
                                 

                                  Jane Austen

                             Sense and Sensibility

                                    Volume I

                                   Chapter I

The family of Dashwood had been long 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 honour 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 showing 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 every thing; her sorrows, her joys, could
have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was every thing
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-humoured 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 II

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 any body 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 every thing 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 ever be restored to our poor little boy -«
    »Why, to be sure,« said her husband, very gravely, »that would make a 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 any thing 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 above 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 any 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 be 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 every thing 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 III

Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination to
move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion
which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her
mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its
affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and
indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of
Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and
suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected
several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have
approved.
    Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the
part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly
reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had
doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with
satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller
provision than 7000 l. 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 gentlemanlike 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 centred 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 every thing 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 can 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! mama, 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 a 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, mama, 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, mama, 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 an 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 IV

»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, his 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 forbade the
indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved to him so
as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that
he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for
his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor
to feel easy on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his
preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay,
the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;
and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than
friendship.
    But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by
his sister, to make her uneasy; and at the same time, (which was still more
common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her
mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's
great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry
well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in;
that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavour 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 every thing 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 acknowledgement of his kindness, and her acceptance of his
proposal; and then hastened to show 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 her letter of acquiescence.
 

                                   Chapter V

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
an 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 an 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 round by water. It chiefly
consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with an 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 every thing 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 VI

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 parlours 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 endeavouring, by placing around
them their 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 their's 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 ago 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 showing 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
inquire 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 VII

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 an 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 insatiable 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 pianoforté, 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 extatic 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 VIII

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, mama, 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.«
    »Mama, 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 any thing 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, »Mama,« 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 IX

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 inquiry, 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 an 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
an 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 the 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 to-morrow to inquire
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 than 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 to-morrow, 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 to-day?«
    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,
    »Aye, 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 X

Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision, stiled
Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal
inquiries. 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
hardly 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 dispatch
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 inquire 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 by 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 patronized 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 women 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 protegé you can even be saucy.«
    »My protegé, 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 the 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 farther 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 has 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
acknowledgement, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege
of disliking him as much as ever.«
 

                                   Chapter XI

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 in
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 shown; 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. Jennings'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 total
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 by him. This suspicion was
given by some words which accidentally 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 minutia 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 stopped 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 XII

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; mama 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 scissars 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.«
    From 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 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 XIII

Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently 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 were 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 wo'nt 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,« he 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 to-morrow, 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 any thing. 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.«
    »Aye, 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 show that
house; and as we 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 all our lives. I
value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not
sensible of having done any thing 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 show 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 XIV

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 every thing 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 any thing 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 engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and
Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to
them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and
more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly
acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each
other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
    She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their
power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him
rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a
year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and
he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind of
secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed
nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to
their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of
their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any
inquiry of Marianne.
    Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby's behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness
which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the
affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be
considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there
than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the
exercise which called him out in 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 had 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 on 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 every thing 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 to-morrow 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 XV

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
mantle-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and
his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which overpowered
Marianne.
    »Is any thing 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 dependant 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 stopped. 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 he 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 shown 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 as 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 shown. 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 so much 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 you myself. - But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we have 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 practised 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, he 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 every thing 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 any thing 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 XVI

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
an 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 pianoforté 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 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 inquiry 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 inquiries 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 year. The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves.«
    »Oh!« cried Marianne, »with what transporting sensations 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 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 one 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 at 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, etc. 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 XVII

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
expressions 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 I 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 if 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 a large fortune myself,« said Mrs. Dashwood,
»if my children were all to be rich without 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
show 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 - for 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 anything 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 our 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 conform to their judgment in serious
matters?«
    »You have not been able then 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 aukwardness. 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 stared - »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 that 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 XVIII

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
up stairs 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 he, »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 inquire 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 villagers 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 to-morrow 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 to 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 XIX

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 temporising 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 the 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 despondent 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, mama, 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 mean time, 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 forwards 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 round.
    »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 choose 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 XX

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 to-morrow. 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 the world for you,
next door to our's, 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 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. Dulness 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 dropped in.
    »I am afraid, Miss Marianne,« said Sir John, »you have not been able to take
your usual walk to Allenham to-day.«
    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 altogether.
    »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 to-day?«
    »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.«
    »Aye, 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 come 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 language 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 for 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. Mama 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 just the kind of man I
like.«
 

                                  Chapter XXI

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 attentions they were making themselves agreeable to Lady
Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their
beauty, courting their notice, and humouring all 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 incroachments 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 scissars 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 to-day!« said she, on his taking Miss Steele'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 creature!« 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 dote 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 mens' 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 choose 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 XXII

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
towards others, made every show 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 inquiring 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 an 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 elder 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 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 a 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 about it! Did not you 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. The 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.
 
                                 End of Vol. I.
 

                                   Volume II

                                   Chapter I

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 blameable, highly
blameable, 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 an
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 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 fillagree 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
fillagree 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 to-morrow, 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 fillagree 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-forté; 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- 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 piano-forté, at which Marianne, wrapt 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 II

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 do not really blame me. If you knew what a consolation it
was to me to relieve my heart by 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' 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 be always happy,« replied Elinor, »to show any mark of my esteem
and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do not you 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 biassed 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 their
returning to fulfil 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 III

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 Miss Dashwoods 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 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 odd 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! And I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may
now be performed without 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 not let me hear a word
about the expense of it.«
    »My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings' 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 abridgment,
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 the 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 IV

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 her 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 mantlepiece 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 inquiry 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 to-day?«
    »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.«
    »Aye, 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. Aye, 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 mama? 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 any thing; 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; but 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 inquiry 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 fulfil 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 V

»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 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 to-night!«
    »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.«
    »Aye, 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 to-morrow.« But Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on
Mrs. Jennings'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 anything. 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 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 to-day, 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 VI

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 curtesying
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 and doing less, Lady
Middleton sat down to Casino, 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- 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 lavendar 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 a
place for explanations. Wait only till to-morrow.«
    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 as 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 VII

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 tranquillize 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, not 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. Jennings'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 deathlike 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. Jennings'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 wo'nt 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 wo'nt 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 lying 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 any thing 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 of 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 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 way 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 meet 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. Cannot 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 roust 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 VIII

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.
Aye, 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 it is 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 it. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming to-night 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 an 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, stilish 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 wo'nt 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 he 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 to-day 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 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
to-morrow.«
    »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 good 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 inforcement 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 Midsummer. Lord! how he'll chuckle over this
news! I hope he will come to-night. 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
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 stewponds, 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!«
    »Aye, if we can but 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 saw her,
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 cholicky 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 good effects on a cholicky 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 staid 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
proportionably 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 it 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 IX

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;
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 good-will.
    With a letter in her out-stretched 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 for 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 entreat 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 shown Marianne. My gratitude will be
insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and her's 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, »I can have little temptation to be diffuse.«
    He stopped 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, in 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 an 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 frequently 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 dishonourable 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 as 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 endeavours 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 in 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 X

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 show by her tears that she felt it to be impossible.
But though this behaviour assured Elinor that the conviction of his 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 anywhere, 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 idea 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 waiting 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 shown 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 an 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 inquiries 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 Mr. 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, Holborn, presented themselves again before their
more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley-street; 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 XI

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 attend 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 hopes of exciting his politeness to a quicker dispatch. 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
bed-room.
    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 an happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.
    Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, and 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 to-morrow 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 inclosure 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, etc. 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 greenhouse, 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 she 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 any I ever saw; and as likely to attract the men. 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
exceeding 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 XII

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 demeanour, 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 any thing 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 choose 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 any thing, 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 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 that 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's 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 honourably distinguished; and Miss
Steele wanted only to be teased 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, enclosing 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 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 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 the
gratifying testimony of Lady Middleton'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 phillippic; »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 foretel 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 her's, 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.
    In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to
the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the
impression of what had passed, the whole evening.
    »Poor Marianne!« said her brother to Colonel Brandon in a low voice, as soon
as he could secure his attention, - »She has not such good health as her sister,
- she is very nervous, - she has not Elinor's constitution; - and one must allow
that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty, in
the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but
Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.
- Now you see it is all gone.«
 

                                  Chapter XIII

Elinor's curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied. - She had found in her
every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families,
undesirable. - She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her
determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that
must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward and
herself, had he been otherwise free; - and she had seen almost enough to be
thankful for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from
suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars's creation, preserved her from all
dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at
least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward's being fettered
to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have
rejoiced.
    She wondered that Lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the
civility of Mrs. Ferrars; - that her interest and her vanity should so very much
blind her, as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was
not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself - or to allow her to derive
encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was
unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy's eyes at the
time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her
particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley-street on the chance
of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.
    The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she
arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
    »My dear friend,« cried Lucy as soon as they were by themselves, »I come to
talk to you of my happiness. Could any thing be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars's
way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was! - You know how I
dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; - but the very moment I was introduced,
there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she
had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so? - You saw it all; and was not
you quite struck with it?«
    »She was certainly very civil to you.«
    »Civil! - Did you see nothing but only civility? - I saw a vast deal more.
Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! - No pride, no hauteur, and
your sister just the same - all sweetness and affability!«
    Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own
that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on. -
    »Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,« said she, »nothing could
be more flattering than their treatment of you; - but as that was not the case«
-
    »I guessed you would say so« - replied Lucy quickly - »but there was no
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and
her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am
sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I
used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are
both delightful women indeed! - I wonder I should never hear you say how
agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!«
    To this, Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
    »Are you ill, Miss Dashwood? - you seem low - you don't speak; - sure you
an't well.«
    »I never was in better health.«
    »I am glad of it with all my heart, but really you did not look it. I should
be so sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in
the world! - Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship.« -
    Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it
seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,
    »Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's
love, it is the greatest comfort I have. - Poor Edward! - But now, there is one
good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady
Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in
Harley-street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister -
besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now; - and Mrs. Ferrars and
your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad
to see me. - They are such charming women! - I am sure if ever you tell your
sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high.«
    But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell
her sister. Lucy continued.
    »I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a
dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal curtsey, for instance, without
saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me
in a pleasant way - you know what I mean, - if I had been treated in that
forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not
have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent.«
    Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the
door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's
immediately walking in.
    It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it was
so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an
inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The
very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been
most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them - They were not only all three
together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies
recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward,
and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only
look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
    But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own,
to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to
welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and
another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the
presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to
deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much
regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley-street. She would
not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost
a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon
perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
    Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to
sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a
proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it
rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience
have quite the ease of Elinor's.
    Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no
contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost
every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer
all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, etc. which
Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.
    Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so
heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to
leave the others by themselves: and she really did it, and that in the
handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place,
with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that
was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for
Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in
seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly
spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed
the affection of a sister.
    »Dear Edward!« she cried, »this is a moment of great happiness! - This would
almost make amends for every thing!«
    Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down,
and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the
most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor,
regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's
unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice
Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree
with her.
    »Oh! don't think of me!« she replied, with spirited earnestness, though her
eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, »don't think of my health. Elinor is
well, you see. That must be enough for us both.«
    This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to
conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very
benignant expression.
    »Do you like London?« said Edward, willing to say any thing that might
introduce another subject.
    »Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The
sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you
are what you always were!«
    She paused - no one spoke.
    »I think, Elinor,« she presently added, »we must employ Edward to take care
of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going;
and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge.«
    Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even
himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to
whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of
something else.
    »We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley-street yesterday! So dull, so
wretchedly dull! - But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be
said now.«
    And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her
finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being
particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
    »But why were you not there, Edward? - Why did you not come?«
    »I was engaged elsewhere.«
    »Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?«
    »Perhaps, Miss Marianne,« cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her,
»you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep
them, little as well as great.«
    Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting;
for she calmly replied,
    »Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience
only kept Edward from Harley-street. And I really believe he has the most
delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every
engagement however minute, and however it may make against his interest or
pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and
the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so
and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised! - Then, you
must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must
submit to my open commendation.«
    The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be
particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was
so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
    »Going so soon!« said Marianne; »my dear Edward, this must not be.«
    And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could
not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and
Lucy, who would have outstaid him had his visit lasted two hours, soon
afterwards went away.
    »What can bring her here so often!« said Marianne, on her leaving them.
»Could she not see that we wanted her gone! - how teasing to Edward!«
    »Why so? - we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to
him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as
ourselves.«
    Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, »You know, Elinor, that this is a
kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion
contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am
the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of
assurances, that are not really wanted.«
    She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for
bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no
information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her
still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it. All that
she could hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the
distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any
other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting - and this she had
every reason to expect.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world,
that the Lady of Thomas Palmer, Esq. was safely delivered of a son and heir; a
very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate
connections who knew it before.
    This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings's happiness, produced a
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like
degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as
possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was
dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods, at
the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in
Conduit-street. For their own comfort, they would much rather have remained, at
least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be
urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to
Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company was in fact as
little valued, as it was professedly sought.
    They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the
latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on their ground,
and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though nothing could
be more polite than Lady Middleton's behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did
not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her
children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of
reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was
to be satirical; but that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and
easily given.
    Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the
idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was ashamed of
doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was proud to think of and
administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. Miss
Steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in
their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them, only have
given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.
Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of
the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But
this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of
pity for her sister to Elinor, and more than once dropped a reflection on the
inconstancy of beaux before Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of
indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet
lighter might have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her
about the Doctor! But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined to
oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a whole day
without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough
to bestow on herself.
    All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected
by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be
together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having
escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long. She joined them sometimes at
Sir John's, and sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came
in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's
well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of
her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire. One thing did
disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Palmer maintained the
common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and
though she could plainly perceive at different times, the most striking
resemblance between, this baby and every one of his relations on both sides,
there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it
was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be
brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in
the world.
    I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell
Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters with Mrs. Jennings
were first calling on her in Harley-street, another of her acquaintance had
dropped in - a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to
her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form
wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's
happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy so far to outrun truth and
probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods, and
understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them
to be staying in Harley-street; and this misconstruction produced within a day
or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and
sister, to a small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was,
that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great
inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods; but, what was
still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat
them with attention; and who could tell that they might not expect to go out
with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must
always be her's. But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a
mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the
expectation of any thing better from them.
    Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going
out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she
went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's
engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very
often without knowing till the last moment, where it was to take her.
    To her dress and appearance she was grown, so perfectly indifferent, as not
to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilette, which
it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes of their being together,
when it was finished. Nothing escaped her minute observation and general
curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she
knew the price of every part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number
of her gowns altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per
week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself. The impertinence of
these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment,
which though meant as its douceur, was considered by Marianne as the greatest
impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make
of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was
almost sure of being told that upon »her word she looked vastly smart, and she
dared to say would make a great many conquests.«
    With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion
to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it
stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law,
who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for
some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her
coachman.
    The events of the evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other
musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the
performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers
themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate
friends, the first private performers in England.
    As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple
of turning away her eyes from the grand pianoforté, whenever it suited her, and
unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and a violoncello, would fix them
at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances
she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a
lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking
at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to
find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
    He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which
assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb
she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy had it been for her, if her
regard for Edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his
nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing
stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. But
while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that
the emptiness and conceit of the one, put her at all out of charity with the
modesty and worth of the other. Why they were different, Robert explained to her
himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of
his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed kept
him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much
less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well
fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
    »Upon my soul,« he added, »I believe it is nothing more; and so I often tell
my mother, when she is grieving about it. My dear Madam, I always say to her,
you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been
entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert,
against your own judgment, to place Edward under private tuition, at the most
critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as
myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been
prevented. This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother
is perfectly convinced of her error.«
    Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general
estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of Edward's
abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
    »You reside in Devonshire, I think« - was his next observation, »in a
cottage near Dawlish.«
    Elinor set him right as to its situation, and it seemed rather surprising to
him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He
bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house.
    »For my own part,« said he, »I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is
always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any
money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short
distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a
few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body who is going to build,
to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me the other day on purpose
to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of Bonomi's. I was to
decide on the best of them. My dear Courtland, said I, immediately throwing them
all into the fire, do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a
cottage. And that, I fancy, will be the end of it.
    Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a
cottage; but this is all a mistake. I was last month at my friend Elliott's near
Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. But how can it be done? said she;
my dear Ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed. There is not a room in this
cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be? I immediately
saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so I said, My dear Lady Elliott, do
not be uneasy. The dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease;
card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea
and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon. Lady
Elliott was delighted with the thought. We measured the dining-room, and found
it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely
after my plan. So that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about
it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious
dwelling.«
    Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of
rational opposition.
    As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his
mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him
during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when
they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his
sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited
to become such, while Mrs. Jennings's engagements kept her from home. The
expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an
attention, which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to
its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father. Fanny was startled
at the proposal.
    »I do not see how it can be done,« said she, »without affronting Lady
Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be exceedingly
glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power,
as my taking them out this evening shows. But they are Lady Middleton's
visitors. How can I ask them away from her?«
    Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her
objection. »They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit-street, and
Lady Middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days
to such near relations.«
    Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigour, said,
    »My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I
had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days with
us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is
due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask your sisters
some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I
am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very much
already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!«
    Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of
inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting
that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town
as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as their visitor.
    Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured
it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for
some days, in Harley-street, as soon as Lady Middleton could spare them. This
was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed
actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all
her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above
all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most
gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully
acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Middleton,
which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have
been always meant to end in two days time.
    When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its
arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of
Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an
acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good will towards her arose from
something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time
and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already
subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of
Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.
    The Miss Steeles removed to Harley-street, and all that reached Elinor of
their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who
called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they
were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much
pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each
of them a needle book, made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her christian name;
and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.
 
