Sense and Sensibility

Jane Austen

Chapter 1

THE FAMILY OF DASHWOOD had long been settled in Sussex. Their

estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre

of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so

respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding

acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single man,

who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life,

had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death,

which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in

his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house

the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of

the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath

it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old

Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all

increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to

his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness

of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive;

and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his

present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man,

was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been

large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his

own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to

his wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was

not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent

of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property,

could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only

seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of

his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a

life-interest in it.

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The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every

other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so

unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew;-but he

left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr.

Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters

than for himself or his son;-but to his son, and his son's son, a child

of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself

no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who

most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of

its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child,

who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland, had so

far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no

means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation,

an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks,

and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention

which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He

meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the

three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper

was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many

years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the

produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate

improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was

his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten

thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for

his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him

Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which

illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the

family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at

such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make

them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,

and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there

might prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold

hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general,

well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge

of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might

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have been made still more respectable than he was:-he might even have

been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and

very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature

of himself;-more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself

to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds

a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four

thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining

half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him

feel capable of generosity.-"Yes, he would give them three thousand

pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would be enough to make

them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable

a sum with little inconvenience."-He thought of it all day long,

and for many days successively, and he did not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,

without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived

with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to

come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease;

but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and

to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common feelings,

must have been highly unpleasing;-but in her mind there was a sense

of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind,

by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immoveable

disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with any of

her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of

shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people

she could act when occasion required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so

earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of

the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty

of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and

her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards

to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed

a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified

her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled

her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that

eagerness of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led to

imprudence. She had an excellent heart;-her disposition was affection-

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ate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it

was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of

her sisters had resolved never to be taught.

Marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Elinor's.

She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her

joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting:

she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between her and her

mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but

by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each

other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief which

overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was

created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow,

seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it,

and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. Elinor, too,

was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself.

She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her

arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her

mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl;

but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance, without

having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal

her sisters at a more advanced period of life.

Chapter 2

MRS. JOHN DASHWOOD now installed herself mistress of Norland;

and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of

visitors. As such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility;

and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards

anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed

them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as

no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till

she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his

invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former

delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness, no

temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree,

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that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in

sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond

consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband

intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the

fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most

dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How

could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of

so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss Dashwoods,

who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no

relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount. It was

very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between

the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin

himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away all his money to his

half sisters?

"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I

should assist his widow and daughters."

"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but

he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could

not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your

fortune from your own child."

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only

requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation

more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have

been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose

I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do

less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore,

was given, and must be performed. Something must be done for them

whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new home."

"Well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need

not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when the

money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will marry,

and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor

little boy-"

"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make

great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so large

a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for instance,

it would be a very convenient addition."

"To be sure it would."

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"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were

diminished one half.-Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase

to their fortunes!"

"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half

so much for his sisters, even if really his sisters! And as it is-only half

blood!-But you have such a generous spirit!"

"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had

rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least,

can think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can

hardly expect more."

"There is no knowing what they may expect," said the lady, "but

we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can

afford to do."

"Certainly-and I think I may afford to give them five hundred

pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each

have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death-a very comfortable

fortune for any young woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no

addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst

them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do

not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten

thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the

whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother

while she lives, rather than for them-something of the annuity kind I

mean.-My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A

hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.

"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred

pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years

we shall be completely taken in."

"Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that

purchase."

"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when

there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,

and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over

and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware

of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities;

for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old

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superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable

she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be paid;

and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of

them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such

thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her own,

she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind

in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at

my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever. It has given me

such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself

down to the payment of one for all the world."

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have

those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your

mother justly says, is not one's own. To be tied down to the regular

payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it

takes away one's independence."

"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think

themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises

no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at my

own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any thing

yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or

even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should by

no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of

far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only

enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would

not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly

be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will

prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply

discharging my promise to my father."

"To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced within

myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at

all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only such as might

be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a

comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things,

and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they

are in season. I'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it

would be very strange and unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my

dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law

and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds,

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besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings

them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their

mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred

a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more

than that?-They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing

at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants;

they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only

conceive how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure

I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving

them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be much more able

to give you something."

"Upon my word," said Mr. Dashwood, "I believe you are perfectly

right. My father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to

me than what you say. I clearly understand it now, and I will strictly

fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as

you have described. When my mother removes into another house my

services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as I can. Some

little present of furniture too may be acceptable then."

"Certainly," returned Mrs. John Dashwood. "But, however, one

thing must be considered. When your father and mother moved to Norland,

though the furniture of Stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and

linen was saved, and is now left to your mother. Her house will therefore

be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."

"That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable legacy

indeed! And yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant

addition to our own stock here."

"Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what

belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for

any place they can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your

father thought only of them. And I must say this: that you owe no

particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well

know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world

to them."

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever

of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would

be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the

widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as

his own wife pointed out.

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Chapter 3

MRS. DASHWOOD remained at Norland several months; not from

any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot

ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for

when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some

other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances,

she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries

for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Norland; for to

remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could hear

of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease,

and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment

rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother

would have approved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn

promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to

his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no

more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters'

sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that

a much smaller provision than £7000 would support her in affluence.

For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced;

and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing

him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and

his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a

long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt

for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge

of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded;

and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection

on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it

impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance

occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions

of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl

and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing

young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his

sister's establishment at Norland, and who had since spent the greatest

part of his time there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of

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interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died

very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence,

for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will

of his mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either

consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable,

that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor returned the partiality. It was

contrary to every doctrine of her's that difference of fortune should keep

any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition;

and that Elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who

knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any

peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his

manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident

to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his

behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding

was good, and his education had given it solid improvement.

But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes

of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished-as-they

hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world

in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political

concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some

of the great men of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but

in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained,

it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But

Edward had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered

in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a

younger brother who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged

much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in

such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw

only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did

not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She

was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which

Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his

sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her

mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough. It

implies everything amiable. I love him already."

"I think you will like him," said Elinor, "when you know more of

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him."

"Like him!" replied her mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of

approbation inferior to love."

"You may esteem him."

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her

manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily

comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps

assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth:

and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established

ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer

uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour

to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and

looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

"In a few months, my dear Marianne." said she, "Elinor will, in all

probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but she will be happy."

"Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her?"

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a

few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will

gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest opinion

in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you

disapprove your sister's choice?"

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.

Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet-he is not

the kind of young man-there is something wanting-his figure is not

striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who

could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire,

which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I

am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract

him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the

admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident,

in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he

knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur.

To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy

with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own.

He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must

charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward's

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manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet

she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.

I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have

frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable

calmness, such dreadful indifference!"-

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant

prose. I thought so at the time; but you would give him Cowper."

"Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!-but we must

allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore

she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke

my heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.

Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I

shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must

have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament

his goodness with every possible charm."

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early

in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate

than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your

destiny be different from her's!"

Chapter 4

"WHAT A PITY IT IS, ELINOR," said Marianne, "that Edward

should have no taste for drawing."

"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so?

He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing

the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means

deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving

it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have

drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much,

that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has

an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him

perfectly right."

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject;

but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by

the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,

which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling

within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind par-

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tiality to Edward which produced it.

"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as

deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for

your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your opinion,

I am sure you could never be civil to him."

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings

of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe

was impossible. At length she replied:

"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing

equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities

of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and

tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his

goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable."

"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends

could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive

how you could express yourself more warmly."

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I

think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in

unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his

principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps

him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.

But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar

circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have

been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly

engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I have seen

a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion

on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce

that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly

great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his

taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much

upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address

is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome,

till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general

sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him

so well, that I think him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What

say you, Marianne?"

"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When

you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection in

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

his face, than I now do in his heart."

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she

had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood

very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but

she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of

their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and

her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next-that with

them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to

explain the real state of the case to her sister.

"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of

him-that I greatly esteem, that I like him."

Marianne here burst forth with indignation-

"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than coldhearted!

Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will

leave the room this moment."

Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be

assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way,

of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;

believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion-the

hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.

But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured

of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems

doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder

at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by

believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little-scarcely

any doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered

besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his

mother really is we cannot know; but, from Fanny's occasional mention

of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her

amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware

that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to

marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank."

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her

mother and herself had outstripped the truth.

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly

soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I

shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of

improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so

indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far

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J A N E A U S T E N

stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it

would be!"

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not consider

her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne had believed

it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it

did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising.

A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more

than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind

which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found

in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection.

She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home

comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form

a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement.

With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to

feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his

preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain.

Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature

of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it

to be no more than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived

by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which

was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity

of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so

expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's resolution

that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending

any young woman who attempted to draw him in; that Mrs. Dashwood

could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She

gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the

room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of

so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor should not be exposed another

week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post,

which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of

a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a

gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was

from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation.

He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and

though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured

her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary,

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving the

particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to Barton

Park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge,

herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish,

could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really

anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written

in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;

more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and

unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for

deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation

of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire,

which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection

to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now

its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no

longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison

of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove

for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or

visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John

Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of

his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters,

that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were

sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to

settle at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their

present acquaintance. On that head, therefore, it was not for her to

oppose her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house,

too, as described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent

so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either

point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any

charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland

beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother

from sending a letter of acquiescence.

Chapter 5

NO SOONER was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged

herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his

wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them

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J A N E A U S T E N

no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They

heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her husband

civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland. She

had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire.-

Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of

surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,

"Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to

what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was within four miles

northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my

friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find

no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in

accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood

to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still greater

affection. Though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had

made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable,

it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which

it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor was as far from being

her object as ever; and she wished to show Mrs. John Dashwood,

by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her

disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly

sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from

Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her

furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the

very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to

his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.-The furniture

was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of household linen,

plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of Marianne's. Mrs.

John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help

feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income would be so trifling in

comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of

furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished,

and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose

on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of

her effects at Norland, and to determine her future household, before

she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the per-

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

formance of everything that interested her, was soon done.-The horses

which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death,

and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed

to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For

the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she

would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. Her wisdom

too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man,

with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had

formed their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire,

to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as Lady

Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going

directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied

so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity

to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness

to be gone from Norland was preserved from diminution by the evident

satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction

which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold

invitation to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when her sonin-

law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled.

Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting

his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment.

But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope

of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse,

that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six

months at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses

of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a

man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed

to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than

to have any design of giving money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's

first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode

as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so

much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered

alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when

shall I cease to regret you!-when learn to feel a home elsewhere!-Oh!

happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from

this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more!-And you, ye

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J A N E A U S T E N

well-known trees!-but you will continue the same.-No leaf will decay

because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although

we can observe you no longer!-No; you will continue the same; unconscious

of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any

change in those who walk under your shade!-But who will remain to

enjoy you?"

Chapter 6

THE FIRST PART OF THEIR JOURNEY was performed in too melancholy

a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But

as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a

country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view

of Barton Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant

fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it

for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court

was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted

them into it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact;

but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the

roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the

walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through

the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a

sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the of-

fices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of

the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In

comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!-but the tears

which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried

away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and

each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very

early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place

under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its

favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting

approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately

behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open

downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was

chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cot-

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

tage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded

the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills

which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under

another name, and in another course, it branched out again between

two of the steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon

the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered

many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was

a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply

all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As for the

house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we

will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late

in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of

money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors

are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often

collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing the passage into

one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder

of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may

be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very

snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must

not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult matter

to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world

in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly."

In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the

savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved

in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it

was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns,

and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions,

to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and

properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of

their sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast

the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome

them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his

own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir

John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly

visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember

him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners

were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to

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J A N E A U S T E N

afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real

solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in

the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to

dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that,

though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility,

they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words;

for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff

and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of

the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all

their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the

satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her

intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured

that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered

by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to

them the next day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much

of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance

was favourable to their wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than

six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,

and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which

her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some

share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to

detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though

perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for

herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was very chatty,

and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her

their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means

there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of

extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,

and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he

hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her

ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could

make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to

be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case

it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like

his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of

course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating

on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house without

securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.

Chapter 7

BARTON PARK was about half a mile from the cottage. The ladies

had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from

their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and

handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and

elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter for that

of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with

them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any

other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness

of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they

strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which

confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced,

within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton

a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and

these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of

being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John's independent

employments were in existence only half the time. Continual

engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies

of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave

exercise to the good breeding of his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and

of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her

greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's satisfaction in

society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more

young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the

better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the

neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat

cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were

numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the

unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy

to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants

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J A N E A U S T E N

he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods

were young, pretty, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good

opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to

make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness of his

disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation

might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In

showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a

good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had

all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems

only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of

encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own

manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house

by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity;

and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young

ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day

before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them. They

would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular

friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young

nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party,

and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had been

to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to

their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements.

Luckily Lady Middleton's mother had arrived at Barton within

the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped

the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine.

The young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with

having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton's mother, was a good-humoured,

merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy,

and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner

was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands;

hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and

pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne was

vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards Elinor to

see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Elinor

far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs.

Jennings's.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more adapted

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Middleton was to

be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be Lady Middleton's mother. He was

silent and grave. His appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite

of his being in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old

bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his

face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address

was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them

as companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton

was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity

of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his

mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to

enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner,

who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of

discourse except what related to themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was

invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to

be charmed, and Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went

through the chief of the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into

the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in

the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that

event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she had

played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud

in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation

with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently

called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted

from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song

which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the

party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid her only the compliment

of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which

the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His

pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which

alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted

against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable

enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived

all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was

perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced

state of life which humanity required.

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Chapter 8

MRS. JENNINGS was a widow with an ample jointure. She had only

two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married,

and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the

world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as

her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings

among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably

quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of

raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations

of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled

her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively to pronounce that

Colonel Brandon was very much in love with Marianne Dashwood. She

rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together,

from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when

the visit was returned by the Middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact

was ascertained by his listening to her again. It must be so. She was

perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for he was

rich, and she was handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see

Colonel Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir John

first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get

a good husband for every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable,

for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the park she

laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at Marianne. To the former

her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly

indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when

its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at

its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an

unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn

condition as an old bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than

herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of

her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs. Jennings from the probability of

wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

"But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,

though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel

Brandon is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough

to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When

is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect

him?"

"Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can

easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my

mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of

his limbs!"

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that

the commonest infirmity of declining life?"

"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must

be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle

that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."

"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that

Colonel Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive

of losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years

longer. But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have

any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any

chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I should

not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying

her."

"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a

moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her

home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she

might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of

the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman

therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of

convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be

no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem

only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the

expense of the other."

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you

that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five

anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to

her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to

the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced

to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel

in one of his shoulders."

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me

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J A N E A U S T E N

a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms,

and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble."

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised

him half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting

to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mamma," said Marianne,

"I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal

from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now been here

almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition

could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him

at Norland?"

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I

had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject,

it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure

and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to

Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?"

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday

of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that

there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room

would be wanted for some time."

"How strange this is! what can be the meaning of it! But the whole

of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold,

how composed were their last adieus! How languid their conversation

the last evening of their being together! In Edward's farewell there was

no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate

brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in

the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably

follow me out of the room. And Elinor, in quitting Norland and Edward,

cried not as I did. Even now her self-command is invariable. When is she

dejected or melancholy? When does she try to avoid society, or appear

restless and dissatisfied in it?"

Chapter 9

THE DASHWOODS were now settled at Barton with tolerable comfort

to themselves. The house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding

them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

which had given to Norland half its charms were engaged in again with

far greater enjoyment than Norland had been able to afford, since the

loss of their father. Sir John Middleton, who called on them every day

for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation

at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them

always employed.

Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for,

in spite of Sir John's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the

neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at

their service, the independence of Mrs. Dashwood's spirit overcame the

wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit

any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could

be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. About

a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley

of Allenham, which issued from that of Barton, as formerly described,

the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable

looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of Norland,

interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted

with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of

very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world,

and never stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The

high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage

to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy

alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior

beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and Margaret one

memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine

of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the

settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was

not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their

book, in spite of Marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly

fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills;

and the two girls set off together.

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at

every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating

gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which

had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such delightful sensations.

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to this?-

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J A N E A U S T E N

Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting

it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when

suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full

in their face.-Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly,

to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house.

One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of

the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with

all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately

to their garden gate.

They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step

brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop herself

to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom

in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him,

was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her

accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She

had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in

her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his

services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation

rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and

carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate

of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the

house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till

he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and

while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and

a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized

for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and

so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received

additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old,

ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would

have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence

of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came

home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address

which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined,

as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom

she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him

the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The

honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still

more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly

the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry

raised against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior

attractions.-Marianne herself had seen less of his person that the

rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her

up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering

the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration

of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise. His

person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero

of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little

previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended

the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was

interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village,

and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket

was the most becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were

pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.

Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather

that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's accident

being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman

of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

"Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is he in the country? That is

good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner

on Thursday."

"You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent

shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly.

"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his

pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

Sir John was rather puzzled.

"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all

that. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest

little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?"

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J A N E A U S T E N

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.

Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his

mind.

"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a

house at Allenham?"

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he

told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the country;

that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at Allenham

Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to

inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I can tell you,

Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire

besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger sister,

in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss Marianne must not expect

to have all the men to herself. Brandon will be jealous, if she does not

take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured

smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of

either of my daughters towards what you call catching him. It is not

an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe

with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what

you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance

will not be ineligible."

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir

John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced

from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."

"Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with

elegance, with spirit?"

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever

be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and

leave him no sense of fatigue."

"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will

be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor

Brandon."

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I

particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is

intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are

the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their

construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

all its ingenuity."

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as

heartily as if he did, and then replied,

"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.

Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth

setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and

spraining of ankles."

Chapter 10

MARIANNE'S PRESERVER, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,

styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to

make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with

more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him

and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the

visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and

domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced

him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to

be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and

a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,

though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height,

was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common

cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently

outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but,

from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her

features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her

eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which

could hardily be seen without delight. FromWilloughby their expression

was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of

his assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became

collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the

gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she

heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond,

she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of

his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage

her to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced,

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and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily

discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and

that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related

to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions,

she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors

were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight,

that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed,

not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works,

however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same

books, the same passages were idolized by each-or if any difference appeared,

any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her

arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced

in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his

visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established

acquaintance.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one

morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained

Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You

know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating

their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of

his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance

to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject

for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another

meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty,

and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."-

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so

scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease,

too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion

of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been

reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful-had I talked only of the weather

and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach

would have been spared."

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor-

she was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable

of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new

friend."-Marianne was softened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance,

which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came

to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his excuse;

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but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater

kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be

possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was confined for some

days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome.

Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively

spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage

Marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating

person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased

by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her

affection beyond every thing else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They

read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable;

and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had

unfortunately wanted.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's;

and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which

he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too

much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons

or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other

people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided

attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the

forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor

could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its

support.

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had

seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy

her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby

was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every

brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared

his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.

Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their

marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the

end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself

on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and Willoughby.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been

discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor, when

it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn

off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred

before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began

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really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Elinor was

obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs.

Jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually

excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition

between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby,

an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard

of Colonel Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a

silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one

of five and twenty? and as she could not even wish him successful, she

heartily wished him indifferent. She liked him-in spite of his gravity

and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though

serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression

of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John

had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified

her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with

respect and compassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was

slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for

being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when

they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of,

and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody

remembers to talk to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in both

of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and I never

see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

"That he is patronised by you," replied Willoughby, "is certainly

in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in

itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a

woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the

indifference of any body else?"

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will

make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their

praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more

undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always

have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has

read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me

much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my

inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you,

that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome."

"He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries,

but they happened to be points on which I had been previously

informed."

"Perhaps," saidWilloughby, "his observations may have extended to

the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."

"I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further

than your candour. But why should you dislike him?"

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very

respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;

who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how

to employ, and two new coats every year."

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste,

nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour,

and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,

"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the

commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid.

I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed,

of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart."

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly.

You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince

me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn

as you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking

Colonel Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be

fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot

persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to

you, however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other respects

irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for an

acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me

the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."

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Chapter 11

LITTLE HAD MRS. DASHWOOD or her daughters imagined when

they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise

to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should

have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them

little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne

was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad,

which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution.

The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were

made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In

every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity

which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated

to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to

afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of

marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour

to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished

that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest

the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne

abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve;

and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves

illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful

subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.

Willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an

illustration of their opinions.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing

he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at

the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest

of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement

of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged

to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and

scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of

course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and

seemed hardly to provoke them.

Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which

left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her

it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and

ardent mind.

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This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted

to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she

brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she

had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed

on her present home.

Elinor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at

ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded

her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind,

nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever.

Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation

she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and

from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a

large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history

to Elinor three or four times; and had Elinor's memory been equal to

her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their

acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jenning's last illness, and what he

said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more

agreeable than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little

observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner

with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother

she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be

looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had

not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits

were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties

arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style

and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive

more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting

at home;-and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others,

by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only

reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome

boys.

In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Elinor

find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite

the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby

was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly

regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly

Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally

pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such

encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Elinor

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he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect

that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.

This suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped from

him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by

mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on

Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint

smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of second attachments."

"No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."

"Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist."

"I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on

the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not.

A few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis

of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to

define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."

"This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something

so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to

see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

"I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are inconveniences

attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of

enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems

have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and

a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her

greatest possible advantage."

After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,-

"Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a

second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those

who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy

of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally

indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.

I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a

second attachment's being pardonable."

"This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of

sentiments-No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements

of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded

by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I

speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind

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S E N S E A N D S E N S I B I L I T Y

greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who

from an inforced change-from a series of unfortunate circumstances"-

Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much,

and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise

have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed

without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned

her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a

slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection

of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place,

would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily

formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the

most melancholy order of disastrous love.

Chapter 12

AS ELINOR AND MARIANNE were walking together the next morning

the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of

all that she knew before of Marianne's imprudence and want of thought,

surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both. Marianne told her,

with the greatest delight, that Willoughby had given her a horse, one

that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire, and which was

exactly calculated to carry a woman. Without considering that it was

not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her

resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant,

and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them,

she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it

in raptures.

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for

it," she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall

share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of

a gallop on some of these downs."

Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to

comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for

some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,

the expense would be a trifle; Mamma she was sure would never object

to it; and any horse would do for him; he might always get one at the

park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then

ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a

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J A N E A U S T E N

man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know

very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am

much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in

the world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that

is to determine intimacy;-it is disposition alone. Seven years would be

insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven

days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of

greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from

Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together

for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her

sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her

the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for her

mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother

must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented

to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly subdued; and

she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by

mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw him next,

that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the cottage,

the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to him

in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present.

The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they

were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. His concern

however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he

added, in the same low voice,-"But, Marianne, the horse is still yours,

though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim

it. When you leave Barton to form your own establishment in a more

lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you."

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the

sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister

by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a

meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From

that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and

the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their

friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this

matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding evening

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with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with

only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which,

with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when

they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Marianne.

I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first

met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week,

I believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round

her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle."

"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married

very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."

"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of

his."

"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw

him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the

room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and

he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her

scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down

her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and

put it into his pocket-book."

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not withhold

her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in

perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory

to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the

park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular

favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret

answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not tell, may

I, Elinor?"

This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.

But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed

on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become

a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than

good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to

Margaret,

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no

right to repeat them."

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"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you

who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly

pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Jennings.

"What is the gentleman's name?"

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know

where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to

be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

"No, that he is not. He is of no profession at all."

"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all

this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in

existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such

a man once, and his name begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this

moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption

to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great

dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband

and mother. The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued

by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings

of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them.

Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to

it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the

topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the

alarm into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to

see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a

brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not

be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders

on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and

Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed

to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least,

twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece

of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's

amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be

employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete

party of pleasure.

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To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,

considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last

fortnight;-and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded

by Elinor to stay at home.

Chapter 13

THEIR INTENDED EXCURSION to Whitwell turned out very different

from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,

fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for

they did not go at all.

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where

they were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it

had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,

and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good

humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest

inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among

the rest there was one for Colonel Brandon;-he took it, looked at the

direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must

be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my

breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he

entered the room.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is

worse."

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only

a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear

the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are

saying."

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"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said

Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,

"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which

requires my immediate attendance in town."

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town

at this time of year?"

"My own loss is great," be continued, "in being obliged to leave so

agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is

necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

What a blow upon them all was this!

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said Marianne,

eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John.-"It shall not be put off when we are

so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay

my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.

Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to

defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose one hour."-

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne,

"There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon

is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented

this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of

his own writing."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know

of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But,

however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two

Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked

up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his

usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

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Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing

the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon

as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to

Whitwell till you return."

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in

my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here

by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you

may find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is

something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.

"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you

had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this

winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish

to do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know

what you are going about."

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the

room.

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.

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings exultingly.

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.

"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

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"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must

have heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a

very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the

young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor, "She

is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will

leave her all his fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret

on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that

as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being

happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness

could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable

composure of mind by driving about the country. The carriages were

then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne never looked happier

than when she got into it. He drove through the park very fast, and

they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their

return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They

both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms

that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that

every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of

the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down

nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great contentment.

Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder Miss Dashwoods.

Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had not been long

seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and said to Marianne,

loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite

of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"-

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my

curricle?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined

to find out where you had been to.-I hope you like your house,

Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see

you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much

when I was there six years ago."

Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed

heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they

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had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.

Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed

that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in

walking about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely

that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter

the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the

smallest acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about

it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance

related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry

with her for doubting it.

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that

we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do

yourself?"

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and

with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to

shew that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible

to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my

life."

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment

does not always evince its propriety."

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for

if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been

sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong,

and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very

impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of

your own conduct?"

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof

of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our

lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation.

I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over

Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr.

Willoughby's, and-"

"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be

justified in what you have done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;

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and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her

sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it was

rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted

particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure

you.-There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice

comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would

be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one

side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful

hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and

village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often

admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn

than the furniture,-but if it were newly fitted up-a couple of hundred

pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summerrooms

in England."

Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others,

she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.

Chapter 14

THE SUDDEN TERMINATION of Colonel Brandon's visit at the park,

with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised

the wonder of Mrs. Jennings for two or three days; she was a great

wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all

the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with

little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be

some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have

befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them

all.

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said

she. "I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances

may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two

thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do

think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can

it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know the truth

of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it

is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. May be she is

ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I have a notion she is

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always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It

is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for

he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by

this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon,

and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like

it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good

wife into the bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with

every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.

Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon,

could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away,

which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the

circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or

variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of. It was

engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and Willoughby on

the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them

all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange

and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should

not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant

behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not

imagine.

She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately

in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no

reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at

about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which

that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained

of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them

relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she

could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general

opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their

being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making

any inquiry of Marianne.

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than

Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness

which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family

it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage

seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of

his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement

collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in

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the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the

day was spent by himself at the side of Marianne, and by his favourite

pointer at her feet.

One evening in particular, about a week after Colonel Brandon left

the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling

of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening

to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he

warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established

as perfect with him.

"What!" he exclaimed-"Improve this dear cottage! No. that I will

never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to

its size, if my feelings are regarded."

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind

will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt

it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she

can employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not

sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom

I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that

whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in

the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a

manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as

to see no defect in it?"

"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the

only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich

enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the

exact plan of this cottage."

"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said

Elinor.

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging

to it;-in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should

the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof,

I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Barton."

"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage

of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own

house as faultless as you now do this."

"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might

greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my

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affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes

were fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well

she understood him.

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this

time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed

within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one

should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I

should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would

be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction

and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what

happiness I should experience from it, can account for. Must it not have

been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing

his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs.

Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement!

and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and

in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you

would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body

would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained

within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment

of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford."

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind

should be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes

me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me

that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find

you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always

consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to

you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during

the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when

he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we

must walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

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Chapter 15

MRS. DASHWOOD'S visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day,

and two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself

from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and

her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made byWilloughby

the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly

satisfied with her remaining at home.

On their return from the park they found Willoughby's curricle and

servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced

that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen;

but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her

to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne came

hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief

at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs. Surprised

and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted,

where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning against the mantelpiece

with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming

in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion

which over-powered Marianne.

"Is anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she

entered-"is she ill?"

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced

smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill-for I am

now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

"Disappointment?"

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with 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 by way of exhilaration

I am now come to take my farewell of you."

