoods. Willoughby was staying nearby, and Colonel Brandon was staying at the park. Mr. Yates began to explain his scheme but he was interrupted by Sir John.
“Let me say, I never object to any party of pleasure, this sounds very amusing, but tomorrow we were all to visit Whitwell with Colonel Brandon. We shall have to delay the scheme until after tomorrow.”
“Oh! What is at Whitwell?” asked Louisa, who was always delighted with any excursion that might bring pleasure.
“It is the nicest little estate, with a handsome piece of water that we plan to sail upon,” said Sir John.
Louisa smiled and looked at Sir John, who looked at Colonel Brandon, who said, “Would you like to join us, Mr. and Mrs. Yates?”
“Yes, of course we would love to come,” said Louisa, Yates agreed as well, one day’s delay could not harm the play. Louisa then began talking to Marianne, who was cold at first but when she learned that Mrs. Yates could play both pianoforte and harp, and with good taste, her heart and manners opened like a flower and they were soon very happily conversing on a mutually agreeable subject. Yates spoke to Elinor for some time and though he said a good deal of stupid things, she did not oppose any of them, and by the end of the evening he thought they were very good friends.
Early the next morning, they all assembled for the trip to Whitwell and as nothing appeared to delay them, not even the post, the whole party departed. It was a rare, fine day in the fall, and they made the most of every glorious hour of good weather. They viewed the house and galleries, then explored the gardens, followed by a short sailing trip. Short only because the weather proved far too fair and the small sailboat did not go very far from shore. But when young people are eager to be happy, the greatest hardship and inconveniences are almost nothing. To hear any of them speak of it (save Elinor), one would have thought they had circumnavigated the globe in a day and enjoyed every moment.
When they all arrived back at Barton for a late dinner, everyone was fatigued and content. Having amused themselves to their expectations, they were all in the right state of mind to listen to Yates expound on the delight of acting. Marianne and Elinor set to reading the play, which they had not seen.
“Why should we not put on Hamlet?” Willoughby said. “I have been reading it with the Dashwoods and I prefer a tragedy.”
“I am very fond of a tragedy myself,” said Yates, hiding his anxiety admirably, as his heart was very set on Lovers’ Vows and the part of the Baron, “but are there enough good parts for everyone, and enough men to fill it up?”
“Are there enough for Lovers’ Vows?” said Sir John, “I can collect some more, if I must. Well let me see. There is myself, Willoughby, and yourself, that is three. Will you act Colonel Brandon?”
“It is not my inclination, but if you require me to play a part- I do not object to the activity. But I think you will find me a poor player.”
“I feel I could play anyone,” said Willougby wistfully, “Hamlet or Romeo, or a comic fool or a romantic hero. I could play a lover or a rake, a hero or a villain, but I do feel we must act.”
“Then name your part,” said Yates, “who will you take on: Frederick, the Baron, Anhalt, Count Cassell?”
“It must be Frederick,” said Willoughby.
Marianne looked up, “Would you not want to play Anhalt? Frederick is the hero, but perhaps you forget, he does not marry at the end, he only finds his father. I had thought myself to be rather suited to Amelia.”
Willoughby, for a moment, seemed genuinely torn between his admiration for Marianne and his determination to be in the lead role, but he recovered quickly, “Could you not play Agatha? She has some scenes with Frederick. We must appear together, certainly.”
Marianne frowned, “I do feel that Amelia is far more- she is well suited to myself. Why would you not play Anhalt?”
Willoughby had no intention of surrendering the largest role and Yates could sense that this difficulty might be important to the success of the company. He said with great regret and admirable self-sacrifice, “Would you not take up the Baron, Willoughby? His part is nearly as long and he is united with Agatha.”
Willoughby considered this for a moment, before taking up his book and sitting beside Marianne. They spoke to each other quietly for a moment, “I will take Frederick,” said Willoughby, as Yates let out a breath of relief, “Miss Marianne will be Agatha.”
Mrs. Jennings laughed, “Of course you will, dear! And now who shall be Amelia and Anhalt? Then there is the Cottager and his Wife, the Count, oh! Sir John you must play the Count, he is a great sportsman just like you.”