                                End of Vol. II.
 

                                   Volume III

                                   Chapter I

Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no
longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and contenting herself
with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own
home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to
reassume their former share.
    About the third or fourth morning after their being thus re-settled in
Berkeley-street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs.
Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an
air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and
giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it by saying,
    »Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news!«
    »No, ma'am. What is it?«
    »Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. - When I got to Mr.
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was
very ill-it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I looked at it
directly, and, Lord! my dear, says I, it is nothing in the world but the
red-gum; and nurse said just the same. But Charlotte, she would not be
satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to be just come
in from Harley-street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw
the child, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the
red-gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going away again,
it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I happened to think of it, but
it came into my head to ask him if there was any news. So upon that, he smirked,
and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at
last he said in a whisper, For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young
ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it advisable
to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Dashwood
will do very well.«
    »What! is Fanny ill?«
    »That is exactly what I said, my dear. Lord! says I, is Mrs. Dashwood ill?
So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can
learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke
with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there never
was any thing in it), Mr. Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this
twelvemonth to my cousin Lucy! - There's for you, my dear! - And not a creature
knowing a syllable of the matter except Nancy! - Could you have believed such a
thing possible? - There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that
matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it! That
is strange! - I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have
found it out directly. Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of
Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the
matter; - till this very morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning
creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out. Lord! thinks she to herself, they
are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it; and
so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work,
little suspecting what was to come - for she had just been saying to your
brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between
Edward and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. So you may think what a
blow it was to all her vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics
immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting
in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his
steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place,
for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor
soul! I pity her. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your
sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she
fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the
room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should
not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down
upon his knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up
their clothes. Then she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that
he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this
uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and
they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he
says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I have
no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match
in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be in when he hears of
it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is monstrous fond of
her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest of a
passion! - and Mr. Donavan thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of
talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to
Harley-street, that he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for
she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was
sure she would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I care. I have no
pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about
money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should
not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and
though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to
make the most of every thing; and I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow
him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any
body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might live in such another
cottage as yours - or a little bigger - with two maids and two men; and I
believe I could help them to a housemaid, for my Betty has a sister out of
place, that would fit them exactly.«
    Here Mrs. Jennings ceased, and as Elinor had had time enough to collect her
thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as
the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that she was
not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Jennings (as she
had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all
attached to Edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Marianne,
she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to
give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every
one concerned in it.
    She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was;
though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end
otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy. What Mrs. Ferrars
would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was
anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct
himself. For him she felt much compassion; - for Lucy very little - and it cost
her some pains to procure that little; - for the rest of the party none at all.
    As Mrs. Jennings could talk on no other subject, Elinor soon saw the
necessity of preparing Marianne for its discussion. No time was to be lost in
undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in
endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that
she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against Edward.
    Elinor's office was a painful one. - She was going to remove what she really
believed to be her sister's chief consolation, - to give such particulars of
Edward, as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion, - and to make
Marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem
strong, feel all her own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task
must be, it was necessary to be done, and Elinor therefore hastened to perform
it.
    She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent
herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had
practised since her first knowledge of Edward's engagement, might suggest a hint
of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple; and
though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent
agitation, nor impetuous grief. - That belonged rather to the hearer, for
Marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively. Elinor was to be the
comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the
comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a
very earnest vindication of Edward from every charge but of imprudence, was
readily offered.
    But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a
second Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she had loved him most
sincerely, could she feel less than herself! As for Lucy Steele, she considered
her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man,
that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon,
any former affection of Edward for her. She would not even admit it to have been
natural; and Elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only
could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
    Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the
engagement, and the length of time it had existed. - Marianne's feelings had
then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time
all that could be done was to sooth her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat
her resentment. The first question on her side, which led to farther
particulars, was,
    »How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?«
    »I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton-park last
November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.«
    At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment, which her lips
could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed,
    »Four months! - Have you known of this four months?« -
    Elinor confirmed it.
    »What! - while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart? -
and I have reproached you for being happy!« -
    »It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!« -
    »Four months!« - cried Marianne again. - »So calm! - so cheerful! - how have
you been supported?« -
    »By feeling that I was doing my duty. - My promise to Lucy, obliged me to be
secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and
I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me,
which it could not be in my power to satisfy.«
    Marianne seemed much struck. -
    »I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,« added
Elinor; »and once or twice I have attempted it; - but without betraying my
trust, I never could have convinced you.«
    »Four months! - and yet you loved him!« -
    »Yes. But I did not love only him; - and while the comfort of others was
dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can
think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my
account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many
things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment
by any imprudence of my own, and I have borne it as much as possible without
spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of all essential misconduct. I wish him
very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he
may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense,
and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built. - And after
all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant
attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on
any particular person, it is not meant - it is not fit - it is not possible that
it should be so. - Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in
person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to
forget that he ever thought another superior to her.« -
    »If such is your way of thinking,« said Marianne, »if the loss of what is
most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your
self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at. - They are brought
more within my comprehension.«
    »I understand you. - You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. - For
four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at
liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and
my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare
you for it in the least. - It was told me, - it was in a manner forced on me by
the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and
told me, as I thought, with triumph. - This person's suspicions, therefore, I
have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most
deeply interested; - and it has not been only once; - I have had her hopes and
exultation to listen to again and again. - I have known myself to be divided
from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less
desire the connection. - Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has any thing
declared him indifferent to me. - I have had to contend against the unkindness
of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment
of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages. - And all this has been going
on at a time, when, as you too well know, it has not been my only unhappiness. -
If you can think me capable of ever feeling - surely you may suppose that I have
suffered now. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present
to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have
been the effect of constant and painful exertion; - they did not spring up of
themselves; - they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first - No, Marianne.
- Then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me
entirely - not even what I owed to my dearest friends - from openly showing that
I was very unhappy.« -
    Marianne was quite subdued. -
    »Oh! Elinor,« she cried, »you have made me hate myself for ever. - How
barbarous have I been to you! - you, who have been my only comfort, who have
borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me! -
Is this my gratitude! - Is this the only return I can make you? - Because your
merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away.«
    The tenderest caresses followed this confession. In such a frame of mind as
she was now in, Elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise
she required; and at her request, Marianne engaged never to speak of the affair
to any one with the least appearance of bitterness; - to meet Lucy without
betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; - and even to see Edward
himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her
usual cordiality. - These were great concessions; - but where Marianne felt that
she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.
    She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration. - She attended
to all that Mrs. Jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging
complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say,
»Yes, ma'am.« - She listened to her praise of Lucy with only moving from one
chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of Edward's affection, it cost
her only a spasm in her throat. - Such advances towards heroism in her sister,
made Elinor feel equal to any thing herself.
    The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their
brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair,
and bring them news of his wife.
    »You have heard, I suppose,« said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was
seated, »of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof
yesterday.«
    They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
    »Your sister,« he continued, »has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Ferrars too - in
short it has been a scene of such complicated distress - but I will hope that
the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. Poor
Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much.
Donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is
a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing. She has borne it all, with
the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again;
and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived! - meeting with such
ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been
placed! It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked
these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some
attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions;
for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Marianne to be
with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be
so rewarded! I wish with all my heart, says poor Fanny in her affectionate way,
that we had asked your sisters instead of them.«
    Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
    »What poor Mrs. Ferrars suffered, when first Fanny broke it to her, is not
to be described. While she with the truest affection had been planning a most
eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time
secretly engaged to another person! - such a suspicion could never have entered
her head! If she suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in that
quarter. There, to be sure, said she, I might have thought myself safe. She was
quite in an agony. We consulted together, however, as to what should be done,
and at last she determined to send for Edward. He came. But I am sorry to relate
what ensued. All that Mrs. Ferrars could say to make him put an end to the
engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Fanny's
entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was disregarded. I
never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to
him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Morton; told him that she
would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a
good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it
twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low
connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match.
His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see
him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance,
that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she
would do all in her power to prevent his advancing in it.«
    Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and
cried, »Gracious God! can this be possible!«
    »Well may you wonder, Marianne,« replied her brother, »at the obstinacy
which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural.«
    Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.
    »All this, however,« he continued, »was urged in vain. Edward said very
little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should
prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it
might.«
    »Then,« cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be
silent, »he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dashwood, but
if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little
concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and
I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more
deserves a good husband.«
    John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to
provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good
fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,
    »I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam.
Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the
present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered
into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a
woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps
altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the
behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish
her extremely happy, and Mrs. Ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been
such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It
has been dignified and liberal. Edward has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will
be a bad one.«
    Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor's heart wrung for
the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who
could not reward him.
    »Well, sir,« said Mrs. Jennings, »and how did it end?«
    »I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture: - Edward is dismissed
for ever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is
gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for we of course can make
no inquiry.«
    »Poor young man! - and what is to become of him?«
    »What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect
of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest
of two thousand pounds - how can a man live on it! - and when to that is added
the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have
been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year, (for Miss Morton has
thirty thousand pounds,) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition.
We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our
power to assist him.«
    »Poor young man!« cried Mrs. Jennings, »I am sure he should be very welcome
to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is
not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and
taverns.«
    Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she
could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
    »If he would only have done as well by himself,« said John Dashwood, »as all
his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper
situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of
anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing against
him, which must be worse than all - his mother has determined, with a very
natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon Robert immediately, which
might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her
lawyer, talking over the business.«
    »Well!« said Mrs. Jennings, »that is her revenge. Everybody has a way of
their own. But I don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because
another had plagued me.«
    Marianne got up, and walked about the room.
    »Can any thing be more galling to the spirit of a man,« continued John,
»than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have
been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.«
    A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit;
and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no
material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be
very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their
sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs.
Ferrars's conduct, the Dashwoods' and Edward's.
    Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as
her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in Mrs.
Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.
 