"To London!-and are you going this morning?"

"Almost this moment."

"This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;-and her

business will not detain you from us long I hope."

He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea

of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith are

never repeated within the twelvemonth."

"And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house

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in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame,

Willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here?"

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only

replied, "You are too good."

Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal

amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood

first spoke.

"I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage you

will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately,

because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to Mrs.

Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your

judgment than to doubt your inclination."

"My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly, "are

of such a nature-that-I dare not flatter myself"-

He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another

pause succeeded. This was broken byWilloughby, who said with a

faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself

any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for

me now to enjoy."

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw

him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the

parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this

sudden departure occasioned.

Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She thought of

what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby's behaviour

in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness,

and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation,

a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her.

One moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on

his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between

him and her sister;-the distress in which Marianne had quitted

the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account

for, though when she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a

quarrel seemed almost impossible.

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's

affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion

of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in all probability not

merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.

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In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were

red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

"Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor," said

she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he

travel?"

"It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but the work

of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so

affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes notice-Gone too without

intending to return!-Something more than what be owned to us must

have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. You

must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have

quarrelled? Why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept

your invitation here?"-

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see

that. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over

I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first

seemed strange to me as well as to you."

"Can you, indeed!"

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;-but

you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can-it will not satisfy you, I

know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that

Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps

because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get

him away;-and that the business which she sends him off to transact

is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have

happened. He is, moreover, aware that she does disapprove the connection,

he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with

Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to

give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while.

You will tell me, I know, that this may or may not have happened; but

I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of

understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what

have you to say?"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.

Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had

rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery

for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for

the latter. You are resolved to think him blameable, because he took

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leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn. And

is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by

recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because

they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have

all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the

possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably

secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?"

"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is

the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in

him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the

allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be

candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly

have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.

But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at

once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its

being practiced by him."

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where

the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I

have said in his defence?-I am happy-and he is acquitted."

"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they

are engaged) from Mrs. Smith-and if that is the case, it must be highly

expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at present. But

this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby

and Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes

have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their engagement

I do."

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of

them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.

Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last

fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife,

and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we

not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily

asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect?

My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such

a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby,

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persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave

her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection;-that they

should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?"

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except one is in

favour of their engagement; but that one is the total silence of both on

the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of

Willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can

doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been

acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose

him really indifferent to her?"

"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure."

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such

indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered

this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are

fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we

find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar,

you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl!

But I require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed

to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly

open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must

be Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man

of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to

create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I loveWilloughby, sincerely

love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself

than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I

was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning;-

he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any

cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs

as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her

leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear

of offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon,

and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was

going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious

part by our family, be might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In

such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been

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more to his honour I think, as well as more consistent with his general

character;-but I will not raise objections against any one's conduct on

so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a

deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

"You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to

be suspected. Though we have not known him long, he is no stranger

in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?

Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately,

it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging

everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement

in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at

a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed,

may now be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was

then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge

the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the

room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes

were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained

with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could neither

eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her

hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite

overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She

was without any power, because she was without any desire of command

over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby

overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously

attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke

at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with

him.

Chapter 16

MARIANNE would have thought herself very inexcusable had she

been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.

She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next

morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than

when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a

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disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole

night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with a headache,

was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain

every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at

consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered

about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment

and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played

over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,

every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the

instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her,

till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and

this nourishment of grief was every day applied. She spent whole hours

at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally

suspended by her tears. In books too, as well as in music, she courted

the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of

giving. She read nothing but what they had been used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it

sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,

to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,

still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.

Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But

Mrs. Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them,

which at least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our

letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already

agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it

could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir

John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a

motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct,

so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of

the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help

suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is

or she is not engaged toWilloughby? From you, her mother, and so kind,

so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be

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the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all unreserve,

and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible

that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry in-

flict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve her

confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at

present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know Marianne's heart: I

know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom

the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of

it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a

child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which

her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's

youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common

care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic

delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before

Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were

not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;-but

one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,

exclaimed,

"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby

went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when

he comes again . . . But it may be months, perhaps, before that happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No-nor many

weeks."

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor

pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of confi-

dence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne

was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering

away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion

in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly

stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as

speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others

set off. But at length she was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who

greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. They walked along the

road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind could

not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not

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then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country,

though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road

which they had travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and

on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine

a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage,

from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their

walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated

one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes

they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards

Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

"It is he; it is indeed;-I know it is!"-and was hastening to meet

him, when Elinor cried out,

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby.

The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his

coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne

from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,

quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon within thirty

yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within

her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices

of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well

known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she

turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be

forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained

a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her

sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

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

them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially

by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of

him than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between

Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness

which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.

On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that

a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused,

seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rap-

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turous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions,

and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne saw and

listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a dislike of

Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying

back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast suf-

ficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries

of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.

No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the

same county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying

with some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always

does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered

with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly

seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them

driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the

season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them.

They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much

as possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead

leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But

sometimes they are."-As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few

moments;-but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she, calling

his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up to it, and

be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals?

To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and plantations. You

may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which

rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be

dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

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"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before

me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons

pleasant people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately

situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be

so unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards

us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne,

how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their

visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by

talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting from

him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve morti-

fied her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate

her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided

every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she

thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.

Chapter 17

MRS. DASHWOOD was surprised only for a moment at seeing him;

for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.

Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He

received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve

could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him

before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating

manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well

be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to

her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like

himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his

interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits,

however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and

kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family perceived it, and

Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother,

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sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said

she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you

still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents

than inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to

satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection

for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult

matter."

"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have

every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced

into genius and eloquence."

"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as

well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it

must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or

grandeur to do with happiness?"

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do

with it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness

where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford

no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.

Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and

without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every

kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more

noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?"

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than

that."

Elinor laughed. "Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed

how it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said Marianne.

"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am

not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a

carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their

future expenses at Combe Magna.

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"Hunters!" repeated Edward-"but why must you have hunters?

Every body does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody

would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation,

and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite

of the insufficiency of wealth."

"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what

I should do with it!"

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.

Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor,

"and your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"

said Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,

music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a general

commission for every new print of merit to be sent you-and as

for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music

enough in London to content her. And books!-Thomson, Cowper,

Scott-she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up

every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and

she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted

tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I

was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old disputes."

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward-whether it be melancholy

or gay, I love to recall it-and you will never offend me by talking

of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would

be spent-some of it, at least-my loose cash would certainly be employed

in improving my collection of music and books."

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the

authors or their heirs."

"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who

wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever

be in love more than once in their life-your opinion on that point is

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unchanged, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is

not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not at

all altered."

"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You

are not very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety

never was a part of my character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly

call her a lively girl-she is very earnest, very eager in all she does-

sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation-but she is not

often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her

down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said

Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other:

fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than

they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated.

Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very

frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time

to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided

wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were

given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has always

been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection

of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the

behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess,

of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with

greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments

or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of

general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but

I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to

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offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am

only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought

that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I

am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said

Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.

"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way

or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy

and graceful, I should not be shy."

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is

worse."

Edward started-"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!-how,

in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the

subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to understand

what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved

who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously

as herself?"

Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on

him in their fullest extent-and he sat for some time silent and dull.

Chapter 18

ELINOR saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend. His

visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment

in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy;

she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the

same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto

the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the

reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what

a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning

before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to

promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves.

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But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open,

and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said be, "as you are

not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

* * *

Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding

country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley

to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than

the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly

pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Marianne's attention, and

she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to

question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck

him, when Edward interrupted her by saying, "You must not enquire too

far, Marianne-remember I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I

shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars.

I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and

uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out

of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of

a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can

honestly give. I call it a very fine country-the hills are steep, the woods

seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug-with

rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It

exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with

utility-and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire

it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss

and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the

picturesque."

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you

boast of it?"

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Edward

here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend

to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is

disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less

discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious

and will have an affectation of his own."

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape

scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries

to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what

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picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes

I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to

describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and

meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight

in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your sister

must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but

not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted

trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing.

I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles,

or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a

watch-tower-and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than

the finest banditti in the world."

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at

her sister. Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained

thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention. She

was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood, his

hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair

in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that

Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should

have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt-but when she

saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want

of thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and

giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's hair.

The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair

was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the

only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered

as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured

by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself. She was not in a

humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice

of what passed, by instantly talking of something else, she internally

resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and

of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of

her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an ab-

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sence of mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole

morning. Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but

her own forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how

little offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.

Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage,

came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his motherin-

law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name of Ferrars

began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the

devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of their acquaintance

with Edward could have prevented from being immediately sprung. But,

as it was, she only learned, from some very significant looks, how far

their penetration, founded on Margaret's instructions, extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them

to dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.

On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards

whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished

to engage them for both.

"You must drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite

alone-and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be

a large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may

raise a dance," said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne."

"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

"Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.-

What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that

shall be nameless is gone!"

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were

among us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward.

"And who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood,

by whom he was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more communicative.

Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning

of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before;

and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and

said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

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"Certainly."

"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling

at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,

"Oh, Edward! How can you?-But the time will come I hope . . . I

am sure you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness

and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of

her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing

between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to

mention it.

Chapter 19

EDWARD remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed

by Mrs. Dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on selfmortification,

he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among

his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two or three days,

though still very unequal, were greatly improved-he grew more and

more partial to the house and environs-never spoke of going away without

a sigh-declared his time to be wholly disengaged-even doubted to

what place he should go when he left them-but still, go he must. Never

had any week passed so quickly-he could hardly believe it to be gone.

He said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn

of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at

Norland; he detested being in town; but either to Norland or London,

he must go. He valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest

happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of

a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint

on his time.

Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his

mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose

character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for

every thing strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and

vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour

to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions

with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which

had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for Willoughby's ser-

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vice, by her mother. His want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency,

were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better

knowledge of Mrs. Ferrars's disposition and designs. The shortness

of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in

the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing

with his mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against

will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been

glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was

to yield,-when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty

to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for

comfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the

remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from

him while at Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it which he

constantly wore round his finger.

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast

the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession

to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions.

Some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it-you

would not be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile)

you would be materially benefited in one particular at least-you would

know where to go when you left them."

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this point,

as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always be a

heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to engage

me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like

independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my

friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never

could agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the church,

as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended

the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The law was

allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in

the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove

about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for the law,

even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved. As for

the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject

was first started to enter it-and, at length, as there was no necessity for

my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive

without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on

the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a young man

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of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist

the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore entered at

Oxford and have been properly idle ever since."

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,

"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your

sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions,

and trades as Columella's."

"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as

unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in every

thing."

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, Edward.

You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike

yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from

friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education

or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but patience-

or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will secure

to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her

duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your

whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few

months do?"

"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce

any good to me."

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated

to Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which

shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's feelings

especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as

it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing

to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away,

she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Marianne, on

a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence,

solitude and idleness. Their means were as different as their objects, and

equally suited to the advancement of each.

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the

house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided

the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as

ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she

did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary

increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her

account.

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Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared

no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.

The business of self-command she settled very easily;-with strong affections

it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her

sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to

acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking

proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying

conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in

determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to

indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough

to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible variety

which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce,-

with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments

in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and

sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was

forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. Her

mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere;

and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be

before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her reflection,

and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was

roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival of

company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate,

at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to

the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst

them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, but there

were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her.

She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir John perceived her,

he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and

stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to

him, though the space was so short between the door and the window,

as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the

other.

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you

like them?"

"Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very

pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."

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As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without

taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see

her instrument is open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience

enough to wait till the door was opened before she told her story. She

came hallooing to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does

Mrs. Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you

will be glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other

son and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly!

I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,

but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing

but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again; so I said

to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Colonel Brandon

come back again"-

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to receive

the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two strangers;

Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same time, and

they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Jennings continued

her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended

by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and

totally unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very

pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could

possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but

they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled

all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she

went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six

and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but

of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a

look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking

a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up

a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he staid.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature

with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before

her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charming!

Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here last! I al-

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ways thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs. Dashwood)

but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful every

thing is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not you,

Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from

the newspaper.

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does

sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been

used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking

with surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and

continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing

their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer

laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body

agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.

Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice

as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on

different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had

not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they

came all round by London upon account of some business, for you know

(nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her

situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she

would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.

"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and

therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in the

paper.

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see

a monstrous pretty girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and

ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared,

if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so heartily at

the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer looked up on her

entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his

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newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which

hung round the room. She got up to examine them.

"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but

look, mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look

at them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot

that there were any such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid

down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining

the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.

He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at

the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener

than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account;

her daughters might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see

how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure

from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise,

to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be

good. But Sir John would not be satisfied-the carriage should be sent

for them and they must come. Lady Middleton too, though she did not

press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Palmer joined

their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and

the young ladies were obliged to yield.

"Why should they ask us?" said Marianne, as soon as they were

gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very

hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying

either with them, or with us."

"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Elinor, "by

these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a

few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown

tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."

Chapter 20

AS THE MISS DASHWOODS entered the drawing-room of the park

the next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other,

looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most

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affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them

again.

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Elinor

and Marianne, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,

which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We

must go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a

sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage

was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go

with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so

sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very

soon, I hope."

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite

disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for you,

next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am

sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am confined,

if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."

They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then

entered the room-"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods

to go to town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,

began complaining of the weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing

and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors

as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What

the devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?

How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the

weather."

The rest of the company soon dropt in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been

able to take your usual walk to Allenham today."

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all

about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think

he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the

country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

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"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but

they say it is a sweet pretty place."

"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed

her interest in what was said.

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer-"then it must be some

other place that is so pretty I suppose."

When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with

regret that they were only eight all together.

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should

be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"

"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,

that it could not be done? They dined with us last."

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon

such ceremony."

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.

"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual

laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother illbred."

"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old

lady, "you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back

again. So there I have the whip hand of you."

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get

rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,

as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly

good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs. Palmer.

The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave

her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.

"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is

always out of humour."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit

for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he

wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding,

like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in

favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman,-but she

knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to

be lastingly hurt by it.-It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed,

which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his gen-

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eral abuse of every thing before him. It was the desire of appearing

superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered

at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority

in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his

wife.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards,

"I have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come

and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,-and

come while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I

shall be! It will be quite delightful!-My love," applying to her husband,

"don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer-"I came into Devonshire with

no other view."