Sir John accepted readily and then asked if his dear wife would want a part. She did not wish to act, though Mr. Yates description of fine families engaged in the same scheme had overcome her scruples as to the propriety of the idea. She promised to watch them once they were forward enough for spectators.
Mrs. Jennings turned to Margaret, “Would you take a part my dear? I think Amelia would be too large, let us try to convince your eldest sister, but would you play Cottager’s wife?”
“Is she very old?” Margaret said.
“Yes, very old, we would need to draw some crow’s feet on your face and you must wear a mop cap.”
“Then I would rather not,” said Margaret, “It says there is a landlord?”
“A very small part,” cried Yates.
“That will suit me,” said Margaret, “I shall be a landlady with my own inn and make all the rules. Mrs. Jennings, why do you not play the Cottager’s Wife? Would it not be more suited to you?”
Mrs. Jennings laughed heartily at the implication, but made no protest. “Will you consent to be my husband?” she said merrily to Colonel Brandon. He coloured, but nodded his head.
“We still need an Anhalt and Amelia,” said Yates, looking around the room and finding no other man.
Elinor felt the eyes of several of the cast players turn to her. “Let us decide on Anhalt first,” she said, for she found the character improper, but more than anything did not wish to play opposite someone she did not know.
Sir John laughed, “Ah, Miss Dashwood does not want to play Amelia to anyone other than the mysterious Mr. F. If only we knew his address! We could invite him to take a part in the play.”
“Tell us at once Miss Dashwood and we will write him a letter,” Mrs. Jennings added, but Elinor only smiled in reply.
Louisa said, “I will play Amelia, if there is no one else, but if you do wish to take up the part Miss Dashwood, it is yours. I think my love,” she said, turning to her husband, “It would be a great amusement for me to try the part of the Butler, if we made her a rhyming housekeeper instead.”
“A great plan!” cried Yates, and then he added softly to his love, “you are really the best wife a man could have asked for.” She smiled.
The rest of the evening was spent going through Sir John’s extensive acquaintance to find the most proper man to play Anhalt, with the most consideration for Miss Dashwood’s comfort, no matter how little Elinor wished to play Amelia with anyone she hardly knew. The evening ended without resolution and Elinor wondering if the play would go ahead at all.
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The Dashwoods all set out together for the park the next morning, Marianne excited to begin rehearsals, especially of the first act, and Elinor interested to see what would happen, when they saw a gentleman riding towards them.
“Elinor!” cried Marianne, “It is Edward!”
He dismounted and giving his horse to his servant, asked them where they were walking to, explaining that he had come on purpose to visit them.
“We are going to Barton Park, you must come with us Edward, this is the most fortunate circumstance!” cried Marianne.
“What is that?” asked Edward.
“We are to be putting on a play, Lovers’ Vows, and we have no Anhalt. You would play a clergyman would you not? That is the profession you would choose, if you could, and then Elinor can be Amelia. It would all be so perfect.”
Edward started, “Are you not to play Amelia? I think you would suit her extremely well.”
“No, I am playing Agatha, for Willoughby,” she blushed, “well he is to play Frederick you see and we wanted some scenes together. He felt better suited to Frederick.”
“Willoughby? Have you met him since coming to this country?” asked Edward.
“Mr. Willoughby is staying with his cousin nearby,” said Elinor.
“I am no orator, but if you require another player I will try to be of use. I would hate to ruin the character of Anhalt through bad acting.”
Marianne assured him that it was only an informal play and not to worry, but when they arrived at the manor house, Sir John and his reluctant wife were overseeing the layout of a stage in the ballroom.
“This is such a delightful scheme,” said Sir John, having fully caught his new guest’s zealous excitement, “we have ordered some green baize to make a curtain and the stage will be situated here. You see there is a small room behind for the actors to prepare. Lady Middleton will be seeing to the costumes.”
Lady Middleton said in explanation, “There is nothing improper in putting on a play, as long as it is done in the right manner. It is something our first families have done. Lord and Lady Ravenshaw are regarded as one of the most fashionable families in London.”
“Once we are more forward with the rehearsals, I shall send around invitations to all of my acquaintance. How many do you think we could seat here?” Sir John said, motioning towards the empty room.
“At least forty,” said Willoughby, who came in through the stage. “We shall need to practice continually,” he said to Marianne. Elinor frowned, but did not protest as Marianne and Willoughby went to the back of the room to read their lines. As there had been no opportunity as of yet, Elinor introduced Edward to the Middletons.