                                   Chapter II

Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor
and Marianne understood its true merit. They only knew how little he had had to
tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the
consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends
and fortune. Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his
offences in compassion for his punishment. But though confidence between them
was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a
subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Elinor avoided
it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too
warm, too positive assurances of Marianne, that belief of Edward's continued
affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and Marianne's courage
soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more
dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced
between Elinor's conduct and her own.
    She felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped,
to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual
self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself
before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of
amendment. Her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion
impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more.
    Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in
Harley-street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the matter was
known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in
spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved
from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as
she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had
prevented her going to them within that time.
    The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so
beautiful a Sunday as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the
second week in March. Mrs. Jennings and Elinor were of the number; but Marianne,
who knew that the Willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of
meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
    An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Jennings joined them soon after they
entered the Gardens, and Elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them,
and engaging all Mrs. Jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet
reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some
time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be
interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted
by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in
meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of
Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's. Mrs.
Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
    »Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask. You
see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.«
    It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings's curiosity and Elinor's too, that
she would tell any thing without being asked, for nothing would otherwise have
been learnt.
    »I am so glad to meet you;« said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly by the
arm - »for I wanted to see you of all things in the world.« And then lowering
her voice, »I suppose Mrs. Jennings has heard all about it. Is she angry?«
    »Not at all, I believe, with you.«
    »That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is she angry?«
    »I cannot suppose it possible that she should.«
    »I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I
never saw Lucy in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would never
trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she
lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look,
she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. There now,
you are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do
not care if it is the Doctor's favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I
should never have known he did like it better than any other colour, if he had
not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! - I declare
sometimes I do not know which way to look before them.«
    She had wandered away to a subject on which Elinor had nothing to say, and
therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first.
    »Well, but Miss Dashwood,« speaking triumphantly, »people may say what they
choose about Mr. Ferrars's declaring he would not have Lucy, for it's no such a
thing I can tell you; and it's quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be
spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no
business of other people to set it down for certain.«
    »I never heard anything of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,« said
Elinor.
    »Oh! did not you? But it was said, I know, very well, and by more than one;
for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect Mr.
Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her
fortune, for Lucy Steele that had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks
myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to
the point, he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come
near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in
my heart Lucy gave it all up for lost; for we came away from your brother's on
Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and
did not know what was become with him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but
then her spirit rose against that. However this morning he came just as we came
home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday
to Harley-street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he
had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy, and nobody but Lucy
would he have. And how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he
had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into
the country some where or other; and how he had staid about at an inn all
Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it
all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune,
and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the
engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand
pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he
had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live
upon that? - He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he
begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly,
and leave him to shift for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could
possibly be. And it was entirely for her sake, and upon her account, that he
said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never
dropped a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Morton, or
anything like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would not give ear to such kind of
talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you
know, and all that - Oh, la! one can't repeat such kind of things you know) -
she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for
she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she
should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then
he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and
they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married
till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin
called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would
take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and
interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to
leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings, and
came off with the Richardsons.«
    »I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,« said Elinor; »you
were all in the same room together, were not you?«
    »No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love when
any body else is by? Oh for shame! - To be sure you must know better than that.
(Laughing affectedly.) - No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together,
and all I heard was only by listening at the door.«
    »How!« cried Elinor; »have you been repeating to me what you only learnt
yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I
certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation
which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by
your sister?«
    »Oh, la! there is nothing in that. I only stood at the door, and heard what
I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or
two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made
any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear
what we said.«
    Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could not be kept
beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
    »Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,« said she, »but now he is lodging at
No. -, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she? And your
brother and sister were not very kind! However, I shan't say anything against
them to you; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which
was more than I looked for. And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your
sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but
however, nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of sight.
Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a
time; and after that, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be
ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! - Good gracious! (giggling as she
spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it.
They will tell me I should write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his
new living. I know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all
the world. - La! I shall say directly, I wonder how you could think of such a
thing. I write to the Doctor, indeed!«
    »Well,« said Elinor, »it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst. You
have got your answer ready.«
    Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her
own party made another more necessary.
    »Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you,
but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you they are very
genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own
coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell
her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton
the same; and if any thing should happen to take you and your sister away, and
Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and
stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton won't
ask us any more this bout. Good bye; I am sorry Miss Marianne was not here.
Remember me kindly to her. La! if you have not got your spotted muslin on! - I
wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.«
    Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her
farewell compliments to Mrs. Jennings, before her company was claimed by Mrs.
Richardson; and Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her
powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what
had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage
with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained
as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be; - every thing
depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of
which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
    As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Jennings was eager for
information; but as Elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence
that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to
the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that Lucy,
for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance
of their engagement, and the means that were to be taken for promoting its end,
was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings the following
natural remark.
    »Wait for his having a living! - aye, we all know how that will end; - they
will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a
curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and
what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr. Pratt can give her. - Then they will have
a child every year! and Lord help 'em! how poor they will be! - I must see what
I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men indeed! -
as I talked of t'other day. - No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works. -
Betty's sister would never do for them now.«
    The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy
herself. It was as follows:
 
                                                    Bartlett's Buildings, March.
        I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing
        to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear
        such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles
        we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but
        proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we
        are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one
        another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but
        however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself
        not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully
        remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will
        be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours
        with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though
        earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for
        prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he
        consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his
        mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not
        very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he
        will be ordained shortly, and should it ever be in your power to
        recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you
        will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a
        good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be
        able to assist us. - Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but
        she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't
        think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way
        any morning, 'it would be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud
        to know her. - My paper reminds me to conclude, and begging to be most
        gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady
        Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love
        to Miss Marianne,
                                                                 I am, etc. etc.
 
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its
writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who read it
aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.
    »Very well indeed! - how prettily she writes! - aye, that was quite proper
to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. - Poor soul! I wish I
could get him a living with all my heart. - She calls me dear Mrs. Jennings, you
see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. - Very well upon my word. That
sentence is very prettily turned. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough.
How attentive she is, to think of every body! - Thank you, my dear, for showing
it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Lucy's head and heart
great credit.«
 

                                  Chapter III

The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and
Marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the air,
the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give
her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for
their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as
that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Marianne
could not be brought to acknowledge. She began, however, seriously to turn her
thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to
their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will,
when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few
weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether much more eligible than any other.
The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter
holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm
invitation from Charlotte to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been
sufficient for the delicacy of Miss Dashwood; - but it was inforced with so much
real politeness by Mr. Palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of
his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced
her to accept it with pleasure.
    When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not
very auspicious.
    »Cleveland!« - she cried, with great agitation. »No, I cannot go to
Cleveland.« -
    »You forget,« said Elinor, gently, »that its situation is not ... that it is
not in the neighbourhood of. ...«
    »But it is in Somersetshire. - I cannot go into Somersetshire. - There,
where I looked forward to going ... No, Elinor, you cannot expect me to go
there.«
    Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings; - she
only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others; - and represented it,
therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear
mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable
manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay.
From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Barton
was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant
might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion
for their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little
more than three weeks' time. As Marianne's affection for her mother was sincere,
it must triumph, with little difficulty, over the imaginary evil she had
started.
    Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed
them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful
for the attention, but it could not alter their design; and their mother's
concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was
arranged as far as it could be; - and Marianne found some relief in drawing up a
statement of the hours, that were yet to divide her from Barton.
    »Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
Dashwoods;« - was Mrs. Jennings's address to him when he first called on her,
after their leaving her was settled - »for they are quite resolved upon going
home from the Palmers; - and how forlorn we shall be, when I come back! - Lord!
we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats.«
    Perhaps Mrs. Jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future
ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape
from it; - and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object
gained; for, on Elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the
dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed
her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for
several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape
her observation, for though she was too honourable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might not hear, to one close by the piano
forté on which Marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that
Elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he
said, to pursue her employment. - Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in
the interval of Marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the
Colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologizing for
the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. She wondered
indeed at his thinking it necessary to do so; - but supposed it to be the proper
etiquette. What Elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from
the motion of her lips that she did not think that any material objection; - and
Mrs. Jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest. They then talked
on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky
stop in Marianne's performance brought her these words in the Colonel's calm
voice,
    »I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.«
    Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to
cry out, »Lord! what should hinder it?« - but checking her desire, confined
herself to this silent ejaculation.
    »This is very strange! - sure he need not wait to be older.« -
    This delay on the Colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify
his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon
afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Jennings very plainly heard Elinor
say, and with a voice which showed her to feel what she said,
    »I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.«
    Mrs. Jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered, that
after hearing such a sentence, the Colonel should be able to take leave of them,
as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making
her any reply! - She had not thought her old friend could have made so
indifferent a suitor.
    What had really passed between them was to this effect.
    »I have heard,« said he, with great compassion, »of the injustice your
friend Mr. Ferrars has suffered from his family; for if I understand the matter
right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement
with a very deserving young woman - Have I been rightly informed? - Is it so?« -
    Elinor told him that it was.
    »The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,« - he replied, with great feeling - »of
dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other,
is terrible - Mrs. Ferrars does not know what she may be doing - what she may
drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Ferrars two or three times in Harley-street,
and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be
intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him
well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. I
understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him
that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's
post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance - but that, perhaps, so
unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt;
I only wish it were more valuable. - It is a rectory, but a small one; the late
incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200l. per annum, and though it is
certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him
a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting him
to it, will be very great. Pray assure him of it.«
    Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had
the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand. The preferment, which
only two days before she had considered as hopeless for Edward, was already
provided to enable him to marry; - and she, of all people in the world, was
fixed on to bestow it! - Her emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to
a very different cause; - but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing,
might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and
her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Colonel
Brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. She thanked him
for it with all her heart, spoke of Edward's principles and disposition with
that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the
commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an
office to another. But at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one
could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which,
unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an obligation from her, she would
have been very glad to be spared herself; - but Colonel Brandon, on motives of
equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being
given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther
opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had
heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake therefore to inform him
of it, in the course of the day. After this had been settled, Colonel Brandon
began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a
neighbour, and then it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was
small and indifferent; - an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her
to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.
    »The smallness of the house,« said she, »I cannot imagine any inconvenience
to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income.«
    By which the Colonel was surprised to find that she was considering Mr.
Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did
not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as any
body in his style of life would venture to settle on - and he said so.
    »This little rectory can do no more than make Mr. Ferrars comfortable as a
bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage
ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If, however, by any
unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think
very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to
him then, as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing indeed,
seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be
his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a
distant good; - at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon. -«
    Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the
delicate feelings of Mrs. Jennings; but after this narration of what really
passed between Colonel Brandon and Elinor, while they stood at the window, the
gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in
general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had
arisen from an offer of marriage.
 