"There now,"-said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so

you cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all

things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful. You

cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now,

for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing against

the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw

before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very fatiguing to him!

for he is forced to make every body like him."

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship

of such an obligation.

"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in

Parliament!-won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to

see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.-But do you know, he

says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr.

Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued-"he says it is

quite shocking."

"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all

your abuses of languages upon me."

"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with

him! Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then

he comes out with something so droll-all about any thing in the world."

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She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawingroom,

by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.

"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."

"Well-I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;

and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can tell

you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come

to Cleveland.-I can't imagine why you should object to it."

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing

the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable that as

they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to give some

more particular account of Willoughby's general character, than could

be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and

she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits

as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by

inquiring if they saw much of Mr.Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether

they were intimately acquainted with him.

"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;-

"Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in

town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while

he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before;-but I was with

my uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a

great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily

that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little

at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do not think

Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and

besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about him, very

well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I

shall have her for a neighbour you know."

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter

than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body

talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

"Upon my honour I did.-I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning

in Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely

you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could

not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect

Colonel Brandon to do."

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"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how

it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us;

and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and

another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come

to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty,

and that one of them is going to be married to Mr.Willoughby of Combe

Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you have been

in Devonshire so lately.' "

"And what did the Colonel say?"

"Oh-he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,

so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful,

I declare! When is it to take place?"

"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?"

"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but

say fine things of you."

"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man;

and I think him uncommonly pleasing."

"So do I.-He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should

be so grave and so dull. Mamma says he was in love with your sister

too.-I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly

ever falls in love with any body."

"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?"

said Elinor.

"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are

acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all

think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than

Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She

is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he

is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and

agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't

think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you

both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure, though

we could not get him to own it last night."

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;

but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to

her.

"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.-

"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how

much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the

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cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your sister

is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe

Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts."

"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not

you?"

"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.-He was a particular

friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would

have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady

Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match

good enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the

Colonel, and we should have been married immediately."

"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your

mother before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"

"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would

have liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for

it was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr.

Palmer is the kind of man I like."

Chapter 21

THE PALMERS returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families

at Barton were again left to entertain each other. But this did not

last long; Elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had

hardly done wondering at Charlotte's being so happy without a cause,

at Mr. Palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange

unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir

John's and Mrs. Jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured

her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young

ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her

relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the

park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their

engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and

Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John,

by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom

she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,-whose tolerable

gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her hus-

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band and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. Their being her

relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at

consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her

daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were

all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, however,

now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to

the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting

herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject

five or six times every day.

The young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel

or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very

civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture,

and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that Lady

Middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had

been an hour at the Park. She declared them to be very agreeable girls

indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. Sir John's

confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he

set off directly for the cottage to tell the Miss Dashwoods of the Miss

Steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the

world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much

to be learned; Elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were

to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation

of form, face, temper and understanding. Sir John wanted the whole

family to walk to the Park directly and look at his guests. Benevolent,

philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to

himself.

"Do come now," said he-"pray come-you must come-I declare

you shall come-You can't think how you will like them. Lucy is monstrous

pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable! The children are all

hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance. And they

both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you

are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and I have told them it is

all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them I

am sure. They have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the

children. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why they are your

cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my

wife's, so you must be related."

But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of

their calling at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amaze-

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ment at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions

to the Miss Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss

Steeles to them.

When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction

to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the

eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face,

nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three

and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were

pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which

though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her

person.-Their manners were particularly civil, and Elinor soon allowed

them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and

judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Middleton.

With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their

beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of

their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this

politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship

was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns

of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had

thrown them into unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their

court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise

for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the

most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any

thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards

her offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without

the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency

all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her

cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about

their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen

away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested

no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly

by, without claiming a share in what was passing.

"John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Steeles's

pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window-"He is full of

monkey tricks."

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of

the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"

"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing

a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last

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two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet-Never was there

such a quiet little thing!"

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's

head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this

pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone

by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive;

but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and every

thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection

could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. She

was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed

with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was on her knees to

attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With

such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She

still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to

touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till Lady Middleton

luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week,

some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple,

the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch,

and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave

them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.-She was carried out

of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine,

and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their

mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness

which the room had not known for many hours.

"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.

"It might have been a very sad accident."

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under

totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening

alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."

"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not

feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole

task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell. She did her

best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton with more

warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.

"And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he

is!"

Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and

just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was per-

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fectly good humoured and friendly.

"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine

children in my life.-I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed

I am always distractedly fond of children."

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have

witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather

too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is

so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full

of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never

think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss

Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now

said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?

I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the

manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss

Steele.

"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who

seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

"I think every one must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw

the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its

beauties as we do."

"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have

not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast

addition always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,

"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?"

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm

sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could

I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only

afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not

so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not

care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For

my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and

behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there's

Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk

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to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning,

he is not fit to be seen.-I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss

Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not

perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that

if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the

smallest alteration in him."

"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux-they

have something else to do."

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux;-

you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else." And

then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom

and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not

blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want

of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of

knowing them better.

Not so the Miss Steeles.-They came from Exeter, well provided with

admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his relations,

and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins,

whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and

agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly

anxious to be better acquainted.-And to be better acquainted

therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as Sir John was

entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles, their party would be too strong

for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which

consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every

day. Sir John could do no more; but he did not know that any more was

required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his

continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt

of their being established friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their

unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew

or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars,-

and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them

wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest

of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

" 'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said

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she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I

hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,-but perhaps you may

have a friend in the corner already."

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming

his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with

respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two,

as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since Edward's visit,

they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections

with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite

general attention. The letter F- had been likewise invariably brought

forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character

as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with

Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these

jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the

name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently

expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into

the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long with the curiosity

which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure

in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.

"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray

do not tell it, for it's a great secret."

"Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is he?

What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very agreeable

young man to be sure; I know him very well."

"How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an

amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him once

or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very

well."

Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was this

uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?" She wished

very much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to

join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in

her life, she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty

information, or in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which

Miss Steele had spoken of Edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck

her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's

knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.-

But her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr.

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Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned

by Sir John.

Chapter 22

MARIANNE, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence,

vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from

herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her

spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances;

and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them,

which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally

attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in

the manners of both, but especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity

of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance

by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing;

and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her

agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was

ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement,

her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be

concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to

appear to advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities

which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw,

with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude,

and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her

flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction

in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance;

whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on

terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of

attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.

"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her

one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage-

"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother,

Mrs. Ferrars?"

Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance

expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.

"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must

have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me

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what sort of a woman she is?"

"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's

mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent

curiosity-"I know nothing of her."

"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such

a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps

there may be reasons-I wish I might venture; but however I hope you

will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in

silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying,

with some hesitation,

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure

I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person

whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I

should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be very

glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable situation

as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry

you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

"I am sorry I do not," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could

be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood

that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am

a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if

I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is

certainly nothing to me at present-but the time may come-how soon

it will come must depend upon herself-when we may be very intimately

connected."

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side

glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted

with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel

much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Robert Ferrars-I never saw him in

my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have

been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the

assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement, unable

to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her

complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of

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an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you

could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the

smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always

meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by

me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Anne, and

I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest

dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my

behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars must seem

so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Ferrars

can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he

has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon

yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as his own sisters."-She

paused.

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what

she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to

speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which

tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-"May I ask if your

engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.

"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the

other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under

my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which

increased with her increase of emotion.

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near

Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me

was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was

formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he

was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into

it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his

mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent

as I ought to have been.-Though you do not know him so well as me,

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Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is

very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but

after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's

honour and love, and her companion's falsehood-"Engaged to Mr. Edward

Ferrars!-I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,

that really-I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake

of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars,

the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your sisterin-

law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow that

I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my

happiness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I

should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has

been to keep the matter secret.-You knew nothing of me, or my family,

and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name

to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting

any thing, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it."

She was silent.-Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not

sink with it.

"Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait.

Poor Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small

miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of

mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to

be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was

drew for.-I have had it above these three years."

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the

painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her

wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could

have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly,

acknowledging the likeness.

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture

in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so

anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."

"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then pro-

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ceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully

keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to

us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I

dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud

woman."

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do

me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your

secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so

unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being

acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover

something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part

of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"

said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure,

personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description

a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was

an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some

explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries

about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature

whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it,

and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more

harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does

not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I

was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name

was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can't

think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder

that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last

four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him

so seldom-we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder

my heart is not quite broke."

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.

"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think

whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."

As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But

then at other times I have not resolution enough for it.-I cannot bear

the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of

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such a thing would do. And on my own account too-so dear as he is to

me-I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to

do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can

give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must

direct you."

"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both

sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor

Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful lowspirited

when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left us at

Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite

ill."

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he

came directly from town?"

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance

in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that he had

been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She remembered

too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther

of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.

"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what

was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay

more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-Poor

fellow!-I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in

wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter

from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You

know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so

well as usual.-He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to

me as full as possible."

Elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This

picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally

obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a correspondence

between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement,

could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost

overcome-her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but

exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely

against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and

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for the time complete.

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her

pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I

have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even

that. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him a

lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and that

was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture. Perhaps

you might notice the ring when you saw him?"

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was

concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt

before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation

could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few

minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then at

liberty to think and be wretched.

Chapter 23

HOWEVER SMALL Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity

might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it

in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the

folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted

to be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt;

supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs,

and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their opportunity of

acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation for the rest, at

once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit near Plymouth, his

melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his

uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the Miss

Steeles as to Norland and their family connections, which had often surprised

her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body

of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established

as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment

of herself.-Her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having

been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other

ideas, other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally

deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?

Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever

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it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His

affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her mother,

sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at Norland; it

was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly loved her. What a

softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt

her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining

at Norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it

ought to be. In that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured

her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable,

his was hopeless. His imprudence had made her miserable for a while;

but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise.

She might in time regain tranquillity; but he, what had he to

look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele;

could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity,

his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like

her-illiterate, artful, and selfish?

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to

every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding

years-years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the

understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,

while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and

more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which

might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties

from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now

likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior

in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself. These

difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Lucy, might not press

very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person

by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be

felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she

wept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of having

done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the

belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought

she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command

herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother

and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own expectations,

that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first

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suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed

from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in

secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of

her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of

a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom

she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house.

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what

had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to

unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the contrary

it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what

would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing

that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the

excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she

felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive

no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while

her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example

nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own good

sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance

of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and

so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on

the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for

more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement

repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what

Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration

of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince

Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness

in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as

a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their

morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. That Lucy was disposed

to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that

Edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from Lucy's

assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance,

with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And

even Sir John's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed,

while Elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really

beloved by Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities

to make it natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her

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very confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the

affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of Lucy's

superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She

had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions,

and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour

and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for Edward and

to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of

endeavouring to convince Lucy that her heart was unwounded. And as

she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had

already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through

a repetition of particulars with composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could

be commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage

of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough

to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate

themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other

evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could

not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought

would never enter either Sir John or Lady Middleton's head; and therefore

very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all

for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and

laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game

that was sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording

Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called

at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they

would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend

the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her

mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening

for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more

at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction

of Lady Middleton than when her husband united them together in one

noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; Margaret, with her

mother's permission, was equally compliant, and Marianne, though always

unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother,

who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement,

to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved

from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of

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the meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not

one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting

than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and

drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while

they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of

engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the

removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Elinor

began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding

time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in preparation for a

round game.

"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to

finish poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must

hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the

dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and

then I hope she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,

"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting

to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have

been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all

the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to

finish the basket after supper."

"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes-will you ring the

bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed,

I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though

I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it

done."

Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with

an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste

no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one

made any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to

the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the

goodness to excuse me-you know I detest cards. I shall go to the pianoforte;

I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther

ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never

made so rude a speech.

"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know,

ma'am," said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and

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I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I

ever heard."

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may

be of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and

there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible

I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I should like the

work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried

Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was;

and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria after

all."

"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele-"Dear little

soul, how I do love her!"

"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you

really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till

another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by

a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise,

gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time.

Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals

were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony,

engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at which

Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by

this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was

luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might safely,

under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without

any risk of being heard at the card-table.

Chapter 24

IN A FIRM, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me

with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its

subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again."

"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set

my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended

you by what I told you that Monday."

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"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor

spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my

intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the

trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"

"And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of

meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your

manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was

angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for

having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am

very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not

blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my

heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of

my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I

am sure."

"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to

acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never

have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem

to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all

your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Ferrars, I believe,

is entirely dependent on his mother."

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness

to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every

prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very

small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love

him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that

his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait, it

may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it

would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and constancy

nothing can deprive me of I know."

"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly

supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your reciprocal

attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many

circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your

situation would have been pitiable, indeed."

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her countenance

from every expression that could give her words a suspicious

tendency.

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the

test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it

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has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it

now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on

that account from the first."

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and

from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the

world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for

suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the

slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness

of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one

lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple

than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant

or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be

deceived."

"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon

neither of us."

"But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have

you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a melancholy

and shocking extremity?-Is her son determined to submit to this,

and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may

involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by

owning the truth?"

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.

Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger

upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert, and the

idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for

hasty measures."

"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness

beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.

"Not at all-I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his

brother-silly and a great coxcomb."

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught

those words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music.-"Oh, they are

talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say."

"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux

are not great coxcombs."

"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jen-

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nings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved

young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little

creature, there is no finding out who she likes."

"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare

say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss Dashwood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily

at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy first put

an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was then giving

them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto-

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into

my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you

into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen

enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every

other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as

he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be

kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some

regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland

living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent

not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry

upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."

"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of

my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that

my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is

brother to Mrs. John Dashwood-that must be recommendation enough

to her husband."

"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's

going into orders."

"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."

They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed

with a deep sigh,

"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at

once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on

every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should

be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice,

Miss Dashwood?"

"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated

feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that

my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side

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of your wishes."

"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know

nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really

believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put

an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be more for the

happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately."

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and replied,

"This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion

on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high;

the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for

an indifferent person."

" 'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some

pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment

might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be

biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be

worth having."

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might

provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and

was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another

pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and

Lucy was still the first to end it.

"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she with

all her accustomary complacency.

"Certainly not."

"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened

at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you

there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your brother

and sister will ask you to come to them."