“Mr. Ferrars?” Sir John declared, “Is this the mysterious Mr. F? How long will you be staying in the country?”
“I do not think I could stay over a week,” Edward said.
“Nonsense, you young men having nothing important to occupy your time. You must stay, you must take up Anhalt! This is the most fortunate visit, you could not have come at a better time. And Miss Dashwood, you would not object to playing Amelia to such an Anhalt. I know you would not!”
Elinor and Edward both expressed their disinclination, but soon Mrs. Jennings, Mr. Yates, and Louisa joined them and pressed so earnestly in favour of their participation and for Mr. Ferrars remaining at Barton as long as required to put on “their little production” that they both judged it best to yield and put an end to the discussion. After all, Mrs. Dashwood had made not the slightest objection to something that would bring pleasure to her girls and Lady Middleton herself did not object beyond some scruples as to the style of dress.
The cast now set (Louisa playing the Butler as a Housekeeper and Mr. Yates retaining his favoured role), the preparation for the play was well underway and in great earnest. Sir John directed the builders; Mrs. Jennings set all the housemaids to work sewing the curtain and costumes; Lady Middleton ordered the fabric and arranged candles; and the cast was to assemble every day and remain at Barton as long into the evening as they wished. Balls, dinners, and picnics were all forgotten, they were unimportant and trivial. The play was all.
Despite the fervour of Sir John, the rehearsals did not go off as smoothly as he or Mr. Yates would have liked. The Middleton children were constantly escaping into the theatre and spoiling the sets, heedless of their mother’s gentle scolding. Sir John, too distracted by everyone else’s parts, could not learn his own and needed prompting every second line. Mrs. Jennings laughed and Colonel Brandon spoke so low that no one could hear him. Willoughby and Marianne were too often rehearsing somewhere in the house together when Frederick was wanted for another scene. Edward could not deliver his lines without colouring and Elinor spoke too fast.
Willoughby, when he could be found, was the best actor of all of them, and Marianne, while not as precise, was perfectly passionate. Her Agatha was dreadfully ill, delighted to see her son, and depressingly destitute. Yet there was something else as well. Elinor found them one day, practising in the library (for the whole house was consumed in rehearsals) and found herself blushing before she made herself known. There was something that unsettled her in vigour and length of their embrace, though it was in the script. When Elinor knocked on the door, Marianne started and nearly jumped away from him.
“We need Willoughby in the theatre,” Elinor said, “Sir John and Mr. Yates are ready for Act III.”
Willoughby said something softly to Marrianne, who giggled. He said, “Has the Count finally managed to get through one of his speeches? It will be a heavy duty to act alongside such middling talents. Only with your sister can I find a true equal.”
“Mr. Yates does well enough as the Baron, he certainly knows his part,” Elinor said.
“He knows it, but he does not live it,” said Willoughby. Elinor did not justify his opinion with a reply and they all proceeded to the theatre. Sir John was half in costume, with a fine blue cloak and purple hat. Yates was showing him the book and exclaiming, “When Frederick says, ‘expiring woman’ that is your cue to say?”
“‘That a nobleman’s pursuits-’”
“No, you forgot the first part.”
Sir John examined the book, “Ah, yes. ‘What police is here! that a nobleman’s amusements should be interrupted by the attack of vagrants.’”
“Yes, that is the line. But remember, you are angry to have been interrupted, you must rant it out,” said Yates.
Sir John reattempted the line with as much vehemence as he was capable of, but it was clear that he did not meet Yates’s expectations. “That will do for now. You must try to recall that you are a villain, a man of passions often given into. You are furious that anyone would take you from your pleasures.”
Sir John, finally seeing them enter, said happily, “Ah, here is Frederick, I must practice being cross with you it seems.”
Willoughby took the stage and Elinor sat down, knowing that Sir John would need prompting. When they had gone through it three or four times, without Sir John’s execution improving in the least, it was suggested that they would break to dress for dinner. Sir John had everyone collected in the theatre.
“Tonight we are to rehearse the first three acts!” Sir John declared, “I think we are forward enough to attempt it.”