                                   Chapter IV

»Well, Miss Dashwood,« said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the
gentleman had withdrawn, »I do not ask you what the Colonel has been saying to
you; for though, upon my honour, I tried to keep out of hearing, I could not
help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was
better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart.«
    »Thank you, ma'am,« said Elinor. »It is a matter of great joy to me; and I
feel the goodness of Colonel Brandon most sensibly. There are not many men who
would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate an heart! I never
was more astonished in my life.«
    »Lord! my dear, you are very modest! I an't the least astonished at it in
the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to
happen.«
    »You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel's general benevolence; but at
least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur.«
    »Opportunity!« repeated Mrs. Jennings - »Oh! as to that, when a man has once
made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an
opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever
there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look
for them.«
    »You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,« said Elinor, with a faint
smile.
    »Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do
not know what the Colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw.«
    »He spoke of its being out of repair.«
    »Well, and whose fault is that? why don't he repair it? - who should do it
but himself?«
    They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage
being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said -
    »Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But,
however, we may have it all over in the evening, for we shall be quite alone. I
do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter
to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about
it.«
    Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
    »Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not mention it
at present to any body else.«
    »Oh! very well,« said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed. »Then you would not
have me tell it Lucy, for I think of going as far as Holborn to-day.«
    »No, ma'am, not even Lucy if you please. One day's delay will not be very
material; and till I have written to Mr. Ferrars, I think it ought not to be
mentioned to any body else. I shall do that directly. It is of importance that
no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative
to his ordination.«
    This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Jennings exceedingly. Why Mr. Ferrars was
to be written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend.
A few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she
exclaimed; -
    »Oh ho! - I understand you. Mr. Ferrars is to be the man. Well, so much the
better for him. Aye, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very
glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather
out of character? Should not the Colonel write himself? - sure, he is the proper
person.«
    Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings's speech;
neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its
conclusion.
    »Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to
announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.«
    »And so you are forced to do it. Well, that is an odd kind of delicacy!
However, I will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.) You know your
own concerns best. So good bye, my dear. I have not heard of any thing to please
me so well since Charlotte was brought to bed.«
    And away she went; but returning again in a moment,
    »I have just been thinking of Betty's sister, my dear. I should be very glad
to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a lady's maid, I am
sure I can't tell. She is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her
needle. However, you will think of all that at your leisure.«
    »Certainly, ma'am,« replied Elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and
more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.
    How she should begin - how she should express herself in her note to Edward,
was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made a
difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing
in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat
deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the
entrance of Edward himself.
    He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came
to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning
herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and
wanted to speak with him on very particular business.
    Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity,
that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was
at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor
entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her astonishment and
confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had not seen him
before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing
her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been
thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly
uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed, and they sat down
together in a most promising state of embarrassment. - Whether he had asked her
pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect;
but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as
he could say any thing, after taking a chair.
    »Mrs. Jennings told me,« said he, »that you wished to speak with me, at
least I understood her so - or I certainly should not have intruded on you in
such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to
leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most
likely be some time - it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of
meeting you again. I go to Oxford to-morrow.«
    »You would not have gone, however,« said Elinor, recovering herself, and
determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, »without
receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person.
Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence
to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am
charged with a most agreeable office, (breathing rather faster than usual as she
spoke.) Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to
say that, understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in
offering you the living of Delaford, now just vacant, and only wishes it were
more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and
well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living - it is about two
hundred a-year - were much more considerable, and such as might better enable
you to - as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself - such, in
short, as might establish all your views of happiness.«
    What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that
any one else should say for him. He looked all the astonishment which such
unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he
said only these two words,
    »Colonel Brandon!«
    »Yes,« continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was
over; »Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has
lately passed - for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of
your family has placed you - a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all
your friends must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your
general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the
present occasion.«
    »Colonel Brandon give me a living! - Can it be possible?«
    »The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find
friendship any where.«
    »No,« replied he, with sudden consciousness, »not to find it in you; for I
cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness I owe it all. - I feel it - I
would express it if I could - but, as you well know, I am no orator.«
    »You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at
least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of
it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design,
that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have
had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may perhaps
- indeed I know he has, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my
word, you owe nothing to my solicitation.«
    Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was
at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she
acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that
suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. For a short time he sat
deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak; - at last, and as if it were
rather an effort, he said,
    »Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have
always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly.
He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman.«
    »Indeed,« replied Elinor, »I believe that you will find him, on farther
acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be; and as you will be such very
near neighbours, (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the
mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he should be all this.«
    Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a
look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might
hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much
greater.
    »Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James's-street,« said he, soon
afterwards, rising from his chair.
    Elinor told him the number of the house.
    »I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow
me to give you; to assure him that he has made me a very - an exceedingly happy
man.«
    Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest
assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every
change of situation that might befal him; on his, with rather an attempt to
return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.
    »When I see him again,« said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, »I
shall see him the husband of Lucy.«
    And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to re-consider the past,
recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of
course, to reflect on her own with discontent.
    When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom
she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to
say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her
possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as
Elinor appeared.
    »Well, my dear,« she cried, »I sent you up the young man. Did not I do
right? - And I suppose you had no great difficulty - You did not find him very
unwilling to accept your proposal?«
    »No, ma'am; that was not very likely.«
    »Well, and how soon will he be ready? - For it seems all to depend upon
that.«
    »Really,« said Elinor, »I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can
hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I
suppose two or three months will complete his ordination.«
    »Two or three months!« cried Mrs. Jennings; »Lord! my dear, how calmly you
talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord bless me! - I am
sure it would put me quite out of patience! - And though one would be very glad
to do a kindness by poor Mr. Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait
two or three months for him. Sure, somebody else might be found that would do as
well; somebody that is in orders already.«
    »My dear ma'am,« said Elinor, »what can you be thinking of? - Why, Colonel
Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.«
    »Lord bless you, my dear! - Sure you do not mean to persuade me that the
Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Ferrars!«
    The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately
took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without
any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one
form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the
first.
    »Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,« said she, after the first
ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, »and very likely may be out of
repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a house that to my
knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground - floor, and I think the
housekeeper told me, could make up fifteen beds! - and to you too, that had been
used to live in Barton cottage! - It seemed quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we
must touch up the Colonel to do something to the parsonage, and make it
comfortable for them, before Lucy goes to it.«
    »But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's being
enough to allow them to marry.«
    »The Colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year
himself, he thinks that nobody else can' marry on less. Take my word for it,
that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before
Michaelmas; and I am sure I sha'nt go if Lucy an't there.«
    Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting
for any thing more.
 

                                   Chapter V

Edward, having carried his thanks to Colonel Brandon, proceeded with his
happiness to Lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached
Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Jennings, who called on
her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in
such spirits before in her life.
    Her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she
joined Mrs. Jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all
comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at
the same time, from any backwardness to give Elinor that credit which Edward
would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most
grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly
declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood's part, either present
or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing
anything in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel Brandon, she
was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious
that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his
tythes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail herself,
at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his
cows, and his poultry.
    It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley - street,
and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's
indisposition, beyond one verbal inquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to
pay her a visit. - This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her
own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her
companions. - Marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself,
was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and Mrs. Jennings, though
her carriage was always at Elinor's service, so very much disliked Mrs. John
Dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late
discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Edward's part, could
overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that
Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have
less inclination, and to run the risk of a tête-à-tête with a woman, whom
neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.
    Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house,
her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting
Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley-street, and
assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in.
    They walked up stairs into the drawing-room. - Nobody was there.
    »Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,« said he; - »I will go to her
presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to
seeing you. - Very far from it indeed. Now especially there cannot be - but
however, you and Marianne were always great favourites. - Why would not Marianne
come?« -
    Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
    »I am not sorry to see you alone,« he replied, - »for I have a good deal to
say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon's - can it be true? - has he really
given it to Edward? - I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on
purpose to inquire farther about it.«
    »It is perfectly true. - Colonel Brandon has given the living of Delaford to
Edward.«
    »Really! - Well, this is very astonishing! - no relationship! - no
connection between them! - and now that livings fetch such a price! - what was
the value of this?«
    »About two hundred a-year.«
    »Very well - and for the next presentation to a living of that value -
supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate
it soon - he might have got I dare say - fourteen hundred pounds. And how came
he not to have settled that matter before this person's death? - Now indeed it
would be too late to sell it, but a man of Colonel Brandon's sense! - I wonder
he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern! -
Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every
human character. I suppose, however - on recollection - that the case may
probably be this. Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the
Colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it. - Aye, aye,
that is the fact, depend upon it.«
    Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she
had herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward,
and therefore must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to
submit to her authority.
    »It is truly astonishing!« - he cried, after hearing what she said - »what
could be the Colonel's motive?«
    »A very simple one - to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.«
    »Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky man! -
You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have broke it to
her, and she bears it vastly well, - she will not like to hear it much talked
of.«
    Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought
Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother,
by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
    »Mrs. Ferrars,« added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so
important a subject, »knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will
be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be. - When the
marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all.«
    »But why should such precaution be used? - Though it is not to be supposed
that Mrs. Ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has
money enough to live upon, - for that must be quite out of the question;. yet
why, after her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? - she has done
with her son, she has cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom
she had any influence, cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot
be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account - she
cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him. - She would not be so weak
as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a
parent!«
    »Ah! Elinor,« said John, »your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on
ignorance of human nature. When Edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon
it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and therefore
every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed
from her as much as possible. Mrs. Ferrars can never forget that Edward is her
son.«
    »You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by
this time.«
    »You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate
mothers in the world.«
    Elinor was silent.
    »We think now« - said Mr. Dashwood, after a short pause, »of Robert's
marrying Miss Morton.«
    Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone,
calmly replied,
    »The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.«
    »Choice! - how do you mean?« -
    »I only mean, that I suppose from your manner of speaking, it must be the
same to Miss Morton whether she marry Edward or Robert.«
    »Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all intents
and purposes be considered as the eldest son; - and as to any thing else, they
are both very agreeable young men, I do not know that one is superior to the
other.«
    Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent. - His
reflections ended thus.
    »Of one thing, my dear sister,« kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an
awful whisper - »I may assure you; - and I will do it, because I know it must
gratify you. I have good reason to think - indeed I have it from the best
authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to
say any thing about it - but I have it from the very best authority - not that I
ever precisely heard Mrs. Ferrars say it herself - but her daughter did, and I
have it from her - That in short, whatever objections there might be against a
certain - a certain connection - you understand me - it would have been far
preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that this does.
I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars considered it in that light
- a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all. It would have been beyond
comparison, she said, the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to
compound now for nothing worse. But however, all that is quite out of the
question - not to be thought of or mentioned - as to any attachment you know -
it never could be - all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of
this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason
to regret, my dear Elinor. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well -
quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon
been with you lately?«
    Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self -
importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind; - and she was therefore
glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from
the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of Mr.
Robert Ferrars. After a few moments' chat, John Dashwood, recollecting that
Fanny was yet uninformed of his sister's being there, quitted the room in quest
of her; and Elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with Robert, who, by the
gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair
a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished
brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's
integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
    They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak
of Edward; for he too had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the
subject. Elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to John;
and their effect on Robert, though very different, was not less striking than it
had been on him. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Edward's being a
clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure; -
and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Edward reading prayers in a
white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary
Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
    Elinor, while she waited in silence, and immovable gravity, the conclusion
of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look
that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well
bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him. He
was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of her's, but by his own
sensibility.
    »We may treat it as a joke,« said he at last, recovering from the affected
laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment -
»but upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Edward! he is ruined for
ever. I am extremely sorry for it - for I know him to be a very good-hearted
creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world. You must not
judge of him, Miss Dashwood, from your slight acquaintance. - Poor Edward! - His
manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. - But we are not all born, you
know, with the same powers - the same address. - Poor fellow! - to see him in a
circle of strangers! - to be sure it was pitiable enough! - but, upon my soul, I
believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest
to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could
not believe it. - My mother was the first person who told me of it, and I,
feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, My
dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for
myself, I must say, that if Edward does marry this young woman, I never will see
him again. That was what I said immediately, - I was most uncommonly shocked
indeed! - Poor Edward! - he has done for himself completely - shut himself out
for ever from all decent society! - but, as I directly said to my mother, I am
not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education it was always to
be expected. My poor mother was half frantic.«
    »Have you ever seen the lady?«
    »Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for
ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl,
without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. - I remember her
perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor
Edward. I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to
talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late then, I
found, to do any thing, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew
nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you
know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier - I think
it is most probable - that something might have been hit on. I certainly should
have represented it to Edward in a very strong light. My dear fellow, I should
have said, consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful
connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving. I
cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is
all too late. He must be starved, you know; - that is certain; absolutely
starved.«
    He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of
Mrs. John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though she never spoke of it
out of her own family, Elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the
something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt
at cordiality in her behaviour to herself. She even proceeded so far as to be
concerned to find that Elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she
had hoped to see more of them; - an exertion in which her husband, who attended
her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish
every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.
 