"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.

Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who

have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go

for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise

London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it."

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first

rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at

an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for

nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less

than they had done before; and Elinor sat down to the card table with

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the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not only without affection

for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the

chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on

her side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman

to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly

aware that he was weary.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when

entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it,

and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness

whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated by the former

with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow;

for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which Lucy did not

deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond

what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could

not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of

their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the

absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in

full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly

two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival

which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large

dinners to proclaim its importance.

Chapter 25

THOUGH MRS. JENNINGS was in the habit of spending a large portion

of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not

without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband,

who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town,

she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman

Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of January

to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly

by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to accompany her.

Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the

animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave

a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to

be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined

resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year.

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Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her

invitation immediately.

"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I do

beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart

upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I

shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be sending

Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford that. We three shall be able

to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not

like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of

my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had

such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will

think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get

one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not

be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you

may depend upon it."

"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not

object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is

very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss

Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for

town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss

Dashwood about it."

"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of

Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only

the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable

for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk

to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or

the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do you

think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used till this

winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let us strike

hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her mind by

and bye, why so much the better."

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with

warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would

give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable

of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,-I

feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less

happy, less comfortable by our absence-Oh! no, nothing should tempt

me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could

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spare them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister,

and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried

by her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct

opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision,

from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in

her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for

Marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons

to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her mother would be

eager to promote-she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness

of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been

able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of

her own disinclination for going to London. That Marianne, fastidious

as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings' manners, and invariably

disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that

kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable

feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full,

of the importance of that object to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had

passed, was not prepared to witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that

such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her

daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself,

how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of their

declining the offer upon her account; insisted on their both accepting it

directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety

of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation.

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could

wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.

When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and

happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret

so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of alteration

for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience

to any one. It is very right that you should go to town; I would

have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the

manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a

motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no

doubt. And in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever

may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when I consider whose son he

is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other."

"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor,

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"you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which

occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot

be so easily removed."

Marianne's countenance sunk.

"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going

to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do

let me hear a word about the expense of it."

"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's

heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose

protection will give us consequence."

"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately

from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and

you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton."

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said

Marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation. I

have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness

of that kind with very little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards

the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading

Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within

herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she

did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance

of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the

mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this

determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that

Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February;

and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might

be previously finished.

"I will have you both go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections

are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and

especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to anticipate

enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources;

she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with

her sister-in-law's family."

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken

her mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that

the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on

this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin

her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward Ferrars very

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much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family,

it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to

them or not."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her

eyes in astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have

held her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation

should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the information

with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor

was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was delighted; for to

a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition

of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something.

Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was

putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the Miss Steeles, especially

Lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence

made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes

with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,

it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and

when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her

sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her

usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could

not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to

distrust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was

the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her unwillingness

to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and

at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive. Her

mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one of the

three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal.

Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Middletons

were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their station

at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.

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Chapter 26

ELINOR could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings,

and beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her

guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance

with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and

disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure

only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy

ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been

overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt

of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful

expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne,

without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless

her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would

engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating

object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a very short

time however must now decide whatWilloughby's intentions were; in all

probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared

her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not

only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation

or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon

watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to

ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had

taken place. Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she

was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be

otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature-she must then

learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which

might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as

they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and

companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in

silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely

ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty

within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively

addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor took

immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself,

behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with

her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and Mrs.

Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was

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solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed

that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn,

nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls

to veal cutlets. They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad

to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage,

and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.

The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young

ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.

It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still

hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her

having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their

arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother,

and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did the same.

"I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you better defer

your letter for a day or two?"

"I am not going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily,

and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it

immediately struck her that she must then be writing toWilloughby; and

the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously

they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This

conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she

continued her letter with greater alacrity. Marianne's was finished in

a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was

then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity. Elinor thought

she could distinguish a large W in the direction; and no sooner was it

complete than Marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who

answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post.

This decided the matter at once.

Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them

which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation

increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any dinner,

and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously

listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much

engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea

things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed

more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was

suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house,

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Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,

starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this

could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few

steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into

the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him

would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she

could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!"

and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when Colonel

Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately

left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time

her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she

felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive

that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him.

She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed

Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern,

as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards

herself.

"Is your sister ill?" said he.

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of

head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which

she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect

himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his

pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about

their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they

continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both

engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whetherWilloughby

were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry

after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he

had been in London ever since she had seen him last. "Yes," he replied,

with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have been once or twice

at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return

to Barton."

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back

to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with

the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she

was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the

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subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual

noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you-sorry I could not

come before-beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me

a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at

home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do

after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright

to settle with-Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But

pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town

today?"

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been

dining."

"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does

Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell

you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought

two young ladies with me, you see-that is, you see but one of them

now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too-

which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.

Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be

young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very

handsome-worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband,

and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man!

he has been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have

you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come,

come, let's have no secrets among friends."

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but

without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and

Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and

silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on

him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies

were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy

looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the

expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished

their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and

in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see

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them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from

meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at their

coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along;

so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined

her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if

they had not come!

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you

think he said when he heard of your coming withMamma? I forget what

it was now, but it was something so droll!"

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable

chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their

acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on

Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany

her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which

Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases

to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at first

was induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond

Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant

inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind

was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all

that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied every

where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase,

however it might equally concern them both: she received no pleasure

from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could

with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Palmer,

whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was

wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in

rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner

had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and

when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful

countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.

"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to

the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the

negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain that

no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she

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turned away to the window.

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her

sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she

would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to

Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither

come nor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting

an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to

be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire;

and how will my interference be borne."

She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued

many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would

represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some

serious enquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate acquaintance,

whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with

them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements;

and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the

others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never

learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal,

the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to

Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of

disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read;

but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting

employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room,

pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of

distinguishing the long-expected rap.

Chapter 27

"IF THIS OPEN WEATHER holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings,

when they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not

like leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a

day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem

to take it so much to heart."

"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to

the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of that.

This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it. "It

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is charming weather for them indeed," she continued, as she sat down

to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they must

enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to

last long. At this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall

certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all

probability with severity. In another day or two perhaps; this extreme

mildness can hardly last longer-nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!"

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from

seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we shall

have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week."

"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own

way."

"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by

this day's post."

But if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy

which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the

truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough contentment

about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could not be

very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy in the

mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.

Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and Marianne

was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching

the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There

seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm

even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem

parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear

afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,

and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in

the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching

frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with

Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her

behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her

household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting

a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had

never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all

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discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find herself

more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor

was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment

from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad,

formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was

with them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to

Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him

than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time

with much concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was

a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which

he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than

when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby

was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the

morning's drive.

"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were

out." Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured

to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." But Marianne

seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jenning's entrance, escaped with

the precious card.

This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to those of her

sister all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment

her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of

the day, made her unfit for any thing. She insisted on being left behind,

the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley

Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when

they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no

second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table,

"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

"No, ma'am, for my mistress."

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!"

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer

silent.

"Yes, a little-not much."

After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."

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"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from you-you who have confidence in

no one!"

"Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have

nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are

alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not

communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was

not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to

press for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read

it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit

Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother

and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a

violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The

invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near,

necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that they should

both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some difficulty in persuading

her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of Willoughby; and therefore

was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to

run the risk of his calling again in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially

altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town,

Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people,

and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of

which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated

dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation

of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking

too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that Lady

Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two

violins, and a mere side-board collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they

had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid

the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never

came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance.

He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were,

and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side of the room.

Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was

enough-he was not there-and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to re-

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ceive or communicate pleasure. After they had been assembled about an

hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to express his

surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been first

informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something

very droll on hearing that they were to come.

"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.

"Did you?" replied Elinor.

"When do you go back again?"

"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse.

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she

was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She complained

of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very

well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you

would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very

pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

"Invited!" cried Marianne.

"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him

somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne said no more, but

looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing something

that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to write the

next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the

health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long

delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving

after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again writing to

Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on

business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too restless

for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one

window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.

Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that

had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by

every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an account

of her real situation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and

Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from

the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before

he entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing

satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in

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particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word. Elinor,

persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister

was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time

of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before,

beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day," or

"your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of

disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her. After a pause

of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice

of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of

a brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no

answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient,

of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's

engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known."

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family

do not know it."

He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry

has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended,

as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

"By many-by some of whom you know nothing, by others with

whom you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons.

But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is

perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something

to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally

seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your

sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could

ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it impossible to-? But

I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me,

Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but

I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest

dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt,

that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that

remains."

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love

for her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to

say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for

a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real

state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little known

to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to

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say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that Marianne's

affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel Brandon's success,

whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time

wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent

and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or

believed. She acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been

informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other,

of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence

she was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,

rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to

your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may

endeavour to deserve her,"-took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to

lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the

contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's unhappiness,

and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety

for the very event that must confirm it.

Chapter 28

NOTHING OCCURRED during the next three or four days, to make

Elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for

Willoughby neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of

that time to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings

was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this

party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming

equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one

look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the drawing-room

fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's arrival, without once

stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts,

and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at last they were told

that Lady Middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she

had forgotten that any one was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as

the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the

stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another

in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of

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company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of

politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to

mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience,

to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in

saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to Cassino, and as

Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily

succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the

table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived

Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation

with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon caught his

eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her,

or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see her; and then

continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor turned involuntarily

to Marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her. At that

moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing

with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had

not her sister caught hold of her.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there-he is there-Oh! why

does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?"

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you

feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be

composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne,

it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which affected

every feature.

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started

up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand

to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than

Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe

her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and

asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence

of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the

feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned

over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God!

Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my

letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him,

and he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was

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evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and

saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he

spoke with calmness.

"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,

and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves

and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope."

"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest

anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure-some dreadful mistake. What

can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me,

what is the matter?"

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment

returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with

whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant

exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the

pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you

were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and

joined his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk

into her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried

to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with

lavender water.

"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and

force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again-must speak to

him instantly.-I cannot rest-I shall not have a moment's peace till this

is explained-some dreadful misapprehension or other.-Oh go to him

this moment."

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait.

This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow."

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself;

and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the

appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy

and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne continued incessantly to

give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of

wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by

the door towards the staircase, and telling Marianne that he was gone,

urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh

argument for her to be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat

Lady Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to

stay a minute longer.

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Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed

that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her

wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed

as soon the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during

their return to Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too

much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not

come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn

restored her a little to herself. She was soon undressed and in bed, and

as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while

she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had leisure enough for thinking

over the past.

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Willoughby

and Marianne she could not doubt, and that Willoughby was weary of

it, seemed equally clear; for however Marianne might still feed her own

wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension

of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could

account for it. Her indignation would have been still stronger than it

was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak

a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing

him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of

her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation.

Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might

have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly

existed she could not bring herself to doubt.

As for Marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must

already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await

her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest

concern. Her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she

could esteem Edward as much as ever, however they might be divided

in future, her mind might be always supported. But every circumstance

that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of

Marianne in a final separation from Willoughby-in an immediate and

irreconcilable rupture with him.

Chapter 29

BEFORE THE HOUSE-MAID had lit their fire the next day, or the sun

gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne,

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only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the

sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast

as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this situation, Elinor,

roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after

observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of

the most considerate gentleness,

"Marianne, may I ask-?"

"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no

longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return

of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could

go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged

her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling

how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to

Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power;

and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had

not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous

irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such circumstances, it

was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless

state of Marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the

room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude

and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till

breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and

Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying

her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs.

Jenning's notice entirely to herself.

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings, it lasted a considerable

time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the

common working table, when a letter was delivered to Marianne, which

she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness,

instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as plainly by this,

as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from Willoughby, felt

immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up

her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible

to escape Mrs. Jenning's notice. That good lady, however, saw only

that Marianne had received a letter from Willoughby, which appeared

to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping,

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with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking. Of Elinor's distress, she

was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to

see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Marianne

disappeared, she said,

"Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love

in my life! My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish

enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature. I

hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much

longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn. Pray,

when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,

obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying

to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself into a

persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought

it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more;

and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I

do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their

being going to be married."

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't

we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears

in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see

them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I

know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding

clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it

yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I

can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell

every body of it and so does Charlotte."

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed,

you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you

will find that you have though you will not believe me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,

and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried

away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne

stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and

two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without saying

a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately

several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at

first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The latter, though unable

to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after

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some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into Elinor's

hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost

screamed with agony. Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as

it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess

of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to

Willoughby's letter, read as follows:

"Bond Street, January.

"My dear Madam,

"I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to

return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there

was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation;

and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could

be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I

can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect

on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the

most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any

mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole

family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a

belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for

not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I

should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you

understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it

will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It

is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters

with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which

you so obligingly bestowed on me.

"I am, dear Madam,

"Your most obedient

"humble servant,

"John Willoughby."

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss

Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it

must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation

for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce

it; nor could she have supposedWilloughby capable of departing

so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling-so

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far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so

impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of

a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied

all peculiar affection whatever-a letter of which every line was an

insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then

read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her

abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that

she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound Marianne still

deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible

good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all

evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance

the most real, a blessing the most important.

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity

of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very

different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection

whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing

that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that

she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how

long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive

up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so

unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Jennings's

chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one. Determined not

to quit Marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her

ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending Mrs. Jennings,

on account of her sister being indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly

good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most

readily, and Elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom

she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in

time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long

want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any

appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her

mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence

of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general

nervous faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her

directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express

some sense of her kindness, by saying,

"Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!"

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I could do,

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which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,

who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor,

I am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill

yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery

while you suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I distress

you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so. Oh!

how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion!

Happy, happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer."

"Do you call me happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!-And can you

believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck;

"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you are-

you must be happy; Edward loves you-what, oh what, can do away

such happiness as that?"

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you.

You can have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing

can do away."

"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no

friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as

you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of

his character had been delayed to a later period-if your engagement had

been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he

chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy confidence,

on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."

"No engagement!"

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no

faith with me."

"But he told you that he loved you."

"Yes-no-never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly

declared. Sometimes I thought it had been-but it never was."

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"Yet you wrote to him?"-

"Yes-could that be wrong after all that had passed?-But I cannot

talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which

now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the

contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on their

arrival in town, was to this effect.

Berkeley Street, January.