At that very moment, a servant came in and handed Colonel Brandon a letter, he saw the direction and tearing it open and reading the first few lines, he declared, “I am particularly sorry to receive this letter today, it is a matter of business that demands my immediate attendance in town.”
There was a general cry of displeasure, “Can you not address the matter by letter?” cried Marianne.
“Can you not delay leaving until tomorrow? It will be dark very soon,” said Mrs. Jennings.
“Surely you may stay a few more hours?” said Willoughby.
“I cannot afford to lose one hour, I must order my horses,” said Colonel Brandon, “I am very sorry to disrupt the rehearsals, but Mr. Yates, I do not know if it will be in my power to return.”
This was a blow! It was only the loss of a Cottager, no great part, but Yates felt it keenly. “Do not worry, my love,” said his wife, “The cottager may be combined with another role. Could Sir John not take it with the Count?”
Yates contemplated this while Willoughby said in a low tone to Marianne, “Colonel Brandon cannot bear to have others see his poor acting and he has invited this trick to get out of it. I would bet fifty guineas the letter was written by his own hand.”
“I have no doubt of it,” said Marianne.
The horses were announced and Colonel Brandon took leave of them. The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed. They were entirely determined however, that his departure would not mar their plans and Sir John quickly accepted the part of the Cottager, in addition to the one he had hardly learned, and reaffirmed their rehearsal that evening.
“I will need my book, to be sure, but that is no great thing. Miss Margaret and Mrs. Jennings will do what they can to help me through, will they not?” They both agreed to it and the Dashwoods went home to dine, with Sir John promising to send the carriage for them in an hour and a half.
As they walked home, Elinor obliged herself to speak with Marianne, while Margaret ran ahead, about what she had seen, “Do you think it is prudent to be practising such a scene hidden away from everyone else? I think perhaps you should insist on an audience, for the sake of propriety.”
“Oh Elinor, you are far too fastidious, it is only an amusement, and our mother has not objected.”
“Our mother has not yet seen you in the first act.”
“Elinor, I have greatly enjoyed this theatrical, it has made me happier than anything and I do believe that if I were doing anything improper, I would be sensible of it.”
“I am afraid,” replied Elinor, “that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”
“If anything, my acting with Willoughby is the less objectionable role of our two, for I am only Frederick’s mother, but you have taken the part of Anhalt’s lover.”
“Yes, but I have been careful to rehearse where Mr. Ferrars and I might be easily discovered and there is nothing in my role quite so delicate as in yours.”
“Only you would object to a mother embracing her son.”
Elinor saw that she would not succeed, and as their mother was to come for the rehearsal that evening, she hoped that Mrs. Dashwood’s better authority would aid her judgement. It was not to be, however. Convinced as Mrs. Dashwood was of Willougby’s affection, she saw nothing to distress and only grew more convinced that Willoughby had already made an offer.
If Elinor had been more at leisure for rational thought, she may have pressed the matter further with her mother, but when the carriage took them home late that night, she was meditating on Edward’s face when he had said to Amelia, “I love you more than life”. Convinced in her heart and by his voice breaking as he delivered the line, that he would have said it to Elinor if he could.
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The loss of Colonel Brandon as one of the company was, in fact, not so terrible a loss and the rehearsals went on just as before. Elinor, who had by now learned her part and several others, took it upon herself to try and help Sir John learn his part. It was not that he was deficient by any means, but he was unused to that sort of mental exercise and too easily distracted from his purpose. By perseverance, Elinor was able to build him a memory at least for the part of the Count, which she also abridged as much as she could. As the Cottager, he remained hopeless, and Willoughby and Marianne did little to aid him, as they continued to practice alone.
Sir John came to Barton cottage very early one morning, after spending the day collecting supplies in Exeter and completing the costume of Anhalt, to tell the Dashwoods and Edward that he had greatly improved their party by the addition of two Miss Steeles. They were distant relations of Mrs. Jennings and when they heard about the play, had been excited to drop all their other engagements in favour for that sort of gaiety.
“Miss Lucy Steele told me in particular that she has heard a very charming report of both the Miss Dashwoods and is absolutely determined on seeing Anhalt and Amelia act.”