                                   Chapter VI

One other short call in Harley-street, in which Elinor received her brother's
congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton without any expense,
and on Colonel Brandon's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or two,
completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town; - and a faint
invitation from Fanny, to come to Norland whenever it should happen to be in
their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm,
though less public, assurance, from John to Elinor, of the promptitude with
which he should come to see her at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting
in the country.
    It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her
to Delaford; - a place, in which, of all others, she would now least choose to
visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future home by
her brother and Mrs. Jennings, but even Lucy, when they parted, gave her a
pressing invitation to visit her there.
    Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from
Hanover-square and Berkeley-street set out from their respective homes, to meet,
by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of Charlotte and her child,
they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Palmer, travelling
more expeditiously with Colonel Brandon, was to join them at Cleveland soon
after their arrival.
    Marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in London, and eager as she
had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the
house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that
confidence, in Willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great
pain. Nor could she leave the place in which Willoughby remained, busy in new
engagements, and new schemes, in which she could have no share, without shedding
many tears.
    Elinor's satisfaction at the moment of removal, was more positive. She had
no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature
behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for ever,
she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy's friendship,
she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by Willoughby since his
marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquillity
at Barton might do towards restoring Marianne's peace of mind, and confirming
her own.
    Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into the
cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by
turns in Marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up
to Cleveland.
    Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. It
had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like every
other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and
closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the
front, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the
guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of
them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the offices.
    Marianne entered the house with an heart swelling with emotion from the
consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from Combe
Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others
were busily helping Charlotte show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it
again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be
in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her eye,
wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on
the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits
Combe Magna might be seen.
    In such moments of precious, of invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of
agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to the
house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from
place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost
every hour of every day while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence
of such solitary rambles.
    She returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on
an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the morning
was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the
bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights,
- in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants,
unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of
Charlotte, - and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes
of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or
in the rapid decease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of
merriment.
    The morning was fine and dry, and Marianne, in her plan of employment
abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at
Cleveland. With great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a
settled rain from going out again after dinner. She had depended on a twilight
walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening
merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but an heavy and
settled rain even she could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
    Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had
her child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they
had left behind, arranged Lady Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether Mr.
Palmer and Colonel Brandon would get farther than Reading that night. Elinor,
however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse, and Marianne, who had
the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be
avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book.
    Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly
good-humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness and
heartiness of her manner, more than atoned for that want of recollection and
elegance, which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her
kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though
evident, was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have
forgiven every thing but her laugh.
    The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a
pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their
conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very
low.
    Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had seen so much
variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to
expect to find him in his own family. She found him, however, perfectly the
gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to
his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant
companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to
fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to
be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character and habits,
they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual
in his sex and time of life. He was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours;
fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at
billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him, however,
upon the whole much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry
that she could like him no more; - not sorry to be driven by the observation of
his Epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the
remembrance of Edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings.
    Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received
intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and
who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the
kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great deal of the Parsonage at
Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself
towards removing them. - His behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other
particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days,
his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might
very well justify Mrs. Jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would have
been enough, perhaps, had not Elinor still, as from the first, believed Marianne
his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself. But as it was, such a notion
had scarcely ever entered her head, except by Mrs. Jennings's suggestion; and
she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two; - she
watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings thought only of his behaviour; - and while
his looks of anxious solicitude on Marianne's feeling, in her head and throat,
the beginning of an heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped
the latter lady's observation; - she could discover in them the quick feelings,
and needless alarm of a lover.
    Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being
there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds,
and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more
of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was
the longest and wettest, had - assisted by the still greater imprudence of
sitting in her wet shoes and stockings - given Marianne a cold so violent, as,
though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing
ailments, on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself. Prescriptions
poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and
feverish, with a pain in her limbs, a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's
rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty that Elinor prevailed
on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.
 

                                  Chapter VII

Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied
that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her
accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with
a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and
languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at
last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only
astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the
whole day, against Marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her
at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and
felt no real alarm.
    A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of
both; and when Marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to
sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, Elinor was very ready to adopt Mrs.
Jennings's advice, of sending for the Palmers' apothecary.
    He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Miss Dashwood to
expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by
pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word
infection to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer on her baby's
account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think Marianne's
complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's
report, and confirming Charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her
immediate removal with her infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating their
apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great
to be withstood. Her departure therefore was fixed on; and, within an hour after
Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the
house of a near relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other
side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her
in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to
accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made
Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland
as long as Marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive
care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and
Elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous
to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of
material use.
    Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling
herself universally ill, could no longer hope that to-morrow would find her
recovered; and the idea of what to-morrow would have produced, but for this
unlucky illness, made every ailment more severe; for on that day they were to
have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs.
Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon.
The little that she said, was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay;
though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she then
really believed herself, that it would be a very short one.
    The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient;
she certainly was not better, and except that there was no amendment, did not
appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Palmer, though very
unwilling to go, as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike
of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by Colonel
Brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to
go, Colonel Brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of
going likewise. - Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Jennings interposed most
acceptably; for to send the Colonel away while his love was in so much
uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought,
of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland
was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an
evening, while Miss Dashwood was above with her sister, etc. she urged him so
strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart
by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs.
Jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer, who seemed to feel a
relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or
advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
    Marianne was of course kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. She knew
not that she had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in
about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave her no surprise that
she saw nothing of Mrs. Palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she
never mentioned her name.
    Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer's departure, and her
situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended
her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Miss Dashwood was
equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful.
Mrs. Jennings had determined very early in the seisure that Marianne would never
get over it, and Colonel Brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs.
Jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He
tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the
apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he
was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every
melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he
should see Marianne no more.
    On the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both
were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient
materially better. Her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more
favourable than on the preceding visit. Elinor, confirmed in every pleasant
hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had
pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the
indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time
when Marianne would be able to travel.
    But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. - Towards the
evening, Marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and
uncomfortable than before. Her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to
attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have
her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her with
satisfaction sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most
beneficial effects. Her sleep, though not so quiet as Elinor wished to see it,
lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she
resolved to sit with her during the whole of it. Mrs. Jennings, knowing nothing
of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one
of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and
Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
    The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who
watched with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard
the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was
almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when Marianne, suddenly
awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and with
feverish wildness, cried out -
    »Is mama coming? -«
    »Not yet,« replied the other, concealing her terror, and assisting Marianne
to lie down again, »but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a
great way, you know, from hence to Barton.«
    »But she must not go round by London,« cried Marianne, in the same hurried
manner, »I shall never see her, if she goes by London.«
    Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and while
attempting to sooth her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker than
ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so
rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and
dispatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel
Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which
immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon as she had
rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the
drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour
than the present.
    It was no time for hesitation. Her fears and her difficulties were
immediately before him. Her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt
the removal of; - he listened to them in silent despondence; - but her
difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak
the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as
the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Dashwood. Elinor made no resistance that was
not easily overcome. She thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and
while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an
order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
    The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon - of such a
companion for her mother, - how gratefully was it felt! - a companion whose
judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might
sooth her! - as far as the shock of such a summons could be lessened to her, his
presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.
    He, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a
collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost dispatch, and
calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return. Not a
moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were
expected, and Colonel Brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity,
and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage. It
was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to
wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the
night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed
away in sleepless pain and delirium on Marianne's side, and in the most cruel
anxiety on Elinor's before Mr. Harris appeared. Her apprehensions once raised,
paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up
with her, for she would not allow Mrs. Jennings to be called, only tortured her
more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
    Marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother,
and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Elinor,
who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and
wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in
vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her
suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her
rational.
    She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if he could not
come, for some other advice, when the former - but not till after five o'clock -
arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though
acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he
would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a
fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser
degree, was communicated to Elinor. He promised to call again in the course of
three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more
composed than he had found them.
    With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their
aid, did Mrs. Jennings hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former
apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event;
and though trying to speak comfort to Elinor, her conviction of her sister's
danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. Her heart was really
grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as
Marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs.
Jennings's compassion she had other claims. She had been for three months her
companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly
injured, and long unhappy. The distress of her sister too, particularly a
favourite, was before her; - and as for their mother, when Mrs. Jennings
considered that Marianne might probably be to her what Charlotte was to herself,
her sympathy in her sufferings was very sincere.
    Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; - but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had
failed; - the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet - not more
herself - remained in an heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more than all,
his fears in a moment, proposed to call in farther advice. But he judged it
unnecessary; he had still something more to try, some fresh application, of
whose success he was almost as confident as the last, and his visit concluded
with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the
heart, of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her mother,
but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely
stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief,
one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the
conversation of Mrs. Jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and
danger of this attack, to the many weeks of previous indisposition which
Marianne's disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt all the reasonableness of
the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.
    About noon, however, she began - but with a caution - a dread of
disappointment, which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend - to
fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse; -
she waited, watched, and examined it again and again; - and at last, with an
agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing
distress, ventured to communicate her hopes. Mrs. Jennings, though forced, on
examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend
from indulging a thought of its continuance; - and Elinor, conning over every
injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope. But it was too late.
Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her
sister to watch - she hardly knew for what. Half an hour passed away, and the
favourable symptom yet blessed her. Others even arose to confirm it. Her breath,
her skin, her lips, all flattered Elinor with signs of amendment, and Marianne
fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze. Anxiety and hope
now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till
the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock; - when his assurances, his
felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave
her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
    Marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her
entirely out of danger. Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial
justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm,
allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted with unfeigned joy, and
soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.
    Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to
anything rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and
to her doating mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of
exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude; - but it led to no
outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor's breast
was satisfaction, silent and strong.
    She continued by the side of her sister with little intermission the whole
afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled
spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every
breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to
remind her of what anxiety was - but when she saw, on her frequent and minute
examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne at six
o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she
silenced every doubt.
    The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected back. At
ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later, her mother would be
relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards
them. The Colonel too! - perhaps scarcely less an object of pity! - Oh! - how
slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!
    At seven o'clock, leaving Marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined Mrs.
Jennings in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast she had been kept by her
fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much; - and the
present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to
it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Jennings would have persuaded her at its
conclusion to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow her to take
her place by Marianne; but Elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of
sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister
an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the
sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again
to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and
sleep.
    The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rain
beat against the windows; but Elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not.
Marianne slept through every blast, and the travellers - they had a rich reward
in store, for every present inconvenience.
    The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced
that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong
was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of their
being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened
a window-shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears
had not deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four
horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some
explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
    Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that
moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopped
at the door, - of her doubt - her dread - perhaps her despair! - and of what she
had to tell! - with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that
remained to be done, was to be speedy; and therefore staying only till she could
leave Mrs. Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
    The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her
that they were already in the house. She rushed forwards towards the
drawing-room, - she entered it, - and saw only Willoughby.
 