"How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I

think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that

I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs. Jennings,

was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this

in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I

shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

"M.D."

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the

dance at the Middletons', was in these words:-

"I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day

before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer

to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to

hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call

again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected

this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are

generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Middleton's, where

there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the

party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since

we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not

suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal

assurance of its being otherwise.

"M.D."

The contents of her last note to him were these:-

"What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night?

Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the

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pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity

which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed

indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct

which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have

not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour,

I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps

been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me,

which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain

the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able

to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of

you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have

hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your

behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as

possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I

wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now

suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return

my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

"M.D."

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been

so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling

to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety

of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving

over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of

tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned

by the event, when Marianne, perceiving that she had finished

the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one

would have written in the same situation.

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if

the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the

same."

"He did feel the same, Elinor-for weeks and weeks he felt it. I

know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but

the blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as

dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now

he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication.

Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at

that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being together at

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Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me that it might

be many weeks before we met again-his distress-can I ever forget his

distress?"

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion

had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,

"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."

"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been

instigated?"

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe

every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his

opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This woman of

whom he writes-whoever she be-or any one, in short, but your own

dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me.

Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not

rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?"

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have

been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant

triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your

own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable

and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care

not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be

open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be proud

and independent as they like-may resist insult, or return mortification-

but I cannot. I must feel-I must be wretched-and they are welcome to

enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

"But for my mother's sake and mine-"

"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am

so miserable-Oh! who can require it?"

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully

from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without

knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects

through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her

head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Willoughby's letter,

and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed-

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!

Cruel, cruel-nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever

he might have heard against me-ought he not to have suspended his

belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power

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of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which

you so obligingly bestowed on me'-That is unpardonable. Willoughby,

where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously

insolent!-Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman-who knows what her art may have been?-

how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by

her!-Who is she?-Who can she be?-Whom did I ever hear him talk

of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance?-Oh! no

one, no one-he talked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended

thus.

"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we

be gone to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake-

and now who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings

much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent

such a hasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long,

I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.

The Middletons and Palmers-how am I to bear their pity? The pity of

such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would he say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so;

but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and

body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and

more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all,

and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance.

Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to

take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings returned, she

continued on the bed quiet and motionless.

Chapter 30

MRS. JENNINGS came immediately to their room on her return, and

without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the

door and walked in with a look of real concern.

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"How do you do my dear?"-said she in a voice of great compassion

to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

"How is she, Miss Dashwood?-Poor thing! she looks very bad.-

No wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon-a

good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told

me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of

Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was

almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say is, that if this be

true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I

wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out. And so I shall

always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's

going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a

dressing as he has not had this many a day. But there is one comfort, my

dear Miss Marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth

having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers. Well,

poor thing! I won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her

cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily

are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she

supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with

them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down;

she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."

Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,

though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said

no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while

Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the

dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was

calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had she

been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions

to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a

syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved

her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its effusions

were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her

those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister

could not make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that

Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which

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might make her at all less so. She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent

fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of

its holidays. Marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be

tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation

of all the news of the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance

of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained

by Mrs. Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety

of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the

consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Marianne,

she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of Misery, and a sign

to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the

room.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how

it grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without

finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems

to do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I

would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me,

that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is plenty

of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you!

they care no more about such things!-"

"The lady then-Miss Grey I think you called her-is very rich?"

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,

stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very well,

Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family are all

rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it won't come

before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing

about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't signify talking; but

when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty

girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word

only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him. Why

don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants,

and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne

would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't

do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by

the young men of this age."

"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be

amiable?"

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her mentioned;

except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day Miss

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Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not

be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison could never

agree."-

"And who are the Ellisons?"

"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for

herself; and a pretty choice she has made!-What now," after pausing

a moment-"your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to

moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear,

it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a

few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at? She

hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?"

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare

say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I

can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper,

and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast

down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging

over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished

it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have

joked her about it for all my money. But then you know, how should

I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common

love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them.

Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when they hear

it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in

my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow."

"It would be unnecessary I am sure, for you to caution Mrs. Palmer

and Sir John against ever naming Mr.Willoughby, or making the slightest

allusion to what has passed, before my sister. Their own good-nature

must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing

about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself

on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear

madam will easily believe."

"Oh! Lord! yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear

it talked of; and as for your sister, I am sure I would not mention a word

about it to her for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more

would Sir John, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and

considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my

part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner

'tis blown over and forgot. And what does talking ever do you know?"

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"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many

cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which,

for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the

public conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Willoughby-he has

broken no positive engagement with my sister."

"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement

indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on

the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and

she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since, though

Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement

of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Jennings, with

all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all

the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he

will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord! how

he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be

all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without

debt or drawback-except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot

her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does

it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a

nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in

with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the

country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte

and I did stuff the only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote,

some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in

short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church,

and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull,

for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you

may see all the carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher

hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.

To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they

are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour

nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon as

I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we

can but put Willoughby out of her head!"

"Ay, if we can do that, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well

with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away

to join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,

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leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till

Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received

from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this, from

the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused

to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon

softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her aching head on

the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she

left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined

by Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have

some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted,

so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how

fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he

said it did him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to

your sister."

"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints

for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have

just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing

will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, I

will drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes

earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she swallowed

the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at

present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed

heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his

manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately

fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in

short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs.

Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance,

she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor presided, and

whispered-"The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see. He knows

nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look

which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her

sister.

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"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been indisposed all day,

and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning

may be-there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at

first."

"What did you hear?"

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think-in short, that a

man, whom I knew to be engaged-but how shall I tell you? If you

know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr.

Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we do know it all. This

seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning

first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you

hear it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies

were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other

an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment,

that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of

Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention;

and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing was

now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey-it was no

longer to be a secret-it would take place even within a few weeks, with

many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing, especially,

I remember, because it served to identify the man still more:-as

soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his

seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!-but it would be impossible to

describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt, on inquiry, for I

stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I

have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey's guardian."

"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand

pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable-at least I think"-he

stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself,

"And your sister-how did she-"

"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they

may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction.

Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now,

perhaps-but I am almost convinced that he never was really attached

to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a

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hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But your sister does

not-I think you said so-she does not consider quite as you do?"

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would

still justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the

tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily

dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure

while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss Dashwood's

communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon's

side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope

and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening

more serious and thoughtful than usual.

Chapter 31

FROM A NIGHT OF MORE SLEEP than she had expected, Marianne

awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which

she had closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;

and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again

and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel

on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on

Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe Willoughby to be as

unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation

in the impossibility of acquitting him. At one moment she was

absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another she

would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with

energy. In one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the

point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings,

and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. Her heart was

hardened against the belief of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows

with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her kindness

is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is

gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which

her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refine-

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ment of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on

the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner.

Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are

clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition,

was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other

people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of

their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself. Thus a

circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room

after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her

estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a

source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it

by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,

from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you

good."

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before

her a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory

of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly

followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce,

at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter.

The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The hand writing

of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the

acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more

than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings no language, within her reach in her moments

of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could

reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate

violence-a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that

after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the

letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was calm enough to read

it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled every page. Her mother,

still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on

his constancy, had only been roused by Elinor's application, to intreat

from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such

tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such a conviction

of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony

through the whole of it.

All her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was

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dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken

confidence in Willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone. Elinor,

unable herself to determine whether it were better for Marianne to be in

London or at Barton, offered no counsel of her own except of patience

till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her

sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.

Mrs. Jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy

till the Middletons and Palmers were able to grieve as much as herself;

and positively refusing Elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for

the rest of the morning. Elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the

pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by Marianne's letter,

how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down

to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her

directions for the future; while Marianne, who came into the drawingroom

on Mrs. Jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where

Elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her

for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its

effect on her mother.

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when

Marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled

by a rap at the door.

"Who can this be?" cried Elinor. "So early too! I thought we had

been safe."

Marianne moved to the window-

"It is Colonel Brandon!" said she, with vexation. "We are never safe

from him."

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home."

"I will not trust to that," retreating to her own room. "A man who

has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion

on that of others."

The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on

injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon did come in; and Elinor, who

was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and

who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his

anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for

esteeming him so lightly.

"I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street," said he, after the first salutation,

"and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily

encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone,

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which I was very desirous of doing. My object-my wish-my sole wish

in desiring it-I hope, I believe it is-is to be a means of giving comfort;-

no, I must not say comfort-not present comfort-but conviction, lasting

conviction to your sister's mind. My regard for her, for yourself, for

your mother-will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances

which nothing but a very sincere regard-nothing but an earnest

desire of being useful-I think I am justified-though where so many

hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not

some reason to fear I may be wrong?" He stopped.

"I understand you," said Elinor. "You have something to tell me

of Mr. Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it

will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn Marianne. My

gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that

end, and hers must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it."

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,-

but this will give you no idea-I must go farther back. You will find

me a very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to

begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it shall

be a short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have little

temptation to be diffuse."

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh,

went on.

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation-(it is not to

be supposed that it could make any impression on you)-a conversation

between us one evening at Barton Park-it was the evening of a dance-

in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some

measure, your sister Marianne."

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have not forgotten it." He looked

pleased by this remembrance, and added,

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection,

there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in

mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy

and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from

her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our ages were

nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and

friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Eliza; and my

affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my

present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of

having ever felt. Her's, for me, was, I believe, fervent as the attachment

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of your sister to Mr. Willoughby and it was, though from a different

cause, no less unfortunate. At seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She

was married-married against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune

was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear,

is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle

and guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love

her. I had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any

difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation,

for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and

though she had promised me that nothing-but how blindly I relate! I

have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few

hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of

my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation

far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,

till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too

far, and the blow was a severe one-but had her marriage been happy,

so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or

at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not the

case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what

they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The

consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as

Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned herself at first to all

the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to

overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned. But

can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and

without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few

months after their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies)

she should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps-but I meant

to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and

for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage

had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of

trifling weight-was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years

afterwards, of her divorce. It was that which threw this gloom,-even

now the recollection of what I suffered-"

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes

about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his

distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her, took

her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few minutes

more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

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"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned

to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for

her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace

her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she

had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal

allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable

maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of

receiving it had been made over some months before to another person.

He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and

consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate

relief. At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I did

find her. Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen

into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he

was confined for debt; and there, the same house, under a similar con-

finement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered-so faded-worn down

by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the melancholy

and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming,

healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I endured in so beholding

her-but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to

describe it-I have pained you too much already. That she was, to all

appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was-yes, in such a situation

it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond

giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw

her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited

her every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her

last moments."

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in

an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

"Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance

I have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation. Their

fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition

of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage,

she might have been all that you will live to see the other be. But to what

does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah!

Miss Dashwood-a subject such as this-untouched for fourteen years-

it is dangerous to handle it at all! I will be more collected-more concise.

She left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first

guilty connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the

child, and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust

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to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by

watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed

it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore

placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of

my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me

the possession of the family property,) she visited me at Delaford. I called

her a distant relation; but I am well aware that I have in general been

suspected of a much nearer connection with her. It is now three years

ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from

school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing

in Dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about

the same time of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased

with her situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she

suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since

turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young

friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to

be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter-better

than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she

would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all.

He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really,

I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to

the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what

acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as

he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned

in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all

the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought,

what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be-could Willoughby!"-

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a

letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford,

and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell;

and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am

sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which

I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I

suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the

party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor

and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed? Would

he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister? No, he

had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would

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do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in

a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no

friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he

neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her."

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse

than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess

what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and

on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have

felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you

alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to

do when it was known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to

you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so

deceived; to see your sister-but what could I do? I had no hope of

interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's influence

might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who

can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may have been,

however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will turn with gratitude

towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor

Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this

poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong,

still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach,

which must attend her through life. Surely this comparison must have

its use with her. She will feel her own sufferings to be nothing. They

proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary,

every friend must be made still more her friend by them. Concern for

her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen

every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating

to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect;

but had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service,

might lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you

with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem

to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended

too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to

Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit

him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most

perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first she

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will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have you," she

continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr.Willoughby since you left

him at Barton?"

"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,

"What? have you met him to-"

"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though

most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,

which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he

to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the

meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a

soldier she presumed not to censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy

resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly

have I discharged my trust!"

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near

her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she

remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor

from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the

same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and

esteem for him.

Chapter 32

WHEN THE PARTICULARS of this conversation were repeated by

Miss Dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her

was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Marianne

appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to

it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection

nor remark, attempted no vindication of Willoughby, and seemed

to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible. But though this

behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of this guilt was carried

home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in

her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her speaking

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to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect,

and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she

did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was

settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby's character

yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and

desertion of Miss Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt

of what his designs might once have been on herself, preyed altogether

so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what

she felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave

more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most

open and most frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving

and answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what

her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less

painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than Elinor's.

Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all

that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Marianne,

and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune.

Bad indeed must the nature of Marianne's affliction be, when her mother

could talk of fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of

those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood

had determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where,

at that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would

be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by

constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen

him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means

not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of which, though

never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or

six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which

could not be procured at Barton, would be inevitable there, and might

yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself,

and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might

now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered

her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance

must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends.

Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could

never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour

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in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of Barton, where it

might force him before her while paying that visit at Allenham on his

marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable

event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where

they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife

were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right

that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and

she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly

different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to

be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring

her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only possible alleviation

of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and

doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever

knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil

to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the other hand,

suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid Edward entirely,

comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore

militate against her own happiness, it would be better for Marianne

than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearingWilloughby's

name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without

knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings,

nor Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.

Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards

herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after

day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he

had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow!

He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable

business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He

would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for

all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert, and

they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel of a

fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met that he

had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end of it!"

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to

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drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she

had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart

Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it

was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was

resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody

she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the

particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating

them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new

carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's portrait was

drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be seen.

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion

was a happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the

clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to be

sure of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of

friends: a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet

her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her

sister's health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment,

to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down

by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to

comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every

day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very

shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle

vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without

the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a

word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own

sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she

thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies,

and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John)

that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and

fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome

to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of

intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal

with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed

with confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing

past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye

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with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of

her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or

could oblige herself to speak to him. These assured him that his exertion

had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave

Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings,

who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Colonel continued

as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the

offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end

of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be

married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be

a match at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss

Dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberrytree,

the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and

Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt ofWilloughby's

letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was

married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself,

as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous

that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public

papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation

on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst

out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable

than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor

now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to

prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first

fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's

house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented themselves again before

their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were

welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her

pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the

overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her still in town.