At this, Edward turned deathly pale and if any had seen him in this moment, they might have guessed directly that he had some prior acquaintance with Miss Steele, or some reason for being frightened of her observing him making love to another woman, even while acting, but the Dashwoods were too occupied in assuring Sir John that they would be walking over as soon as they had finished breakfast. Edward, who had turned away in an attempt to compose himself, was forced to come back at Sir John’s entreaty.
“You will come and meet them soon, Ferrars?”
“I am already a little acquainted with the Miss Steeeles,” he said in a strained voice.
“Are you really? Then you must assure the Dashwoods that Lucy is monstrous pretty, and her sister is very fond of the children. Well both of them are, they have brought many gifts with them to Barton, a whole carriage full! But you shall see them directly.”
With that, Sir John departed and the Dashwoods, as they turned back towards the breakfast table, saw that Edward looked extremely unwell and they all began to press him to go back upstairs and lie down. Edward agreed, thanked them for their concern, and asked that they would send his excuses to Sir John and the rest of the company.
Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret were therefore the only ones who went to Barton to meet the Miss Steeles. They were occupied with the children, who were untying their sashes and searching their work baskets and ruining their gowns while the sisters praised their unseemly actions. Lady Middleton looked very pleased, and Sir John all the more so, since their arrival had the dual benefit of a distraction for the children and providing additional members for the audience.
“But where is Ferrars?” cried Sir John, as soon as he came into the room, “We were to practice Act III?”
“Edward is feeling very ill and could not come today,” said Marianne. At this, Miss Lucy frowned and looked at Elinor, who had happened to already been looking at her.
“You are a little acquainted with Mr. Ferrars, are you not?” said Elinor.
“Yes, a little. I am very concerned about his health. Perhaps it would be best if I went and called on him. Oh, but I have not been introduced to your mother, it would be improper.”
Elinor, well aware of what Lucy was asking and interested in understanding the frown, offered to walk back with her and introduce her to their mother. As soon as they were outside, Lucy, who was extremely piqued by her recent knowledge of the play Lovers’ Vows and Edward’s part in it, took Elinor into her confidence. By the time they had reached the doorway, Elinor was feeling extremely ill herself and Lucy was disappointed that she had not effected some greater show of emotion from her conversation partner.
Mrs. Dashwood informed them that Edward had not yet come down. Elinor, not wishing to show the extent to which Lucy had crushed her heart and torn her fondest hopes, asked her mother if she should not remain and help finish Margaret’s costume, which Mrs. Dashwood had been working on, as she could not rehearse. Mrs. Dashwood quickly agreed, and noticing something in her daughter’s face, offered to walk Lucy back to the park. The offer was made so firmly and so politely that not even Lucy could refuse. Elinor was left alone in the small drawing room to think and be wretched.
Within five minutes, Elinor heard footsteps on the stairs and had only moments to compose herself before Edward was before her. He still looked very pale. He stood without knowing what to do, to sit or stand, or flee back upstairs, before by sheer lack of the ability to decide he remained where he stood and said, “I fear I must be gone tomorrow. Will you send my regrets to Sir John and Yates? And the rest of the company.”
Elinor looked at him in unutterable anguish. There were a few moments where neither of them spoke, before Elinor said, “I have met your intended.”
“She told you?” he said, in surprise.
“She asked for my confidence, I will not break it.”
Neither of them said anything more; there was nothing to say. There was only Elinor’s absolute confidence, even on so short an acquaintance, that Edward must no longer love Lucy; that the engagement must have been a mistake of his youth. After a few more minutes, he took his leave and was gone from the county.
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Elinor took half an hour to compose herself before heading back to the manor. The whole company was together, except for Willoughby, who had not yet arrived. They were rehearsing one of the few scenes that featured neither Frederick, Anhalt, or Agatha: an argument between the Baron and the Count. Elinor waited until they were finished.
“I am very sorry, but Mr. Ferrars has been obliged to go to London and he does not know when it will be in his power to return.”
There was a general cry of dismay. Yates felt rather faint. Colonel Brandon was no great loss, but Mr. Ferrars had been playing a far more vital part! How would they find someone else to play Anhalt, and at such a late hour in their preparations? But this was only the second blow and the third, which would mark the doom of every cherished plan was just mounting the steps and joining them in the theatre.
Willoughby looked somewhat surprised to see them all together and all talking earnestly among themselves.
