Sense and Sensibility

by Jane Austen (1811)

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.

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 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 affectionate,
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, 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."

"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 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, 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.

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 7000L 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 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 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 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 partiality 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 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 cold-hearted! 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 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 a 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 forbad
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, 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 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 performance 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 son-in-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 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 offices 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 cottage 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 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 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 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 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.

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 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 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 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?--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
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 an 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?"

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 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. From Willoughby 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, 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; 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 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 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," said Willoughby, "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."

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.

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 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 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 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 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."

"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.

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."

"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."

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.

"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 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; 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 summer-rooms
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 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 engossed
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 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 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.

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 by Willoughby
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 mantel-piece 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 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
by Willoughby, 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.

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
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, 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 love Willoughby, 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
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 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 to Willoughby? From you,
her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question
could not give offence. It would be 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 inflict! 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 confidence 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 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 rapturous 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
sufficiently 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?"

"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
mortified 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, 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.

"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 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 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. 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
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 absence 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 mother-in-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."

"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 self-mortification, 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 service, 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 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.

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."

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 always 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 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 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.

"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 ill-bred."

"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 general 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."

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned
into the drawing-room, 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."

"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 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 husband 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 amazement 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 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 perfectly 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 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 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. 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 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 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, 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 sister-in-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 proceeded 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 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 low-spirited 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 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.

[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.]

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 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 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 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 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 piano-forte;
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 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."

"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 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. Jennings, 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 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 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.
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 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, "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 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.

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 what Willoughby'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 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 to Willoughby;
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,
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 whether Willoughby 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 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 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 with Mamma? 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 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 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 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."

"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 receive 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 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 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 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 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.

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, 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, 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 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 supposed Willoughby
capable of departing so far from the appearance of every
honourable and delicate feeling--so 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, 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."

"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 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 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 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.

"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 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 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?"

"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, 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.

"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 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 XXXI

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 refinement 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 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 drawing-room
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,
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 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.

"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 confinement,
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 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 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
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 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 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
hearing Willoughby'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 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 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 mulberry-tree, 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 of Willoughby'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
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 self-command 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.

"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 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 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.

"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?"

"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,
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 flower-garden
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 consideration, 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. 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 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 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 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. Davis 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 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 on
William'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 Middletons'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 Miss
Morton'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,

"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.