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here

still," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I

always thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London

yet awhile; though you told me, you know, at Barton, that you should

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not stay above a month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most

likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been

such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came.

And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly

glad you did not keep to your word."

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her selfcommand

to make it appear that she did not.

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"

"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick exultation;

"we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend

us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him

in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve

shillings more than we did."

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor

is a single man, I warrant you."

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody

laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins

say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never

think about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your

beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the

street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I-I cannot think who you

mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine."

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking-but it won't do-the Doctor is

the man, I see."

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I

beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly

would not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss

Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a cessation

of hostile hints, to the charge.

"No, I do not think we shall."

"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both

for so long a time together!"

"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit

is but just begun!"

Lucy was silenced.

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"I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss

Steele. "I am sorry she is not well-" for Marianne had left the room on

their arrival.

"You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure

of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous

head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and me!-

I think she might see us; and I am sure we would not speak a word."

Elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal. Her sister was perhaps

laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not

able to come to them.

"Oh, if that's all," cried Miss Steele, "we can just as well go and see

her."

Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but

she was saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy's sharp reprimand,

which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness

to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the

other.

Chapter 33

AFTER SOME OPPOSITION, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,

and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning

for half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying

no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in

Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange

of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there

was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and

as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her young

friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people

before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend

to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done

was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise

the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it

is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness

to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of

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his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for

a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were

determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of

an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by

his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention

on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad

stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance

of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance,

though adorned in the first style of fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and

resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on

the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of

the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining

unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts

within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in Mr.

Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,

all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last

day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of

the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing

another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather

to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real

conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point

of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.

She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise

to be her brother.

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a

very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was

really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them

satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it

was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts

at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Ferrars.

Harry was vastly pleased. This morning I had fully intended to call on

you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so

much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny

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a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley

Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she

is a woman of very good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must

introduce me to them. As my mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy

to show them every respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the

country, I understand."

"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness

in every particular, is more than I can express."

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.

But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are

related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to

make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you

are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing!

Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete

thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy

it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure

you."

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be

spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Jennings's

servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the

door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.

Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being

able to call on them the next day, took leave.

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from

their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged

with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."

Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand

upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she

should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and bring her

sisters to see her. His manners to them, though calm, were perfectly

kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon's

coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed

to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to

him.

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with

him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.

The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As

soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

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"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?"

"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,

Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable

establishment in life."

"Me, brother! what do you mean?"

"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.

What is the amount of his fortune?"

"I believe about two thousand a year."

"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of

enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart it

were twice as much, for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that

Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me."

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little

trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be

undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his

friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions

and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite

of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for

him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side-in

short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the

question, the objections are insurmountable-you have too much sense

not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man; and no civility

shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your

family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a

kind of thing that"-lowering his voice to an important whisper-"will

be exceedingly welcome to all parties." Recollecting himself, however,

he added, "That is, I mean to say-your friends are all truly anxious to

see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very

much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very

good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she

said as much the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something

droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the same

time. And yet it is not very unlikely."

"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be

married?"

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"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He

has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will

come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes

place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter of the late Lord

Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on

both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. A thousand

a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever;

but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of

her liberality:-The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that

money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into

Fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely

acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here."

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to

say,

"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;

but your income is a large one."

"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to

complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will

in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying on,

is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within

this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where

old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every

respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty

to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into

any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it has cost

me a vast deal of money."

"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth."

"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for

more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have

been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,

that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's

hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

Elinor could only smile.

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming

to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the

Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they were)

to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had

an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in

consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen,

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china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away. You may guess,

after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and

how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you

may yet live to be in easy circumstances."

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied;

"but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone

laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flowergarden

marked out."

"Where is the green-house to be?"

"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come

down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many parts

of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be

exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in

patches over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very

thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away

the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his

next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to

congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

"She seems a most valuable woman indeed-Her house, her style of

living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance

that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may

prove materially advantageous.-Her inviting you to town is certainly

a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great

a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be

forgotten.-She must have a great deal to leave."

"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure,

which will descend to her children."

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few

people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves, she

will be able to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her

daughters, than to us?"

"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I

cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas,

in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in

this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consider-

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ation, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can

be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without

being aware of the expectation it raises."

"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your

anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people

have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is

the matter with Marianne?-she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,

and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?"

"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several

weeks."

"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness

destroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She was

as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to attract

the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them

particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner

and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of you, but

so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question

whether Marianne now, will marry a man worth more than five or six

hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if you do

not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my

dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think

I can answer for your having Fanny and myself among the earliest and

best pleased of your visitors."

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood

of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too

much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved

on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage

by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having

done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody

else should do a great deal; and an offer from Colonel Brandon,

or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his

own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir

John came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on

all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood

did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a

very good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion

in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr.

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Dashwood went away delighted with both.

"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he

walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant

woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And

Mrs. Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so

elegant as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of

visiting her, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very

naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow of a man

who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars

were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were

such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate with. But now I

can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."

Chapter 34

MRS. JOHN DASHWOOD had so much confidence in her husband's

judgment, that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and

her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,

even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means

unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of

the most charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There

was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually

attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety

of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood

to the good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy

of Mrs. Jennings, and to her she appeared nothing more than a little

proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters

without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to

them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat

at least seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask,

whether Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced

Fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her

that his marriage with Miss Morton was resolved on, or till her husband's

expectations on Colonel Brandon were answered; because she

believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could

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not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. The

intelligence however, which she would not give, soon flowed from another

quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor's compassion on

being unable to see Edward, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and

Mrs. Dashwood. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of

detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be

told, they could do nothing at present but write.

Edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very

short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found

on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Elinor

was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had

missed him.

The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons,

that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined

to give them-a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited

them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house

for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise,

and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel Brandon, who, always

glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were, received his eager civilities

with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They were to meet

Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of

the party. The expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make

her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet Edward's

mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to

attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect

indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company

with Mrs. Ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively

as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards

increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that

the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so

agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was

certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready

as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and

it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon

as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a

few days before the party took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces

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of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother,

might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at

her table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and

Lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to

have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to

have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been

happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's

card.

On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to

determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his

mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first

time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!-she hardly knew

how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason,

and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by

her own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself

to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward

certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be

carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away

by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when

they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young

ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.

"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the

stairs together-for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,

that they all followed the servant at the same time-"There is

nobody here but you, that can feel for me.-I declare I can hardly stand.

Good gracious!-In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness

depends on-that is to be my mother!"-

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility

of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own, whom

they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her,

and with great sincerity, that she did pity her-to the utter amazement

of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be

an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in

her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion

was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally

without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her

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countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters

of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of many words;

for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of

her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the

share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination

of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not now be made unhappy by this behaviour.-A few

months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs.

Ferrars' power to distress her by it now;-and the difference of her manners

to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to

humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see the

graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person-

for Lucy was particularly distinguished-whom of all others, had they

known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify;

while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them,

sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a graciousness so

misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which

it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles

courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and

Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly

happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every

thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's

ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which

were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once

been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss,

nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer

from it;-no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared-but

there, the deficiency was considerable. John Dashwood had not much to

say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But

there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with

the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of

these disqualifications for being agreeable-Want of sense, either natural

or improved-want of elegance-want of spirits-or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this

poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse

with some variety-the variety of politics, inclosing land, and

breaking horses-but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged

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the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Harry

Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William, who were nearly

of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined

too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was

present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body

had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over

and over again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was

the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity,

were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,

thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not

conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between

them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she

could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion onWilliam's side, by which

she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity

of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on

for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give,

as she had never thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty

pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and

brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens,

catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen

into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for

his admiration.

"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of

taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you

have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in

general reckoned to draw extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,

warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted

by Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course

excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,

not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look at

them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady Middle-

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tons's approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately

informing her, at the same time, that they were done by Miss Dashwood.

"Hum"-said Mrs. Ferrars-"very pretty,"-and without regarding

them at all, returned them to her daughter.

Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite

rude enough,-for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

"They are very pretty, ma'am-an't they?" But then again, the dread

of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over

her, for she presently added,

"Do you not think they are something in MissMorton's style of painting,

Ma'am?-She does paint most delightfully!-How beautifully her

last landscape is done!"

"Beautifully indeed! But she does every thing well."

Marianne could not bear this.-She was already greatly displeased

with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense,

though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by

it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

"This is admiration of a very particular kind!-what is Miss Morton

to us?-who knows, or who cares, for her?-it is Elinor of whom we

think and speak."

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands,

to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more

stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss Morton

is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at

his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth

than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as

they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was

amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister

slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.

Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such

difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her

to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate

sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting

one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but

eager, voice,

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"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding

her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's attention

was called, and almost every body was concerned.-Colonel Brandon

rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.-Mrs. Jennings,

with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave her her

salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this

nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy

Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking

affair.

In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put

an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits

retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

"Poor Marianne!" said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low

voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,-"She has not such

good health as her sister,-she is very nervous,-she has not Elinor's

constitution;-and one must allow that there is something very trying to

a young woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions.

You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably

handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.-Now you

see it is all gone."

Chapter 35

ELINOR'S curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.-She had found

in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between

the families undesirable.-She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness,

and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the

difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the

marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;-and she

had seen almost enough to be thankful for her own sake, that one greater

obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's

creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any

solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself

quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that

had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.

She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by

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the civility of Mrs. Ferrars;-that her interest and her vanity should so

very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her

because she was not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself-or to allow

her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because

her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been

declared by Lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next

morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set

her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell

her how happy she was.

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon

after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.

"My dear friend," cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "I

come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering

as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as

she was!-You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her;-but

the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her

behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me.

Now was not it so?-You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with

it?"

"She was certainly very civil to you."

"Civil!-Did you see nothing but only civility?-I saw a vast deal

more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!-No pride,

no hauteur, and your sister just the same-all sweetness and affability!"

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to

own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go

on.-

"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing

could be more flattering than their treatment of you;-but as that was

not the case"-

"I guessed you would say so"-replied Lucy quickly-"but there was

no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she

did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my

satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties

at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and

so is your sister. They are both delightful women, indeed!-I wonder I

should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!"

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?-you seem low-you don't speak;-

sure you an't well."

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"I never was in better health."

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I

should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort

to me in the world!-Heaven knows what I should have done without

your friendship."-

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.

But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next

to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.-Poor Edward!-But

now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty

often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall

be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half

his time with his sister-besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will

visit now;-and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say

more than once, they should always be glad to see me.-They are such

charming women!-I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of

her, you cannot speak too high."

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she

should tell her sister. Lucy continued.

"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took

a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance,

without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and

never looked at me in a pleasant way-you know what I mean-if I had

been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up

in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know

it is most violent."

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by

the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and

Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed

that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed

to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance

farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form,

which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on

them.-They were not only all three together, but were together without

the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It

was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy

must still be kept up. She could therefore only look her tenderness,

and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

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But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and

her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection,

to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy,

and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved

them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness

of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she

was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from

home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened

from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a

relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon

perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage

enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the

ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his

sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's,

nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no

contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word;

and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was

obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their

coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but

never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself

so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching

Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and

that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes

on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she

went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for

the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the

drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every

other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him

with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection

of a sister.

"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!-

This would almost make amends for every thing?"

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such

witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all

sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne

was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward

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and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other

should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence. Edward was the first

to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his

fear of her not finding London agree with her.

"Oh, don't think of me!" she replied with spirited earnestness,

though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my

health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy,

nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with

no very benignant expression.

"Do you like London?" said Edward, willing to say any thing that

might introduce another subject.

"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.

The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank

Heaven! you are what you always were!"

She paused-no one spoke.

"I think, Elinor," she presently added, "we must employ Edward to

take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we

shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept

the charge."

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew,

not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily

trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied,

and soon talked of something else.

"We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull,

so wretchedly dull!-But I have much to say to you on that head, which

cannot be said now."

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of

her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of

her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in

private.

"But why were you not there, Edward?-Why did you not come?"

"I was engaged elsewhere."

"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

"Perhaps, Miss Marianne," cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge

on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they

have no mind to keep them, little as well as great."

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the

sting; for she calmly replied,

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"Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience

only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he has

the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing

every engagement, however minute, and however it may make

against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of

wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any

body I ever saw. Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you

never to hear yourself praised!-Then you must be no friend of mine;

for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my

open commendation."

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened

to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her

auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon

got up to go away.

"Going so soon!" said Marianne; "my dear Edward, this must not

be."

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that

Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed,

for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit

lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.

"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving

them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone!-how teazing to

Edward!"

"Why so?-we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest

known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as

well as ourselves."

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that

this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have

your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought

to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot

descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted."

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more,

for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give

no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences

of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged

to submit to it. All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often

expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken

warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had

attended their recent meeting-and this she had every reason to expect.

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Chapter 36

WITHIN A FEW DAYS after this meeting, the newspapers announced

to the world, that the lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered

of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least

to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced

a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a

like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to

be as much as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning

as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening;

and the Miss Dashwoods, at the particular request of the Middletons,

spent the whole of every day, in every day in Conduit Street. For their

own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the

morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged

against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over

to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company,

in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former;

and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on

their ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.

Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour

to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all. Because

they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them

good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them

satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical;

but that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked

the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was

ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was

proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would

despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the

three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to

it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute

account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr. Willoughby, she

would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best

place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this

conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions

of pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on

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the inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but

a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An

effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only

have laughed at her about the Doctor! But so little were they, anymore

than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home,

she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the

subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected

by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the

girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every

night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long.

She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at her own house;

but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight

and importance, attributing Charlotte's well doing to her own care, and

ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss

Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing did disturb her; and of

that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the common,

but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and

though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking

resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both

sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe

that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor

could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its

being the finest child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell

Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with

Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her

acquaintance had dropt in-a circumstance in itself not apparently likely

to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will

carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide

on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always

at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived

lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on

merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and understanding

them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to

be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced within a

day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their

brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence

of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit

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not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage

for the Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all

the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who

could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time?

The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. But

that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct

which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation

of any thing better from them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit

of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to

her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically

for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest

amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment,

where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent,

as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her

toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their

being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation

and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every

thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of Marianne's

dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better

judgment than Marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding

out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how

much she had every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of

these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment,

which though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne

as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination

into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and

the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon

"her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make

a great many conquests."