Sir John cried, “There is Frederick, not all is lost.” But Willoughby looked something between embarrassed and grave. Everyone turned towards him and in the fear of what he was going to say. The company went quiet. “I am unable to keep my engagement with all of you. Mrs. Smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and I am now come to take my farewell of you.”
“On what business?” Mrs. Jennings said, in great curiosity.
He did not immediately answer.
Sir John said, “You must return within a week, it cannot take more than a week.”
“It may,” Willoughby replied, looking down.
Marianne went towards him, and with tears threatening to burst, said, “Are you really leaving us now?”
“I fear I must.”
“Tell us what the business is,” Mrs. Jennings repeated, “that we may judge its urgency.”
“I must go,” said he.
But it was not to be allowed. Two departures without explanation might be endured, but a third could not be bourn. Mrs. Jennings had no scruples in detaining him as long as she could and everyone else was equally adamant (except for Marianne and Elinor, of which the former was too overcome with her sorrow and the latter was unwilling to join in). The Miss Steeles, who had no stake in the outcome but were caught in the drama of it all, repeated questions from the others without mercy. Willoughby, unable to escape, finally exclaimed, “I am going to be married!” And then he turned and fled the room.
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The play was over. It could not be sustained by even Sir John’s most valiant efforts under the loss of the Cottager, Anhalt, Amelia, Frederick, and then Agatha. The Steeles offered themselves, until Lucy received a letter from Mr. Ferrars and found herself obliged to go to London as well. The costumes were used for a masked ball, the stage was taken down and soon every remnant of the play was gone. Elinor and Marianne, one openly and one privately, were mourning over their broken hopes, while Sir John’s spirits quickly recovered from the loss of one sort of frivolity for another.
Yates and Louisa stayed for a few more weeks, more out of despair than anything else. They had found the perfect household for their revelry and still it had still failed. Yates began to think that Lovers’ Vows might be a cursed play, that perhaps it was impossible for any company to perform it. His wife, who was in the end a fairly intelligent woman, assured him that such things were not true and they ought to try again. She had an old school fellow who might be of use. Her name was Caroline Bingley, and Louisa believed that her brother was exactly the sort of man who might want to host a play. She had even heard that they were taking a house in Hertfordshire. And so, with a heavy heart, John Yates bid goodbye to Sir John and took his worn copies of the play on another long journey.
Unknown to the Dashwoods, the play had set into motion a cascade of events which they were to only understand completely when they were finished. Edward had, for the very first time, evidence that Lucy had lied to him. He had always believed when she said that she loved him, but she had also agreed to a sworn secrecy which she had now broken. He distrusted her. He told her his intention to expose the whole affair to his mother and then, despite her pleading to the contrary, he did so and was properly disinherited before the end of the next week. In the aftermath, he told Lucy that he would only pursue a curacy and that she was free to marry him now, if she wished, and never achieve anything better than one hundred and fifty pounds a year, as he had no plans to ever reconcile with his family for her sake.
Lucy, clever and tenacious, but with no means to approach his family and no hope of ingratiating herself to them through shameless devotion, let him go. When the Dashwoods went to London with Mrs. Jennings, Elinor was already engaged, and by the time they were traveling back to Barton cottage, after a rather uneventful stay, Colonel Brandon had offered Edward a living and Mrs. Ferrrars had given them ten thousand pounds. Mrs. Ferrars laid all her expectant hopes in Robert, who for now, remained unmarried.
Marianne recovered in time from her broken heart, aided no doubt by a much earlier knowledge of Willoughby’s engagement to Miss Grey. In time, she learned to appreciate a man that for the enjoyment of his friends, would take the smallest part, rather than one who would sacrifice the ambitions of one he claimed to love in favour of his own interests. And within a year of her sister marrying Edward, Marianne and Colonel Brandon were wed. If they occasionally read the parts of Anhalt and Amelia together, as Marianne had once wished to do with a former lover, is left to themselves to know.
Willoughby was not wretched or heartbroken forever, but in addition to losing the woman he loved, he had the added misery of having tasted the joy of acting without ever achieving its glory. As Sophia absolutely forbid anything of the sort, it was a second passion that would always remain unrequited. For the rest of his life, he could never attend a theatre without a pang, nor see another play Frederick without experiencing the acutest misery.
FINIS
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