                                  Chapter VIII

Elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the
first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand
was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing,
and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication,
    »Miss Dashwood, for half an hour - for ten minutes - I entreat you to stay.«
    »No, sir,« she replied with firmness, »I shall not stay. Your business
cannot be with me. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Palmer
was not in the house.«
    »Had they told me,« he cried with vehemence, »that Mr. Palmer and all his
relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. My
business is with you, and only you.«
    »With me!« - in the utmost amazement - »well, sir - be quick - and if you
can - less violent.«
    »Sit down, and I will be both.«
    She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's
arriving and finding him there, came across her. But she had promised to hear
him, and her curiosity no less than her honour was engaged. After a moment's
recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that
her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table,
and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was
said by either.
    »Pray be quick, sir« - said Elinor impatiently - »I have no time to spare.«
    He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear
her.
    »Your sister,« said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards - »is out of
danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! - But is it true? - is it
really true?«
    Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.
    »For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?«
    »We hope she is.«
    He rose up, and walked across the room.
    »Had I known as much half an hour ago - But since I am here« - speaking with
a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat - »what does it signify? - For
once, Miss Dashwood - it will be the last time, perhaps - let us be cheerful
together. - I am in a fine mood for gaiety. - Tell me honestly« - a deeper glow
overspreading his cheeks - »do you think me most a knave or a fool?«
    Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think
that he must be in liquor; - the strangeness of such a visit, and of such
manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she
immediately rose, saying,
    »Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. - I am not at
leisure to remain with you longer. - Whatever your business may be with me, it
will be better recollected and explained to-morrow.«
    »I understand you,« he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice
perfectly calm, »yes, I am very drunk. - A pint of porter with my cold beef at
Marlborough was enough to over-set me.«
    »At Marlborough!« - cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what
he would be at.
    »Yes - I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes
I have spent out of my chaise since that time, procured me a nuncheon at
Marlborough.«
    The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke,
convincing Elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to
Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection,
    »Mr. Willoughby, you ought to feel, and I certainly do - that after what has
passed - your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice,
requires a very particular excuse. - What is it, that you mean by it?« -
    »I mean« - said he, with serious energy - »if I can, to make you hate me one
degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind
of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you,
that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to
obtain something like forgiveness from Ma - from your sister.«
    »Is this the real reason of your coming?«
    »Upon my soul it is,« - was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the
former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him
sincere.
    »If that is all, you may be satisfied already, - for Marianne does - she has
long forgiven you.«
    »Has she!« - he cried, in the same eager tone. - »Then she has forgiven me
before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and on more
reasonable grounds. - Now will you listen to me?«
    Elinor bowed her assent.
    »I do not know,« said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and
thoughtfulness on his own, - »how you may have accounted for my behaviour to
your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. - Perhaps you
will hardly think the better of me, - it is worth the trial however, and you
shall hear every thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no
other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time
pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I
had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could
not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind
- It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my
heart should have been so insensible! - But at first I must confess, my vanity
only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own
amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit
of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing
to her, without any design of returning her affection.«
    Miss Dashwood at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry
contempt, stopped him, by saying,
    »It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to
listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. -
Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject.«
    »I insist on your hearing the whole of it,« he replied. »My fortune was
never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating
with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or
even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old
cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and
possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my
circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister,
therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; - and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty - which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Miss
Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much - I was acting in this manner, trying to
engage her regard, without a thought of returning it. - But one thing may be
said for me, even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the
extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to
love. But have I ever known it? - Well may it be doubted; for, had I really
loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? - or, what is
more, could I have sacrificed her's? - But I have done it. To avoid a
comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of
all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that
could make it a blessing.«
    »You did then,« said Elinor, a little softened, »believe yourself at one
time attached to her.«
    »To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! - Is
there a man on earth who could have done it! - Yes, I found myself, by
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life
were what I spent with her, when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable,
and my feelings blameless. Even then, however, when fully determined on paying
my addresses to her, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to
day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement
while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here - nor
will I stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity,
of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has
proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a
possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever. At
last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could
engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and
openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to
display. But in the interim - in the interim of the very few hours that were to
pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private - a
circumstance occurred - an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and
with it all my comfort. A discovery took place,« - here he hesitated and looked
down. - »Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some
distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an
affair, a connection - but I need not explain myself farther,« he added, looking
at her with an heightened colour and an inquiring eye, - »your particular
intimacy - you have probably heard the whole story long ago.«
    »I have,« returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew
against any compassion for him, »I have heard it all. And how you will explain
away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my
comprehension.«
    »Remember,« cried Willoughby, »from whom you received the account. Could it
be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to
have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time
cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge - that because she was
injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, she must be a
saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding - I do
not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better
treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which,
for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish - I heartily
wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured
one, whose affection for me - (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than her's;
and whose mind - Oh! how infinitely superior!« -
    »Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl - I must say it,
unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be - your
indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself
excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the
wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were
enjoying yourself in Devonshire, pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always
happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence.«
    »But, upon my soul, I did not know it,« he warmly replied; »I did not
recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might
have told her how to find it out.«
    »Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?«
    »She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The
purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world -
every thing was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was
every endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt
the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the
very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on
her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I
might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she offered
to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That could not be - and I was
formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night following this
affair - I was to go the next morning - was spent by me in deliberating on what
my future conduct should be. The struggle was great - but it ended too soon. My
affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me - it was
all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those
false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel,
and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my
present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that
nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. An heavy scene however
awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire; - I was engaged to dine with you on
that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking the
engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person,
was a point of long debate. To see Marianne, I felt would be dreadful, and I
even doubted whether I could see her again, and keep to my resolution. In that
point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I
went, I saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable - and left her
hoping never to see her again.«
    »Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?« said Elinor, reproachfully; »a note
would have answered every purpose. - Why was it necessary to call?«
    »It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in
a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any
part of what had really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself - and I resolved
therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your
dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and to heighten the matter, I found
her alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the
evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within myself on doing right! A few
hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay
were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with
myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last interview of
friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the
power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I
told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately - I never shall
forget it - united too with such reliance, such confidence in me! - Oh, God! -
what an hard-hearted rascal I was!«
    They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.
    »Did you tell her that you should soon return?«
    »I do not know what I told her,« he replied, impatiently; »less than was due
to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified
by the future. I cannot think of it. - It won't do. - Then came your dear mother
to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it
did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the
comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings
under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I went, left all that
I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. My journey
to town - travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously - no
creature to speak to - my own reflections so cheerful - when I looked forward
everything so inviting! - when I looked back at Barton, the picture so soothing!
- oh! it was a blessed journey!«
    He stopped.
    »Well, sir,« said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his
departure, »and this is all?«
    »All! - no, - have you forgot what passed in town? - That infamous letter -
Did she show it you?«
    »Yes, I saw every note that passed.«
    »When the first of her's reached me, (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is - in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one - perhaps too simple to raise any emotion - my
feelings were very, very painful. - Every line, every word was - in the
hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid - a
dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was - in the same language
- a thunderbolt. - Thunderbolts and daggers! - what a reproof would she have
given me! - her taste, her opinions - I believe they are better known to me than
my own, - and I am sure they are dearer.«
    Elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again; - yet she felt it her duty
to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
    »This is not right, Mr. Willoughby. - Remember that you are married. Relate
only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear.«
    »Marianne's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in
former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she
was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of
mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London,
business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing
a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to
fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our
past attachment as a mere idle, trifling, business, shrugging up my shoulders in
proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple,
by secretly saying now and then, I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well
married. - But this note made me know myself better. I felt that she was
infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using
her infamously. But everything was then just settled between Miss Grey and me.
To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent
no answer to Marianne, intending by that means to preserve myself from her
farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in
Berkeley-street; - but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool,
common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the
house one morning, and left my name.«
    »Watched us out of the house!«
    »Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often
I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid
your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond-street, there was
hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and
nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably
prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I
avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was
likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town,
however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming, and
the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a dance
at his house in the evening. - Had he not told me as an inducement that you and
your sister were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to
trust myself near him. The next morning brought another short note from Marianne
- still affectionate, open, artless, confiding - everything that could make my
conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried - but could not frame a
sentence. But I thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you can
pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart
full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman! -
Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not tell
you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! - what an evening of
agony it was! - Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me
Willoughby in such a tone! - Oh! God! - holding out her hand to me, asking me
for an explanation with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude
on my face! - and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all
that was - Well, it does not signify; it is over now. - Such an evening! - I ran
away from you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet
face as white as death. - That was the last, last look I ever had of her; - the
last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! - Yet when I
thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine
that I knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this
world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look
and hue.«
    A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing
himself, broke it thus:
    »Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,
certainly out of danger?«
    »We are assured of it.«
    »Your poor mother too! - doting on Marianne.«
    »But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you anything to say
about that?«
    »Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the
very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons, -
and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It
happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine - and its size, the
elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a
suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some
young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the
preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous
than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in
a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She
was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her
wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion - her malice - At all events it
must be appeased. And in short - what do you think of my wife's style of
letter-writing? - delicate - tender - truly feminine - was it not?«
    »Your wife! - The letter was in your own handwriting.«
    »Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was
ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own - her own happy thoughts
and gentle diction. But what could I do? - we were engaged, every thing in
preparation, the day almost fixed - But I am talking like a fool. Preparation! -
day! - In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like
mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it
signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what
language my answer was couched? - It must have been only to one end. My business
was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster
was of little importance. - I am ruined for ever in their opinion - said I to
myself - I am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an
unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.
Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my
wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes -
unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have denied their
existence, and hoarded them for ever - I was forced to put them up, and could
not even kiss them. And the lock of hair - that too I had always carried about
me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most
ingratiating virulence, - the dear lock - all, every memento was torn from me.«
    »You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blame-able,« said Elinor, while
her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; »you ought
not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You have made
your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your
politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would
not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly
is no atonement to Marianne - nor can I suppose it a relief to your own
conscience.«
    »Do not talk to me of my wife,« said he with an heavy sigh. - »She does not
deserve your compassion. - She knew I had no regard for her when we married. -
Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwards
returned to town to be gay. - And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? - or have I
said all this to no purpose? - Am I - be it only one degree - am I less guilty
in your opinion than I was before? - My intentions were not always wrong. Have I
explained away any part of my guilt?«
    »Yes, you have certainly removed something - a little. - You have proved
yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved
your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know - the misery that
you have inflicted - I hardly know what could have made it worse.«
    »Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you? - Let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in
yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy
that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from
her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.
Tell her of my misery and my penitence - tell her that my heart was never
inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than
ever.«
    »I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called,
your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of
your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.«
    »Last night, in Drury-lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when
he saw who I was - for the first time these two months - he spoke to me. - That
he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment.
Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against
me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me
what he knew ought to - though probably he did not think it would - vex me
horridly. - As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne
Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland - a letter that morning
received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent - the Palmers all
gone off in a fright, etc. - I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself
off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in
seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we
parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise
about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying - and
dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in
her latest moments - for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have
been imputed? One person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything -
What I felt was dreadful! - My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock
this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.«
    Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable
injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness,
dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of
a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition
naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had
made him extravagant and vain - Extravagance and vanity had made him
cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the
expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance,
or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty
propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The
attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better
interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed
every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little
scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness
to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was
recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a
reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said,
    »There is no use in staying here; I must be off.«
    »Are you going back to town?«
    »No - to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or
two. Good bye.«
    He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him her's; - he pressed
it with affection.
    »And you do think something better of me than you did?« - said he, letting
it fall, and leaning against the mantle-piece as if forgetting he was to go.
    Elinor assured him that she did; - that she forgave, pitied, wished him well
- was even interested in his happiness - and added some gentle counsel as to the
behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging.
    »As to that,« said he, »I must rub through the world as well as I can.
Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think
that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means
- it may put me on my guard - at least, it will be something to live for.
Marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at
liberty again« -
    Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
    »Well« - he replied - »once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in
dread of one event.«
    »What do you mean?«
    »Your sister's marriage.«
    »You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now.«
    »But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the
very he whom, of all others, I could least bear - But I will not stay to rob
myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that where I have most
injured I can least forgive. Good bye, - God bless you!«
    And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
 

                                   Chapter IX

Elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of
his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas,
widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to
think even of her sister.
    Willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most
worthless of men, Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of
commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him
as now separated for ever from her family with a tenderness, a regret, rather in
proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself - to his wishes than to his
merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by
circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of
uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no
merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not
even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she
could feel his influence less.
    When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just
awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes.
Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit,
Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into
an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her
only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in
which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after Willoughby's
leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another
carriage. - Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible
suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just
in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
    Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost
the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her,
no voice even for Elinor; but she, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry,
instantly gave the joyful relief; - and her mother, catching it with all her
usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been
before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her
daughter and her friend; - and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable
to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to
press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and
her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared
it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
    As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her
first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer
to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Elinor's delight, as she
saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its
robbing Marianne of farther sleep; - but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be
even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Marianne, satisfied in
knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for
conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every
nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood would sit up with her all night, and Elinor, in
compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one
night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to
make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, poor
Willoughby, as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her
thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now
blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her
promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the
performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether
after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment
wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved
herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy far more than to his
rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby's death.
    The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened to
Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about
Marianne, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very
day, without waiting for any farther intelligence, and had so far settled her
journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to
fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might
be infection.
    Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs.
Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared
herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear the
declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her
mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate
account of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the
exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne was
restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own
mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had
contributed to place her; - and in her recovery she had yet another source of
joy unthought of by Elinor. It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any
opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
    »At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.
Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.«
    Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not
surprised, was all silent attention.
    »You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure
now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have
fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. And
I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two.«
    Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because
satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age,
characters, or feelings, could be given; - but her mother must always be carried
away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an
inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
    »He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out
quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of
nothing but my child; - he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it
equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now
goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy - or rather not thinking at all, I
suppose - giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his
earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor,
ever since the first moment of seeing her.«
    Here, however, Elinor perceived, - not the language, not the professions of
Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy,
which fashioned every thing delightful to her, as it chose.
    »His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever
felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant - which ever we
are to call it - has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's
unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! - and without selfishness -
without encouraging a hope! - could he have seen her happy with another - Such a
noble mind! - such openness, such sincerity! - no one can be deceived in him.«
    »Colonel Brandon's character,« said Elinor, »as an excellent man, is well
established.«
    »I know it is« - replied her mother seriously, »or after such a warning, I
should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But
his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough
to prove him one of the worthiest of men.«
    »His character, however,« answered Elinor, »does not rest on one act of
kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the case,
would have prompted him. To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long
and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own
knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do
I value and esteem him, that if Marianne can be happy with him, I shall be as
ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the
world. What answer did you give him? - Did you allow him to hope?«
    »Oh! my love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Marianne
might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His
was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend -
not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I did say, for at first I was
quite overcome - that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my greatest
happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since
our delightful security I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him
every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do
everything; - Marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as
Willoughby. - His own merits must soon secure it.«
    »To judge from the Colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him
equally sanguine.«
    »No. - He thinks Marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it
under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too
diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and
disposition, he could ever attach her. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His
age is only so much beyond her's, as to be an advantage, as to make his
character and principles fixed; - and his disposition, I am well convinced, is
exactly the very one to make your sister happy. And his person, his manners too,
are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so
handsome as Willoughby - but at the same time, there is something much more
pleasing in his countenance. - There was always a something, - if you remember,
- in Willoughby's eyes at times, which I did not like.«
    Elinor could not remember it; - but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,
    »And his manners, the Colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me
than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more
solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to
other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with
her real disposition, than the liveliness - often artificial, and often
ill-timed of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as
really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never
have been so happy with him, as she will be with Colonel Brandon.«
    She paused. - Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent
was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
    »At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,« added Mrs.
Dashwood, »even if I remain at Barton; and in all probability, - for I hear it
is a large village, - indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage
close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation.«
    Poor Elinor! - here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford! - but her
spirit was stubborn.
    »His fortune too! - for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about
that; - and though I neither know, nor desire to know, what it really is, I am
sure it must be a good one.«
    Here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and Elinor
withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet
in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby.
 

                                   Chapter X

Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to
make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's
presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within
four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room.
When there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth
her thanks to him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit
her.
    His emotion in entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, in
Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for
Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon
discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her
sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind,
brought back by that resemblance between Marianne and Eliza already
acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the
posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgement of peculiar
obligation.
    Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with
a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different
effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most
simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Marianne
she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already
dawned.
    At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger every
twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes,
began to talk of removing to Barton. On her measures depended those of her two
friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay, and
Colonel Brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own
abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and
Mrs. Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation
of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and
Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for
other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit
at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.
    The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking so
particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful,
so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret
acknowledgement of past inattention, and bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with the
cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of
which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the
travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her
chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to
Delaford.
    The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey on
both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous affection,
the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of
each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her
calmness of spirits. To Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly
grateful. She, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering,
oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor
fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious
reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
    As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes, of which every
field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew
silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat
earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor
blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she
had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise anything
less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the
whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to
reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room,
than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if
determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which
the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected. - She said little, but every
sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it
never passed away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try
her piano-forté. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was
an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their favourite
duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand writing. - That
would not do. - She shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over
the keys for a minute complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the
instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should
in future practise much.
    The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke
with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Margaret's return, and
talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual
pursuits and cheerful society as the only happiness worth a wish.
    »When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,« said she,
»we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the
edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir John's new
plantations at Barton-Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old
ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they
once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily
away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till
dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my
plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library
is too well known to me, to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amusement.
But there are many works well worth reading, at the Park; and there are others
of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By
reading only six hours a-day, I shall gain in the course of a twelvemonth a
great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want.«
    Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though
smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of
languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a
scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. Her smile however
changed to a sigh when she remembered that her promise to Willoughby was yet
unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle
the mind of Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
tranquillity. Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait
till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it. But the
resolution was made only to be broken.
    Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine
enough for an invalid like herself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial
morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's
confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as
long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.
    The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; - and they had advanced
only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important
hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly said,
    »There, exactly there« - pointing with one hand, »on that projecting mound,
- there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby.«
    Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
    »I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot! -
shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?« - hesitatingly it was said. - »Or
will it be wrong? - I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do.« -
    Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
    »As for regret,« said Marianne, »I have done with that, as far as he is
concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him,
but what they are now. - At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I
could be allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not always
deceiving me; - but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so very
wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that
unfortunate girl« -
    She stopped. - Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
    »If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.«
    »Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; - for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to me, of such
designs, - but what must it make me appear to myself? - What in a situation like
mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to« -
    »How then,« asked her sister, »would you account for his behaviour?«
    »I would suppose him, - Oh! how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
very, very fickle.«
    Elinor said no more. She was debating within herself on the eligibility of
beginning her story directly, or postponing it till Marianne were in stronger
health; - and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
    »I am not wishing him too much good,« said Marianne at last with a sigh,
»when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He
will suffer enough in them.«
    »Do you compare your conduct with his?«
    »No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours.«
    »Our situations have borne little resemblance.«
    »They have borne more than our conduct. - Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made
me think - It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long
before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I
considered the past; I saw in my own behaviour since the beginning of our
acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards
myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared
my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the
grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself, by such
negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I
died, - it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the
danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I
wonder at my recovery, - wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to
have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. Had
I died, - in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my friend,
my sister! - You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days;
who had known all the murmurings of my heart! - How should I have lived in your
remembrance! - My mother too! How could you have consoled her! - I cannot
express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw
some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Every body seemed injured by me.
The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with
ungrateful contempt. To the Middletons, the Palmers, the Steeles, to every
common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with an heart hardened
against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention. - To John,
to Fanny, - yes, even to them, little as they deserve, I had given less than
their due. But you, - you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I,
and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet, to what did it influence me? -
not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself. - Your example was
before me: but to what avail? - Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in
those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had
hitherto been left to discharge alone? - No; - not less when I knew you to be
unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every
exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me,
regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you,
for whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake.«
    Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to sooth, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise
and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved. Marianne
pressed her hand and replied,
    »You are very good. - The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan,
and if I am capable of adhering to it - my feelings shall be governed and my
temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I shall
now live solely for my family. You, my mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be
all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From
you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and
if I do mix in other society it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled,
my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of
life, with gentleness, and forbearance. As for Willoughby - to say that I shall
soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be
overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated,
it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment.«
    She paused - and added in a lower voice, »If I could but know his heart,
everything would become easy.«
    Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer
decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did
nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
    She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious
listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which
Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened
only his protestations of present regard. Marianne said not a word. - She
trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than
even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but
she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her
hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
her cheeks.
    Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be
though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Willoughby,
and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of
speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they
entered the house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just
articulate through her tears, Tell mama, withdrew from her sister and walked
slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and
a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she
turned into the parlour to fulfil her parting injunction.
 

                                   Chapter XI

Mrs. Dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She
rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt; - she was
sorry for him; - she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past could not be
recalled. - Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken - a character
unblemished, to Marianne. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter
had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards
Eliza. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure
the interests of Colonel Brandon.
    Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby's story from himself
- had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his
countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been
greater. But it was neither in Elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such
feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called
forth in herself. Reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her
own opinion of Willoughby's deserts; - she wished, therefore, to declare only
the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character,
without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
    In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began
voluntarily to speak of him again; - but that it was not without an effort, the
restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously
sitting - her rising colour, as she spoke - and her unsteady voice, plainly
showed.
    »I wish to assure you both,« said she, »that I see every, thing - as you can
desire me to do.«
    Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness,
had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an
eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued -
    »It is a great relief to me - what Elinor told me this morning - I have now
heard exactly what I wished to hear.« - For some moments her voice was lost; but
recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before - »I am now
perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with
him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. - I should
have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my
feelings.«
    »I know it - I know it,« cried her mother. »Happy with a man of libertine
practices! - With one who had so injured the peace of the dearest of our
friends, and the best of men! - No - my Marianne has not a heart to be made
happy with such a man! - Her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have
felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt.«
    Marianne sighed, and repeated - »I wish for no change.«
    »You consider the matter,« said Elinor, »exactly as a good mind and a sound
understanding must consider it; and I dare say, you perceive, as well as myself,
not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced
that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and
disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection,
on his side, much less certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor.
His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct
declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and
your inexperience together on a small, very small income, must have brought on
distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been
entirely unknown and unthought of before. Your sense of honour and honesty would
have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy
that would appear to you possible; and perhaps, as long as your frugality
retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practise
it, but beyond that - and how little could the utmost of your single management
do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? - Beyond that, had you
endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be
feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you
would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the
connection which had involved him in such difficulties?«
    Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word »Selfish?« in a tone
that implied - »do you really think him selfish?«
    »The whole of his behaviour,« replied Elinor, »from the beginning to the end
of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first
made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were
engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from
Barton. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling
principle.«
    »It is very true. My happiness never was his object.«
    »At present,« continued Elinor, »he regrets what he has done. And why does
he regret it? - Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not
made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed - he suffers from no
evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less
amiable temper than yourself. But does it thence follow that had he married you,
he would have been happy? - The inconveniences would have been different. He
would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are
removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of whose temper he
could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous - always
poor; and probably would soon have learnt to rank the innumerable comforts of a
clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic
happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.«
    »I have not a doubt of it,« said Marianne; »and I have nothing to regret -
nothing but my own folly.«
    »Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child,« said Mrs. Dashwood; »she
must be answerable.«
    Marianne would not let her proceed; - and Elinor, satisfied that each felt
their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her
sister's spirits; she therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately
continued,
    »One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story -
that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against
virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of
every lesser one, and of all his present discontents.«
    Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it
to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship
and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not look, however, as if
much of it were heard by her.
    Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following
days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while
her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy,
her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.
    Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other,
again quietly settled at the cottage, and if not pursuing their usual studies
with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Barton, at least planning a
vigorous prosecution of them in future.
    Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard nothing of
him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of
his present abode. Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in
consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, there had been
this sentence; - »We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no
inquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;«
which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for
his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not
doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
    Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when,
as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the
event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication -
    »I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.«
    Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning
pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she
answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was
shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and in
a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which
child to bestow her principal attention.
    The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough
to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her
into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother
leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who,
though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and
voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his
intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and
Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
    »Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?«
    »I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too,
Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London
Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who
is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I
see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew
me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies,
especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr.
Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had
not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards,
for they was going further down for a little while, but howsoever, when they come
back, they'd make sure to come and see you.«
    »But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?«
    »Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was
in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and
very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy.«
    »Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?«
    »Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up; - he
never was a gentleman much for talking.«
    Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and
Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.
    »Was there no one else in the carriage?«
    »No, ma'am, only they two.«
    »Do you know where they came from?«
    »They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy - Mrs. Ferrars told me.«
    »And are going farther westward?«
    »Yes, ma'am - but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then
they'd be sure and call here.«
    Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to
expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very
confident that Edward would never come near them. She observed, in a low voice,
to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.
    Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hear
more.
    »Did you see them off, before you came away?«
    »No, ma'am - the horses, was just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late.«
    »Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?«
    »Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a
very handsome young lady - and she seemed vastly contented.«
    Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
table-cloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had
already sent to say that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood's and
Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well
off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so
much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never
been obliged to go without her dinner before.
    When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor
were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of
thought-fullness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and
ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying
on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had
been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of
unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she
had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to
think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in
reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She
feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost
unkind, to her Elinor; - that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,
more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her
away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as
much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
 

                                  Chapter XII

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event,
however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. She
now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while
Edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy;
that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more
eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the
happiness of all. But he was now married, and she condemned her heart for the
lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.
    That he should be married so soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in
orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living,
surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy,
in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every
thing but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now
hastening down to her uncle's. What had Edward felt on being within four miles
of Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!
    They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford. - Delaford, - that
place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be
acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their
parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a
desire of smart appearance, with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be
suspected of half her economical practices; - pursuing her own interest in every
thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every
wealthy friend. In Edward - she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to
see; - happy or unhappy, - nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from
every sketch of him.
    Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would
write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars, - but day
after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that
any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend. They were all
thoughtless or indolent.
    »When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?« was an inquiry which sprung
from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
    »I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear
from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be
surprised to see him walk in to-day or to-morrow, or any day.«
    This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon
must have some information to give.
    Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback
drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It was a gentleman, it was
Colonel Brandon himself. Now she should hear more; and she trembled in
expectation of it. But - it was not Colonel Brandon - neither his air - nor his
height. Were it possible, she should say it must be Edward. She looked again. He
had just dismounted; - she could not be mistaken; - it was Edward. She moved
away and sat down. »He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I will be
calm; I will be mistress of myself.«
    In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look at
herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have given the
world to be able to speak - and to make them understand that she hoped no
coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him; - but she had no
utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
    Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance
of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he
was in the passage; and in another, he was before them.
    His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor.
His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his
reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however,
conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then
meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in everything, met him with a look
of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
    He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips had
moved with her mother's, and when the moment of action was over, she wished that
she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a
countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.
    Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her
distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole, of the case,
thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far
from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
    When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful
pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to
hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In an hurried manner, he replied
in the affirmative.
    Another pause.
    Elinor, resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said,
    »Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?«
    »At Longstaple!« he replied, with an air of surprise - »No, my mother is in
town.«
    »I meant,« said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, »to inquire
after Mrs. Edward Ferrars.«
    She dared not look up; - but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes
on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and after some
hesitation, said,
    »Perhaps you mean - my brother - you mean Mrs. - Mrs. Robert Ferrars.«
    »Mrs. Robert Ferrars!« - was repeated by Marianne and her mother, in an
accent of the utmost amazement; - and though Elinor could not speak, even her
eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat and
walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of
scissars that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by
cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in an hurried voice,
    »Perhaps you do not know - you may not have heard that my brother is lately
married to - to the youngest - to Miss Lucy Steele.«
    His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who
sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made
her hardly know where she was.
    »Yes,« said he, »they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.«
    Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon
as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought
would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at
her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw - or even heard, her emotion; for
immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries,
no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without
saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village - - leaving
the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his
situation, so wonderful and so sudden; - a perplexity which they had no means of
lessening but by their own conjectures.
 

                                  Chapter XIII

Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the
whole family, it was certain that Edward was free: and to what purpose that
freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all; - for after
experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his
mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less
could be expected of him in the failure of that, than the immediate contraction
of another.
    His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor
to marry him; - and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such
a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the
present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
    How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon
an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself,
and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said;
- that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after
his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not
only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but in the reality of reason and
truth, one of the happiest of men. His situation indeed was more than commonly
joyful. He had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his
heart, and raise his spirits. He was released without any reproach to himself,
from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had
long ceased to love; - and elevated at once to that security with another, which
he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to
consider it with desire. He was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from
misery to happiness; - and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine,
flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him
before.
    His heart - was now open to Elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors
confessed, and his first boyish attachment to Lucy treated with all the
philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
    »It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,« said he, »the consequence
of ignorance of the world - and want of employment. Had my mother given me some
active profession when I was removed at eighteen from the care of Mr. Pratt, I
think - nay, I am sure, it would never have happened; for though I left
Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for
his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep
me at a distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown the
fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such a case
I must have done. But instead of having anything to do, instead of having any
profession chosen for me, or being allowed to choose any myself, I returned home
to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards, I had not even
the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me,
for I was not entered at Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in
the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my
home in every respect comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my
brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very
often at Longstaple, where I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of
a welcome; and accordingly I spent the greatest part of my time there from
eighteen to nineteen: Lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging.
She was pretty too - at least I thought so then, and I had seen so little of
other women, that I could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering
everything, therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has
since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural, or an
inexcusable piece of folly.«
    The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of
the Dashwoods, was such - so great - as promised them all, the satisfaction of a
sleepless night. Mrs. Dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to
love Edward, nor praise Elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release
without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for
unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and
society of both.
    Marianne could speak her happiness only by tears. Comparisons would occur -
regrets would arise; - and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister,
was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
    But Elinor - How are her feelings to be described? - From the moment of
learning that Lucy was married to another, that Edward was free, to the moment
of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was everything
by turns but tranquil. But when the second moment had passed, when she found
every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so
lately it had been, - saw him honourably released from his former engagement,
saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an
affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be, - she was
oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; - and happily disposed as is
the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it
required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of
tranquillity to her heart.
    Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; - for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week
should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or suffice to say half
that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; - for though a
very few hours spent in the hard labour of incessant talking will dispatch more
subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet
with lovers it is different. Between them no subject is finished, no
communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
    Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed
of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; - and Elinor's
particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one
of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard.
How they could be thrown together, and by what attraction Robert could be drawn
on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any
admiration, - a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account
that brother had been thrown off by his family - it was beyond her comprehension
to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it
was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a
puzzle.
    Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that perhaps at first
accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the
flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest. Elinor remembered
what Robert had told her in Harley-street, of his opinion of what his own
mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time. She
repeated it to Edward.
    »That was exactly like Robert,« - was his immediate observation. - »And
that,« he presently added, »might perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance
between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might think only of
procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs might afterwards arise.«
    How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a
loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had remained by choice
ever since his quitting London, he had had no means of hearing of her but from
herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less
affectionate than usual. Not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever
occurred to prepare him for what followed; - and when at last it burst on him in
a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half
stupefied between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He
put the letter into Elinor's hands.
 
        »Dear Sir,
            Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have thought
        myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no doubt of
        being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be with you; but
        I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish
        you happy in your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not
        always good friends, as our near relationship now makes proper. I can
        safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure you will be too generous
        to do us any ill offices. Your brother has gained my affections
        entirely, and as we could not live without one another, we are just
        returned from the altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few
        weeks, which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see, but
        thought I would first trouble you with these few lines, and shall always
        remain,
            
                 Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,
                                                                   LUCY FERRARS.
                                                                                
        I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first
        opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls - but the ring with my hair
        you are very welcome to keep.«
 
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
    »I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,« said Edward. - »For
worlds would not I have had a letter of her's seen by you in former days. - In a
sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! - how I have blushed over the pages of
her writing! - and I believe I may say that since the first half year of our
foolish - business - this is the only letter I ever received from her, of which
the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style.«
    »However it may have come about,« said Elinor, after a pause - »they are
certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate
punishment. The independence she settled on Robert, through resentment against
you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been
bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she
disinherited the other for intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I
suppose, by Robert's marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying
her.«
    »She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. - She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much
sooner.«
    In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew not, for
no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him. He had
quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours after Lucy's letter arrived, and
with only one object before him, the nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure
to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most
intimate connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with
Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to be supposed,
in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of Colonel Brandon, in
spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness
with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very
cruel reception. It was his business, however, to say that he did, and he said
it very prettily. What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be
referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
    That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to Elinor; and
Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in
believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his
eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to
her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions - they had been
equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted
girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but such a persuasion could
have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the
discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source
of disquiet and regret to him.
    »I thought it my duty,« said he, »independent of my feelings, to give her
the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was renounced by my
mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me.
In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or
the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly,
so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but
the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I cannot
comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to
her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who
had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could not foresee that Colonel
Brandon would give me a living.«
    »No, but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that
your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost nothing by
continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her
inclination nor her actions. The connection was certainly a respectable one, and
probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more
advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry you than be single.«
    Edward was of course immediately convinced that nothing could have been more
natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
    Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which
compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at Norland, when
he must have felt his own inconstancy.
    »Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,« said she, »because - to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and
expect what, as you were then situated, could never be.«
    He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence
in the force of his engagement.
    »I was simple enough to think, that because my faith was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my
honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship; and
till I began to make comparisons between yourself and Lucy, I did not know how
far I was got. After that, I suppose, I was wrong in remaining so much in
Sussex, and the arguments with which I reconciled myself to the expediency of
it, were no better than these: - The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to
anybody but myself.«
    Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
    Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to
have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him
the living of Delaford - »Which, at present,« said he, »after thanks so
ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think I have never
forgiven him for offering.«
    Now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place. But
so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of
the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and
rate of the tythes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel
Brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the
subject.
    One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by mutual
affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends, their intimate
knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain - and they only
wanted something to live upon. Edward had two thousand pounds, and Elinor one,
which, with Delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was
impossible that Mrs. Dashwood should advance anything, and they were neither of
them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.
    Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on that he rested for the residue of their income. But
Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would still be unable to marry
Miss Morton, and his choosing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars's
flattering language as only a lesser evil than his choosing Lucy Steele, she
feared that Robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich Fanny.
    About four days after Edward's arrival, Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having,
for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her than her
house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and
Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the Park;
from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the
lovers' first tête-à-tête before breakfast.
    A three weeks' residence at Delaford, where, in his evening hours at least,
he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and
seventeen, brought him to Barton in a temper of mind which needed all the
improvement in Marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the
encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful. Among such friends,
however, and such flattery, he did revive. No rumour of Lucy's marriage had yet
reached him; - he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his
visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering. Every thing was
explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what
he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of
Elinor.
    It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion
of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not
be otherwise. Their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in
disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite
them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with
two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard
inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time
and judgment.
    The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve
in Elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion
than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest
indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor
Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussey, and
was now, by all accounts, almost brokenhearted, at Oxford. - »I do think,« she
continued, »nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before
Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul suspected anything of
the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came crying to me the day after, in
a great fright for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to
Plymouth; for Lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be
married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven
shillings in the world; - so I was very glad to give her five guineas to take
her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with Mrs.
Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the Doctor again. And I must
say that Lucy's crossness not to take her along with them in the chaise is worse
than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I cannot get him out of my head, but you must send
for him to Barton, and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him.«
    Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women - poor Fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility - and he
considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder.
Robert's offence was unpardonable, but Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of
them was ever again to be mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might
hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged
as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with
which every thing had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as
enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to
the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and
he called on Elinor to join with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with
Edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of
spreading misery farther in the family. - He thus continued:
    »Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not surprise
us; but to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the
occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and I
shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to Oxford, that his sister and I
both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny,
and by her shown to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the
tenderness of Mrs. Ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as
to be on good terms with her children.«
    This paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of
Edward. It determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the
manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
    »A letter of proper submission!« repeated he; »would they have me beg my
mother's pardon for Robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of honour to me? - I
can make no submission - I am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has
passed. - I am grown very happy, but that would not interest. - I know of no
submission that is proper for me to make.«
    »You may certainly ask to be forgiven,« said Elinor, »because you have
offended; - and I should think you might now venture so far as to profess some
concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's
anger.«
    He agreed that he might.
    »And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient
while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in her eyes, as the
first.«
    He had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter
of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a
much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on
paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to Fanny, he should go to
London, and personally entreat her good offices in his favour. - »And if they
really do interest themselves,« said Marianne, in her new character of candour,
»in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think that even John and Fanny are
not entirely without merit.«
    After a visit on Colonel Brandon's side of only three or four days, the two
gentlemen quitted Barton together. - They were to go immediately to Delaford,
that Edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist
his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and
from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his
journey to town.
 

                                  Chapter XIV

After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent and so
steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of
incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward was admitted to her
presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
    Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of her
life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of Edward a few weeks
ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of Robert had left her for
a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one
again.
    In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel
the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present
engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a
sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before. With
apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with
unexpected calmness. Mrs. Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade
him from marrying Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; - told him,
that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; -
and enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter of a
nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was only the daughter
of a private gentleman, with no more than three; but when she found that, though
perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined
to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to
submit - and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own
dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her
decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.
    What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income, was next to be
considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was now her only
son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was inevitably endowed with
a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against Edward's
taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was
anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand
pounds, which had been given with Fanny.
    It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected by
Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed
the only person surprised at her not giving more.
    With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they
had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the living, but the
readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with an eager desire for the
accommodation of Elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting
some time for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand
disappointments and delays, from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen,
Elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton church early
in the autumn.
    The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the
Mansion-house, from whence they could superintend the progress of the Parsonage,
and direct everything as they liked on the spot; - could choose papers, project
shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings's prophecies, though rather
jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and
his wife in their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her
husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couple in the world. They
had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and
Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.
    They were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and
friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed
of having authorised; and even the Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey
from Sussex to do them honour.
    »I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,« said John, as they
were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford House, »that
would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate
young women in the world, as it is. But, I confess, it would give me great
pleasure to call Colonel Brandon brother. His property here, his place, his
house, every thing in such respectable and excellent condition! - and his woods!
- I have not seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing
in Delaford Hanger! - And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly the
person to attract him - yet I think it would altogether be advisable for you to
have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel Brandon seems a great
deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen - for, when people are much thrown
together, and see little of anybody else - and it will always be in your power
to set her off to advantage, and so forth; - in short, you may as well give her
a chance - You understand me.« -
    But though Mrs. Ferrars did come to see them, and always treated them with
the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real
favour and preference. That was due to the folly of Robert, and the cunning of
his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away. The
selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape,
was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful
humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest
opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to his choice, and
re-established him completely in her favour.
    The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what
an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be
apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no
other sacrifice than that of time and conscience. When Robert first sought her
acquaintance, and privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only
with the view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to
give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the
affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle
the matter. In that point, however, and that only, he erred; - for though Lucy
soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in time, another
visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction. Some
doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed
by another half hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means
secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of Edward, they
came gradually to talk only of Robert, - a subject on which he had always more
to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal
to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to both, that he had
entirely supplanted his brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking
Edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What
immediately followed is known. They passed some months in great happiness at
Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintance to cut - and he drew
several plans for magnificent cottages; - and from thence returning to town,
procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it,
which, at Lucy's instigation, was adopted. The forgiveness at first, indeed, as
was reasonable, comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no
duty, and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks
longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in
self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was
treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its
graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of
affection and influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either
Robert or Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having once
intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth,
was spoken of as an intruder, she was in every thing considered, and always
openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They settled in town, received
very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable
with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually
subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a
part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy
themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.
    What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled
many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed to it, might have
puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement, however, justified in its
effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in Robert's style of
living or of talking, to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his
income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;
- and if Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every
particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the
regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with
his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
    Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be
contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely useless, for her
mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her. Mrs. Dashwood
was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her
visits at Delaford; for her wish of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon
together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had
expressed. It was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her
daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant
enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled at the mansion-house
was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They each felt his sorrows, and their
own obligations, and Marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all.
    With such a confederacy against her - with a knowledge so intimate of his
goodness - with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last,
though long after it was observable to everybody else - burst on her - what
could she do?
    Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to
discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct,
her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late
in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and
lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another! - and that other, a
man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former
attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married, -
and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
    But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as
once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, - instead of remaining
even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and
study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,
- she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new
duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the
patroness of a village.
    Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed
he deserved to be; - in Marianne he was consoled for every past affliction; -
her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to
cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was
equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend. Marianne could
never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to
her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.
    Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishment
was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of Mrs. Smith, who, by
stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency,
gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards Marianne,
he might at once have been happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct,
which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted; - nor
that he long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with regret.
But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted
an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on
- for he did neither. He lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His
wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his
breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no
inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
    For Marianne, however - in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss -
he always retained that decided regard which interested him in everything that
befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; - and many
a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparison
with Mrs. Brandon.
    Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had reached an age highly
suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a
lover.
    Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication which
strong family affection would naturally dictate; - and among the merits and the
happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least
considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other,
they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness
between their husbands.
 
                                     Finis.