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present

occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five

minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to

their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance,

and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might

inconvenience either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like

other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real

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taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;

and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,

and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no

scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited

her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello,

would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one

of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men,

the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's.

She perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly

to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name

from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr. Dashwood

introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow

which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly

the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy

had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on

his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then

his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the illhumour

of his mother and sister would have begun. But while she wondered

at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the

emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty

and worth of the other. Why they were different, Robert exclaimed

to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for,

talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he

really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and

generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the

misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably

without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from

the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world

as any other man.

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I

often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,'

I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable,

and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be

persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to place

Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If

you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of send-

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ing him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been prevented.' This is the

way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly

convinced of her error."

Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be

her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not

think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.

"You reside in Devonshire, I think,"-was his next observation, "in

a cottage near Dawlish."

Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising

to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near

Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species

of house.

"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage;

there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And

I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and

build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive

myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be

happy. I advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage. My

friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my

advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to

decide on the best of them. 'My dear Courtland,' said I, immediately

throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all

means build a cottage.' And that I fancy, will be the end of it.

"Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no

space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my

friend Elliott's, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. 'But

how can it be done?' said she; 'my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be

managed. There is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple,

and where can the supper be?' I immediately saw that there could be no

difficulty in it, so I said, 'My dear Lady Elliott, do not be uneasy. The

dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be

placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments;

and let the supper be set out in the saloon.' Lady Elliott was

delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found

it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely

after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how

to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in

the most spacious dwelling."

Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compli-

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ment of rational opposition.

As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister,

his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought

struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for

her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's

mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the

propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jenning's

engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing,

the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which

the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete

enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled at

the proposal.

"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting

Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should

be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them

any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.

But they are Lady Middleton's visitors. How can I ask them away from

her?"

Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her

objection. "They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit

Street, and Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the

same number of days to such near relations."

Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,

"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.

But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few

days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think

the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward.

We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles

may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you

do like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and

they are such favourites with Harry!"

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the

Miss Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution

of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however,

slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless,

by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as

their visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had

procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and

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her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton

could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably

happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing

all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity

of being with Edward and his family was, above all things, the most material

to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her

feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged,

nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton,

which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to

have been always meant to end in two days' time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after

its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of

Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short

an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose

from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be

brought, by time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her

flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an

entry into the close heart of Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects

that laid open the probability of greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor

of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.

Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts

of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs.

Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in

her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book

made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not

know whether she should ever be able to part with them.

Chapter 37

MRS. PALMER was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother

felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and,

contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from

that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found

the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled

in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit

to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by

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herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear

something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began

directly to justify it, by saying,

"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"

"No, ma'am. What is it?"

"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all.-When I got to

Mr. Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was

sure it was very ill-it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So

I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is nothing in the

world, but the red gum-' and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte,

she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he

happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly,

and as soon as ever he saw the child, be said just as we did, that it was

nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And

so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I

do not know how I happened to think of it, but it came into my head to

ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered,

and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last

he said in a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the

young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it

advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope

Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.' "

"What! is Fanny ill?"

"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs. Dashwood

ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the

matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very

young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out,

I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars,

it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin

Lucy!-There's for you, my dear!-And not a creature knowing a syllable

of the matter, except Nancy!-Could you have believed such a thing

possible?-There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that

matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect

it!-that is strange!-I never happened to see them together, or I

am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept

a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother

or sister suspected a word of the matter;-till this very morning, poor

Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt

it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of Lucy, to

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be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to

your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting

what was to come-for she had just been saying to your brother, only

five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Edward

and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what

a blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics

immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was

sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a

letter to his steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible

scene took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little

dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity her. And I must say,

I think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury,

and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees,

and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said

he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should not

stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go

down upon his knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had

packed up their clothes. Then she fell into hysterics again, and he was

so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan

found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to

take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came

off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and

Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have no patience with your

sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her.

Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of it! To

have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of

her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest

passion!-and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great

deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to

Harley Street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it,

for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your

sister was sure she would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what

I care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's

making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on

earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs.

Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next

to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the

most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow him

five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as

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any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in such

another cottage as yours-or a little bigger-with two maids, and two

men; and I believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a

sister out of place, that would fit them exactly."

Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to

collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make

such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.

Happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest

in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the

case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to Edward; and happy

above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne, she felt very well able to

speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as

she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in

it.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event

really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its

being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward

and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could

not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more

anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself. For him she felt

much compassion;-for Lucy very little-and it cost her some pains to

procure that little;-for the rest of the party none at all.

As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw

the necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to

be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth,

and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without

betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment

against Edward.

Elinor's office was a painful one.-She was going to remove what

she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation,-to give such particulars

of Edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good

opinion,-and to make Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations,

which to her fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment

over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to

be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform it.

She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent

herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command

she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement,

might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narra-

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tion was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without

emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous

grief.-That belonged rather to the hearer, for Marianne listened with

horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the comforter of others

in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that

could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very

earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was

readily offered.

But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward

seemed a second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she

had loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy

Steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable

of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to

believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Edward for

her. She would not even admit it to have been natural; and Elinor left

her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince

her, a better knowledge of mankind.

Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact

of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.-Marianne's

feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail;

and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress,

lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first question on her

side, which led to farther particulars, was,

"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to

you?"

"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton

Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which

her lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed-

"Four months!-Have you known of this four months?"

Elinor confirmed it.

"What!-while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your

heart?-And I have reproached you for being happy!"-

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!"

"Four months!"-cried Marianne again.-"So calm!-so cheerful!-

how have you been supported?"-

"By feeling that I was doing my duty.-My promise to Lucy, obliged

me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of

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the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them

a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy."

Marianne seemed much struck.

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,"

added Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it;-but without betraying

my trust, I never could have convinced you."

"Four months!-and yet you loved him!"-

"Yes. But I did not love only him;-and while the comfort of others

was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much

I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would

not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer

materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not conscious

of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own,

I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit

Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so

sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some

regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense, and that

is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.-And after all,

Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant

attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely

on any particular person, it is not meant-it is not fit-it is not possible

that it should be so.-Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman

superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit

will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her."-

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of

what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your

resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered

at.-They are brought more within my comprehension."

"I understand you.-You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.-

For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind,

without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that

it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained

to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.-It was told

me,-it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose

prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,

with triumph.-This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose,

by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most

deeply interested;-and it has not been only once;-I have had her hopes

and exultation to listen to again and again.-I have known myself to be

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divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that

could make me less desire the connection.-Nothing has proved him unworthy;

nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.-I have had

to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his

mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying

its advantages.-And all this has been going on at a time, when,

as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.-If you can

think me capable of ever feeling-surely you may suppose that I have suffered

now. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at

present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing

to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion;-they

did not spring up of themselves;-they did not occur to relieve my spirits

at first.-No, Marianne.-Then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps

nothing could have kept me entirely-not even what I owed to my

dearest friends-from openly shewing that I was very unhappy."-

Marianne was quite subdued.-

"Oh! Elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.-

How barbarous have I been to you!-you, who have been my only comfort,

who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be

only suffering for me!-Is this my gratitude?-Is this the only return I

can make you?-Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been

trying to do it away."

The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of

mind as she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her

whatever promise she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged

never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of

bitterness;-to meet Lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike

to her;-and even to see Edward himself, if chance should bring

them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.-These

were great concessions;-but where Marianne felt that she had injured,

no reparation could be too much for her to make.

She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.-She

attended to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an

unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard

three times to say, "Yes, ma'am."-She listened to her praise of Lucy

with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings

talked of Edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.-

Such advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to

any thing herself.

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The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their

brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful

affair, and bring them news of his wife.

"You have heard, I suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon

as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under

our roof yesterday."

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for

speech.

"Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars

too-in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress-but I

will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us

quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I

would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially

to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution

equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel!

She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot

wonder at it, after being so deceived!-meeting with such ingratitude,

where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been

placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had

asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they

deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would

be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to

have invited you and Marianne to be with us, while your kind friend

there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish,

with all my heart,' says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had

asked your sisters instead of them.' "

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

"What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her,

is not to be described. While she with the truest affection had been

planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that

he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!-such a

suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected any prepossession

elsewhere, it could not be in that quarter. 'There, to be sure,'

said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite in an agony.

We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last

she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate

what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to

the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments,

and Fanny's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was

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disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before.

His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying

Miss Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate,

which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even,

when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition

to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him

the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand

pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again;

and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that

if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she

would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together,

and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!"

"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy

which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is

very natural."

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and

forbore.

"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said

very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.

Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would

stand to it, cost him what it might."

"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to

be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.

Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a

rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for

Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in

the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband."

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not

open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially

anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,

madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,

but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.

And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under

her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune

as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I

do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you

have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish her extremely happy; and

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Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every

conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has

been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it

will be a bad one."

Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart

wrung for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats,

for a woman who could not reward him.

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did it end?"

"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:-Edward is

dismissed for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday,

but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for

we of course can make no inquiry."

"Poor young man!-and what is to become of him?"

"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the

prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable.

The interest of two thousand pounds-how can a man live on it?-and

when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own

folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five

hundred a-year (for Miss Morton has thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot

picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him;

and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him."

"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be

very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if

I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own

charge now, at lodgings and taverns."

Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though

she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

"If he would only have done as well by himself," said John Dashwood,

"as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have

been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as

it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one

thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all-his

mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that

estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward's, on

proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over

the business."

"Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is her revenge. Everybody has a

way of their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son

independent, because another had plagued me."

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Marianne got up and walked about the room.

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued

John, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which

might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely."

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his

visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed

there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they

need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the

three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as

far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods', and

Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room;

and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary

in Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.

Chapter 38

MRS. JENNINGS was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct,

but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. They only knew

how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small

was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could

remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Elinor gloried in his

integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his

punishment. But though confidence between them was, by this public

discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which

either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided it upon

principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm,

too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued

affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's

courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always

left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it

necessarily produced between Elinor's conduct and her own.

She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had

hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual

self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted

herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the

hope of amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still

fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her

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more.

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of

affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of

the matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have

had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking

after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort

and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the

hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them

within that time.

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so

fine, so beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens,

though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor

were of the number; but Marianne, who knew that theWilloughbys were

again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather

to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after

they entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing

with them, and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was

herself left to quiet reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing

of Edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by

any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her. But at last she

found herself with some surprise, accosted by Miss Steele, who, though

looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on

receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Jennings,

left her own party for a short time, to join their's. Mrs. Jennings immediately

whispered to Elinor,

"Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask.

You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too,

that she would tell any thing without being asked; for nothing would

otherwise have been learnt.

"I am so glad to meet you;" said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by

the arm-"for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And then

lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is

she angry?"

"Not at all, I believe, with you."

"That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is she angry?"

"I cannot suppose it possible that she should."

"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time

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of it! I never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first

she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me

again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as

good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in

the feather last night. There now, you are going to laugh at me too. But

why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it is the Doctor's

favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known he

did like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say

so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not

know which way to look before them."

She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to

say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again

to the first.

"Well, but Miss Dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may

say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have

Lucy, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for

such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think

about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it

down for certain."

"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"

said Elinor.

"Oh, did not you? But it was said, I know, very well, and by more

than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses

could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with

thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing

at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin

Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr.

Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come near us for three

days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Lucy

gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's Wednesday,

and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and

did not know what was become of him. Once Lucy thought to write

to him, but then her spirits rose against that. However this morning he

came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how

he had been sent for Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by

his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all

that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy would he have.

And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had

went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid

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into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at

an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And

after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if,

now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind

to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he

had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else;

and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get

nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?-He could

not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had

the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him

shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.

And it was entirely for her sake, and upon her account, that he said a

word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he

never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss

Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear

to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about

sweet and love, you know, and all that-Oh, la! one can't repeat such

kind of things you know)-she told him directly, she had not the least

mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and

how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all,

you know, or something of the kind. So then he was monstrous happy,

and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed

he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he

got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin

called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach,

and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go

into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go,

but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on

a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said

Elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"

"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make

love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!-To be sure you must

know better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)-No, no; they were shut

up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at

the door."

"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only

learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it

before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars

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of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How

could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"

"Oh, la! there is nothing in that. I only stood at the door, and heard

what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me;

for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets

together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a

chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."

Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be

kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is

lodging at No. -, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother

is, an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However,

I shan't say anything against them to you; and to be sure they did send

us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And

for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for

the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing

was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward

have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a

time; and after that, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be

ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!-Good gracious! (giggling

as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they

hear of it. They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward

the curacy of his new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not

do such a thing for all the world.-'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder

how you could think of such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!' "

"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.

You have got your answer ready."

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach

of her own party made another more necessary.

"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say

to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you

they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and

they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings

about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in

anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything should

happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings should want

company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her

for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't ask us

any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here.

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Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin

on!-I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to

pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was

claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge

which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she

had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned

in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly

determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely

uncertain, as she had concluded it would be;-every thing depended, exactly

after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at

present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for

information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence

that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined

herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured

that Lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to

have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the means that

were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication;

and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following natural remark.

"Wait for his having a living!-ay, we all know how that will end:-

they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will

set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his

two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt

can give her.-Then they will have a child every year! and Lord help

'em! how poor they will be!-I must see what I can give them towards

furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!-as I talked

of t'other day.-No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works.-Betty's

sister would never do for them now."

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from

Lucy herself. It was as follows:

"Bartlett's Building, March.

"I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of

writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased

to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all

the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more

apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered

dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must

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always be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions,

but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many

friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall

always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I

am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent

two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of

our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge

him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot,

would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard

his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are

not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he

will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend

him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will

not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good

word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able

to assist us.-Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she

did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it

too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning,

'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to

know her.-My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most

gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady

Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and

love to Miss Marianne,

"I am, &c."

As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded

to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings,

who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.

"Very well indeed!-how prettily she writes!-aye, that was quite

proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy.-Poor

soul! I wish I could get him a living, with all my heart.-She calls me

dear Mrs. Jennings, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.-

Very well upon my word. That sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes,

I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of every

body!-Thank you, my dear, for shewing it me. It is as pretty a letter as

ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart great credit."

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Chapter 39

THE MISS DASHWOODS had now been rather more than two

months in town, and Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every

day. She sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and

fancied that if any place could give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor

was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so

much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious

of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne could not

be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her

thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their

wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of

her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them

from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much

more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland

about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with

both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go

with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy