Title: Sense and Sensibility
Author: Austen, Jane, 1775-1817
Language: English
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                         Transcriber's Note:

The Table of Contents is not part of the original book. The illustration
on page 290 is missing from the book. The Introduction ends abruptly.
Seems incomplete.


       [Illustration: _Mr. Dashwood introduced him._--P. 219.]



                         SENSE & SENSIBILITY



                                  BY

                             JANE AUSTEN



                         WITH AN INTRODUCTION


                                  BY

                            AUSTIN DOBSON



                             ILLUSTRATED


                                  BY

                             HUGH THOMSON



                  LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED

                   NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

                                 1902



        _First Edition with Hugh Thomson's Illustrations_ 1896

       *       *       *       *       *



CONTENTS


INTRODUCTION
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L

       *       *       *       *       *



INTRODUCTION


With the title of _Sense and Sensibility_ is connected one of those minor
problems which delight the cummin-splitters of criticism. In the _Cecilia_
of Madame D'Arblay--the forerunner, if not the model, of Miss Austen--is a
sentence which at first sight suggests some relationship to the name of
the book which, in the present series, inaugurated Miss Austen's novels.
'The whole of this unfortunate business'--says a certain didactic Dr.
Lyster, talking in capitals, towards the end of volume three of
_Cecilia_--'has been the result of PRIDE and PREJUDICE,' and looking to
the admitted familiarity of Miss Austen with Madame D'Arblay's work, it
has been concluded that Miss Austen borrowed from _Cecilia_, the title of
her second novel. But here comes in the little problem to which we have
referred. _Pride and Prejudice_ it is true, was written and finished
before _Sense and Sensibility_--its original title for several years being
_First Impressions_. Then, in 1797, the author fell to work upon an older
essay in letters _à la_ Richardson, called _Elinor and Marianne_, which
she re-christened _Sense and Sensibility._ This, as we know, was her first
published book; and whatever may be the connection between the title of
_Pride and Prejudice_ and the passage in _Cecilia_, there is an obvious
connection between the title of _Pride and Prejudice_ and the _title of
Sense and Sensibility_. If Miss Austen re-christened _Elinor and
Marianne_ before she changed the title of _First Impressions_, as she well
may have, it is extremely unlikely that the name of _Pride and Prejudice_
has anything to do with _Cecilia_ (which, besides, had been published at
least twenty years before). Upon the whole, therefore, it is most likely
that the passage in Madame D'Arblay is a mere coincidence; and that in
_Sense and Sensibility_, as well as in the novel that succeeded it in
publication, Miss Austen, after the fashion of the old morality plays,
simply substituted the leading characteristics of her principal personages
for their names. Indeed, in _Sense and Sensibility_ the sense of Elinor,
and the sensibility (or rather _sensiblerie_) of Marianne, are markedly
emphasised in the opening pages of the book But Miss Austen subsequently,
and, as we think, wisely, discarded in her remaining efforts the cheap
attraction of an alliterative title. _Emma_ and _Persuasion, Northanger
Abbey_ and _Mansfield Park_, are names far more in consonance with the
quiet tone of her easy and unobtrusive art.

_Elinor and Marianne_ was originally written about 1792. After the
completion--or partial completion, for it was again revised in
1811--of _First Impressions_ (subsequently _Pride and Prejudice_),
Miss Austen set about recasting _Elinor and Marianne_, then composed
in the form of letters; and she had no sooner accomplished this task,
than she began _Northanger Abbey_. It would be interesting to know to
what extent she remodelled _Sense and Sensibility_ in 1797-98, for we
are told that previous to its publication in 1811 she again devoted a
considerable time to its preparation for the press, and it is clear
that this does not mean the correction of proofs alone, but also a
preliminary revision of MS. Especially would it be interesting if we
could ascertain whether any of its more finished passages, _e.g._ the
admirable conversation between the Miss Dashwoods and Willoughby in
chapter x., were the result of those fallow and apparently barren
years at Bath and Southampton, or whether they were already part of
the second version of 1797-98. But upon this matter the records are
mute. A careful examination of the correspondence published by Lord
Brabourne in 1884 only reveals two definite references to _Sense and
Sensibility_ and these are absolutely unfruitful in suggestion. In
April 1811 she speaks of having corrected two sheets of 'S and S,'
which she has scarcely a hope of getting out in the following June;
and in September, an extract from the diary of another member of the
family indirectly discloses the fact that the book had by that time
been published. This extract is a brief reference to a letter which
had been received from Cassandra Austen, begging her correspondent not
to mention that Aunt Jane wrote _Sense and Sensibility._ Beyond these
minute items of information, and the statement--already referred to in
the Introduction to _Pride and Prejudice_--that she considered herself
overpaid for the labour she had bestowed upon it, absolutely nothing
seems to have been preserved by her descendants respecting her first
printed effort. In the absence of particulars some of her critics have
fallen to speculate upon the reason which made her select it, and not
_Pride and Prejudice_, for her début; and they have, perhaps
naturally, found in the fact a fresh confirmation of that traditional
blindness of authors to their own best work, which is one of the
commonplaces of literary history. But this is to premise that she
_did_ regard it as her masterpiece, a fact which, apart from this
accident of priority of issue, is, as far as we are aware, nowhere
asserted. A simpler solution is probably that, of the three novels she
had written or sketched by 1811, _Pride and Prejudice_ was languishing
under the stigma of having been refused by one bookseller without the
formality of inspection, while _Northanger Abbey_ was lying _perdu_ in
another bookseller's drawer at Bath. In these circumstances it is
intelligible that she should turn to _Sense and Sensibility_, when, at
length--upon the occasion of a visit to her brother in London in the
spring of 1811--Mr. T. Egerton of the 'Military Library,' Whitehall,
dawned upon the horizon as a practicable publisher.

By the time _Sense and Sensibility_ left the press, Miss Austen was
again domiciled at Chawton Cottage. For those accustomed to the
swarming reviews of our day, with their Babel of notices, it may seem
strange that there should be no record of the effect produced, seeing
that, as already stated, the book sold well enough to enable its
putter-forth to hand over to its author what Mr. Gargery, in _Great
Expectations_, would have described as 'a cool £150.' Surely Mr.
Egerton, who had visited Miss Austen at Sloane Street, must have later
conveyed to her some intelligence of the way in which her work had
been welcomed by the public. But if he did, it is no longer
discoverable. Mr. Austen Leigh, her first and best biographer, could
find no account either of the publication or of the author's feelings
thereupon. As far as it is possible to judge, the critical verdicts
she obtained were mainly derived from her own relatives and intimate
friends, and some of these latter--if one may trust a little anthology
which she herself collected, and from which Mr. Austen Leigh prints
extracts--must have been more often exasperating than sympathetic. The
long chorus of intelligent approval by which she was afterwards
greeted did not begin to be really audible before her death, and her
'fit audience' during her lifetime must have been emphatically 'few,'
Of two criticisms which came out in the _Quarterly_ early in the
century, she could only have seen one, that of 1815; the other, by
Archbishop Whately, the first which treated her in earnest, did not
appear until she had been three years dead. Dr. Whately deals mainly
with _Mansfield Park_ and _Persuasion_; his predecessor professed to
review _Emma_, though he also gives brief summaries of _Sense and
Sensibility_ and _Pride and Prejudice_. Mr. Austen Leigh, we think,
speaks too contemptuously of this initial notice of 1815. If, at
certain points, it is half-hearted and inadequate, it is still fairly
accurate in its recognition of Miss Austen's supreme merit, as
contrasted with her contemporaries--to wit, her skill in investing the
fortunes of ordinary characters and the narrative of common
occurrences with all the sustained excitement of romance. The Reviewer
points out very justly that this kind of work, 'being deprived of all
that, according to Bayes, goes "to elevate and surprise," must make
amends by displaying depth of knowledge and dexterity of execution.'
And in these qualities, even with such living competitors of her own
sex as Miss Edgeworth and Miss Brunton (whose _Self-control_ came out
in the same year as _Sense and Sensibility_), he does not scruple to
declare that 'Miss Austen stands almost alone.' If he omits to lay
stress upon her judgment, her nice sense of fitness, her restraint,
her fine irony, and the delicacy of her artistic touch, something must
be allowed for the hesitations and reservations which invariably beset
the critical pioneer.

To contend, however, for a moment that the present volume is Miss
Austen's greatest, as it was her first published, novel, would be a
mere exercise in paradox. There are, who swear by _Persuasion_; there
are, who prefer _Emma_ and _Mansfield Park_; there is a large
contingent for _Pride and Prejudice_; and there is even a section
which advocates the pre-eminence of _Northanger Abbey_. But no one, as
far as we can remember, has ever put _Sense and Sensibility_ first,
nor can we believe that its author did so herself. And yet it is she
herself who has furnished the standard by which we judge it, and it is
by comparison with _Pride and Prejudice_, in which the leading
characters are also two sisters, that we assess and depress its merit.
The Elinor and Marianne of _Sense and Sensibility_ are only inferior
when they are contrasted with the Elizabeth and Jane of _Pride and
Prejudice_; and even then, it is probably because we personally like
the handsome and amiable Jane Bennet rather better than the obsolete
survival of the sentimental novel represented by Marianne Dashwood.
Darcy and Bingley again are much more 'likeable' (to use Lady
Queensberry's word) than the colourless Edward Ferrars and the
stiff-jointed Colonel Brandon. Yet it might not unfairly be contended
that there is more fidelity to what Mr. Thomas Hardy has termed
'life's little ironies' in Miss Austen's disposal of the two Miss
Dashwoods than there is in her disposal of the heroines of _Pride and
Prejudice_. Every one does not get a Bingley, or a Darcy (with a
park); but a good many sensible girls like Elinor pair off contentedly
with poor creatures like Edward Ferrars, while not a few enthusiasts
like Marianne decline at last upon middle-aged colonels with flannel
waistcoats. George Eliot, we fancy, would have held that the fates of
Elinor and Marianne were more probable than the fortunes of Jane and
Eliza Bennet. That, of the remaining characters, there is certainly
none to rival Mr. Bennet, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, or the
ineffable Mr. Collins, of _Pride and Prejudice_, is true; but we
confess to a kindness for vulgar matchmaking Mrs. Jennings with her
still-room 'parmaceti for an inward bruise' in the shape of a glass of
old Constantia; and for the diluted Squire Western, Sir John
Middleton, whose horror of being alone carries him to the point of
rejoicing in the acquisition of _two_ to the population of London.
Excellent again are Mr. Palmer and his wife; excellent, in their
sordid veracity, the self-seeking figures of the Miss Steeles. But the
pearls of the book must be allowed to be that egregious amateur in
toothpick-cases, Mr. Robert Ferrars (with his excursus in chapter
xxxvi. on life in a cottage), and the admirably-matched Mr. and Mrs.
John Dashwood. Miss Austen herself has never done anything better than
the inimitable and oft-quoted chapter wherein is debated between the
last-named pair the momentous matter of the amount to be devoted to
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters; while the suggestion in chapters
xxxiii. and xxxiv. that the owner of Norland was once within some
thousands of having to sell out at a loss, deserves to be remembered
with that other memorable escape of Sir Roger de Coverley's ancestor,
who was only not killed in the civil wars because 'he was sent out of
the field upon a private message, the day before the battle of
Worcester.'

Of local colouring there is as little in _Sense and Sensibility_ as in
_Pride and Prejudice_. It is not unlikely that some memories of
Steventon may survive in Norland; and it may be noted that there is
actually a Barton Place to the north of Exeter, not far from Lord
Iddesleigh's well-known seat of Upton Pynes. It is scarcely possible,
also, not to believe that, in Mrs. Jennings's description of
Delaford--'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!'--Miss Austen had
in mind some real Hampshire or Devonshire country house. In any case,
it comes nearer a picture than what we usually get from her pen. 'Then
there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty
canal; and everything, 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.' The last lines suggest those quaint
'gazebos' and alcoves, which, in the coaching days, were so often to
be found perched at the roadside, where one might sit and watch the
Dover or Canterbury stage go whirling by. Of genteel accomplishments
there is a touch In the 'landscape in coloured silks' which Charlotte
Palmer had worked at school (chap, xxvi.); and of old remedies for the
lost art of swooning, in the 'lavender drops' of chapter xxix. The
mention of a dance as a 'little hop' in chapter ix. reads like a
premature instance of middle Victorian slang. But nothing is new-even
in a novel--and 'hop,' in this sense, is at least as old as _Joseph
Andrews_.

       *       *       *       *       *



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


Mr. Dashwood introduced him             _Frontispiece_

His son's son, a child of four years old

"I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it"

So shy before company

They sang together

He cut off a long lock of her hair

"I have found you out in spite of all your tricks"

Apparently In violent affliction

Begging her to stop

Came to take a survey of the guest

"I declare they are quite charming"

Mischievous tricks

Drinking to her best affections

Amiably bashful

"I can answer for it," said Mrs. Jennings

At that moment she first perceived him

"How fond he was of it!"

Offered him one of Folly's puppies

A very smart beau

Introduced to Mrs. Jennings

Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not stand
upon ceremony

Mrs. Ferrars

Drawing him a little aside

In a whisper

"You have heard, I suppose"

Talking over the business

"She put in the feather last night"

Listening at the door

Both gained considerable amusement

"Of one thing I may assure you"

Showing her child to the housekeeper

The gardener's lamentations

Opened a window-shutter

"I entreat you to stay"

"I was formally dismissed"

"I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight"

"And see how the children go on"

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married"

It _was_ Edward

"Everything in such respectable condition"

       *       *       *       *       *



CHAPTER I


The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate
was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of
their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so
respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their
surrounding acquaintance. The late owner of this estate was a single
man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his
life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her
death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great
alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and
received into his house the family of his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood,
the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he
intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and
their children, the old Gentleman's days were comfortably spent. His
attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and
Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from
interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid
comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the
children added a relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son: by his present
lady, three daughters. The son, a steady respectable young man, was
amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large,
and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own
marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his
wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate was not
so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent
of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that
property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their
father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the
remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her
child, and he had only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every
other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so
unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but
he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the
bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife
and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his
son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way,
as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most
dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the
estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up
for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his
father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of
his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children
of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest
desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of
noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for
years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not
to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three
girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper
was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many
years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the
produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate
improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was
his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten
thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained
for his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr.
Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness
could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the
family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at
such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make
them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance,
and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there
might prudently be in his power to do for them.

[Illustration: _His son's son, a child of four years old._]

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted
and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well
respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of
his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might
have been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have
been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and
very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature
of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to
increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand
pounds a-piece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The
prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income,
besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his
heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. "Yes, he would give
them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! It would
be enough to make them completely easy. Three thousand pounds! he
could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience." He
thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did
not repent.

No sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood,
without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law,
arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her
right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his
father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the
greater, and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood's situation, with only common
feelings, must have been highly unpleasing. But in _her_ mind there
was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any
offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a
source of immovable 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 everything: her sorrows, her
joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable,
interesting: she was everything but prudent. The resemblance between
her and her mother was strikingly great.

Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but
by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each
other now in the violence of their affliction. The agony of grief
which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought
for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to
their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection
that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation
in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could
struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother,
could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with
proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar
exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl;
but as she had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne's romance,
without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair
to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.



CHAPTER 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 anybody
beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed them,
with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their home; and, as no
plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as remaining there till she
could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his
invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former
delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In seasons of cheerfulness,
no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater
degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness
itself. But in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy,
and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended
to do for his sisters. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune
of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most
dreadful degree. She begged him to think again on the subject. How
could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child
too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss
Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she
considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so
large an amount. It was very well known that no affection was ever
supposed to exist between the children of any man by different
marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little
Harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?

"It was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I
should assist his widow and daughters."

"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he
was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he
could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away
half your fortune from your own child."

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Fanny; he only
requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their
situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it
would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could
hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise,
I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time.
The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed. Something
must be done for them whenever they leave Norland and settle in a new
home."

"Well, then, _let_ something be done for them; but _that_ something
need not be three thousand pounds. Consider," she added, "that when
the money is once parted with, it never can return. Your sisters will
marry, and it will be gone for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored
to our poor little boy--"

"Why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make
great difference. The time may come when Harry will regret that so
large a sum was parted with. If he should have a numerous family, for
instance, it would be a very convenient addition."

"To be sure it would."

"Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half. Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious
increase to their fortunes!"

"Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so
much for his sisters, even if _really_ his sisters! And as it is--only
half blood! But you have such a generous spirit!"

"I would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied. "One had rather,
on such occasions, do too much than too little. No one, at least, can
think I have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can
hardly expect more."

"There is no knowing what _they_ may expect," said the lady, "but we
are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can
afford to do."

"Certainly; and I think I may afford to give them five hundred pounds
a-piece. As it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have
about three thousand pounds on their mother's death--a very
comfortable fortune for any young woman."

"To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of
ten thousand pounds."

"That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them--something of the annuity kind I
mean. My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."

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

"To be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen
hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live
fifteen years we shall be completely taken in."

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

"Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and
healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it
comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You
are not aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the
trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of
three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is
amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these
annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting
it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards
it turned out to be no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her
income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it;
and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money
would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any
restriction whatever. It has given me such an abhorrence of annuities,
that I am sure I would not pin myself down to the payment of one for
all the world."

"It is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied Mr. Dashwood, "to have
those kind of yearly drains on one's income. One's fortune, as your
mother justly says, is _not_ one's own. To be tied down to the regular
payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it
takes away one's independence."

"Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it. They think
themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises
no gratitude at all. If I were you, whatever I did should be done at
my own discretion entirely. I would not bind myself to allow them any
thing yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a
hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

"I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should
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 everything
in the world to _them._"

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions whatever of
decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be
absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the
widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts
as his own wife pointed out.



CHAPTER 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.

[Illustration: "_I cannot imagine how they will spend half of it._"]

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise
on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last
earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no
more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her
daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was
persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000L would support her
in affluence. For their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own
heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to
his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His
attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that
their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied
on the liberality of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for
her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge
of her character, which half a year's residence in her family
afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or
maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might
have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a
particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility,
according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters'
continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and
the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a 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 centered in domestic comfort
and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger brother
who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged
much of Mrs. Dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such
affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw
only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He
did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed
conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther,
by a reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the
difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which
recommended him most forcibly to her mother.

"It is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike Fanny is enough.
It implies everything amiable. I love him already."

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

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

"You may esteem him."

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

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him. Her manners
were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily
comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Elinor
perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his
worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all
her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was
no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his
temper affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to
Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and
looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

"In a few months, my dear Marianne," said she, "Elinor will, in all
probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but _she_ will be
happy."

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

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few
miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will
gain a brother--a real, affectionate brother. I have the highest
opinion in the world of Edward's heart. But you look grave, Marianne;
do you disapprove your sister's choice?"

"Perhaps," said Marianne, "I may consider it with some surprise.
Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet--he is not
the kind of young man; there is something wanting--his figure is not
striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man
who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit,
that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides
all this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems
scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very
much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their
worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while
she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as
a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be
united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every
point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the
same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! mama, how
spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last night!
I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much
composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my
seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost
driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such
dreadful indifference!"

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant
prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper."

"Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!--but we must allow
for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she
may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broke _my_
heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I
shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He
must have all Edward's virtues, and his person and manners must
ornament his goodness with every possible charm."

"Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet too early in
life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate
than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Marianne, may your
destiny be different from her's!"



CHAPTER 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, 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 of something
almost as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel
it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to
produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more
reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which
forbade the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother
neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present,
nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself,
without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With
such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on
the subject. She was far from depending on that result of his
preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as
certain. Nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed
the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes,
she believed it to be no more than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when
perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time,
(which was still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking
to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the
danger attending any young woman who attempted to _draw him in_, that
Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to
be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and
instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a
cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she
might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly
pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to
come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own
residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton
Cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any
alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to
accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so
friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin;
more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and
unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for
deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The
situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as
Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a
sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to
the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood
of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a
blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her
daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved
place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a
woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton her
acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal;
and then hastened to 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 a 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 a house, and should incommode them no
longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They
heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her
husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from Norland.
She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into
Devonshire. Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and,
in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to
her, repeated, "Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from
hence! And to what part of it?" She explained the situation. It was
within four miles northward of Exeter.

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my
friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends
find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will
find none in accommodating them."

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and Mrs. John
Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward she gave one with still
greater affection. Though her late conversation with her
daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at Norland no longer
than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her
in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Edward and
Elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to
show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother,
how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly
sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from
Norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her
furniture. He really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for
the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his
promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.
The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly consisted of
household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte
of Marianne's. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh:
she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood's income
would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any
handsome article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready
furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty
arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the
disposal of her effects at Norland, and to determine her future
household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was
exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested
her, was soon done. The horses which were left her by her husband had
been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of
disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the
earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For the comfort of her
children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept
it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed. _Her_ wisdom too limited
the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom
they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their
establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into
Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as
Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred
going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Barton Park; and
she relied so undoubtingly on Sir John's description of the house, as
to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her
own. Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from
diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the
prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted
to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.
Now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might
with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do
it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be
looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs.
Dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be
convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his
assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months
at Norland. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of
housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man
of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to,
that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to
have any design of giving money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John Middleton's
first letter to Norland, every thing was so far settled in their
future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters to begin
their journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so
much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered
alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there;
"when shall I cease to regret you!--when learn to feel a home
elsewhere! Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now
viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no
more! And you, ye well-known trees!--but you will continue the same.
No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become
motionless although we can observe you no longer! No; you will
continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you
occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your
shade! But who will remain to enjoy you?"



CHAPTER 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 bedrooms and two garrets formed the
rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good
repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!--but
the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house
were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on
their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear
happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from
first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they
received an impression in its favour which was of material service in
recommending it to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately
behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open
downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Barton was
chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the
cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it
commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country
beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley
in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it
branched out again between two of the steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood was upon the
whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered
many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was
a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to
supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. "As
for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our
family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the
present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in
the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may
think about building. These parlors are both too small for such
parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I
have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with
perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other
for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily
added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug
little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome. But one must
not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult
matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the
world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly."

In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the
savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never
saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the
house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their
particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and
other possessions, to form themselves a home. Marianne's pianoforte
was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were
affixed to the walls of their sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after
breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called
to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation from
his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be
deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He
had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young
cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured;
and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their
arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to
be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest
desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and
pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they
were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried
to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give
offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour
after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit
arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by
a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their
letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the
satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her
intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon as she could be assured
that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was
answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced
to them the next day.

[Illustration: _So shy before company._]

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 enquire his name and age, admire
his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him,
while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise
of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as
he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child
ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the
present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were
most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled
either, for of course every body differed, and every body was
astonished at the opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods of debating on
the rest of the children, as Sir John would not leave the house
without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.



CHAPTER 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 a hill. The house was large
and handsome; and the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality
and elegance. The former was for Sir John's gratification, the latter
for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some friends
staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every
kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to
the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward
behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with
such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a
sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she
humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady
Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all
the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in
existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and
abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and
education; supported the good spirits of Sir John, and gave exercise
to the good breeding of his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of
all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her
greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir John's
satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting
about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier
they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the
juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever
forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in
winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who
was not suffering under the 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 pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated
that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she
had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

Marianne's performance was highly applauded. Sir John was loud in his
admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation
with the others while every song lasted. Lady Middleton frequently
called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be
diverted from music for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a
particular song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon
alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures. He paid
her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him
on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their
shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not
to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own,
was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of
the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five
and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every
exquisite power of enjoyment. She was perfectly disposed to make every
allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity
required.



CHAPTER 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, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon
is certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be
_my_ father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must
have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!
When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not
protect him?"

"Infirmity!" said Elinor, "do you call Colonel Brandon infirm? I can
easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my
mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use
of his limbs!"

"Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?"

"My dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must
be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a
miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."

"Mamma, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Colonel
Brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of
losing him in the course of nature. He may live twenty years longer.
But thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have
any thing to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any
chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, I
should not think Colonel Brandon's being thirty-five any objection to
his marrying _her_ ."

"A woman of seven and twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment,
"can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be
uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might
bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the
provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman
therefore there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of
convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be
no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem
only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at
the expense of the other."

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Elinor, "to convince you
that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five
anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to
her. But I must object to your dooming Colonel Brandon and his wife to
the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced
to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic
feel in one of his shoulders."

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Marianne; "and with me a
flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps,
rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and
the feeble."

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him
half so much. Confess, Marianne, is not there something interesting to
you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"

Soon after this, upon Elinor's leaving the room, "Mamma," said
Marianne, "I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot
conceal from you. I am sure Edward Ferrars is not well. We have now
been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but
real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else
can detain him at Norland?"

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" said Mrs. Dashwood. "I had
none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the
subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want
of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of
his coming to Barton. Does Elinor expect him already?"

"I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her
yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bed-chamber, 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 enquiry, that its
possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately
too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high
downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to
seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy
alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their
superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Marianne and
Margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the
partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the
confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had
occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others
from their pencil and their book, in spite of Marianne's declaration
that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud
would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off
together.

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at
every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the
animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears
which had prevented their mother and Elinor from sharing such
delightful sensations.

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Marianne, "superior to
this?--Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."

Margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind,
resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer,
when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain
set full in their face. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged,
though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their
own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the
exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety,--it was that of
running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which
led immediately to their garden gate.

They set off. Marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step
brought her suddenly to the ground; and Margaret, unable to stop
herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached
the bottom in safety.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was
passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her
accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She
had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in
her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered
his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her
situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther
delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden,
the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly
into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his
hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and
while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a
secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he
apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so
frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome,
received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been
even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs.
Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child;
but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to
the action which came home to her feelings.

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address
which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he
declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know
to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his
present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him
the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Miss Dashwood. The
honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself
still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the
theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised
against Marianne received particular spirit from his exterior
attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person 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 tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on
Thursday."

"You know him then," said Mrs. Dashwood.

"Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent
shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne, indignantly.
"But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his
pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

Sir John was rather puzzled.

"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all
_that._ But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the
nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with
him today?"

But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind.

"But who is he?" said Elinor. "Where does he come from? Has he a house
at Allenham?"

On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and he
told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the
country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady
at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he
was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I
can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own
in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up
to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss
Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon will
be jealous, if she does not take care."

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
"that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of
_my_ daughters towards what you call _catching him._ It is not an
employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with
us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what
you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose
acquaintance will not be ineligible."

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated
Sir John. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the park, he
danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."

"Did he indeed?" cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with
elegance, with spirit?"

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever
be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and
leave him no sense of fatigue."

"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir John, "I see how it will
be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon."

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne, warmly, "which I
particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit
is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'
are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and
if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago
destroyed all its ingenuity."

Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as
heartily as if he did, and then replied--

"Ay, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other.
Poor Brandon! he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth
setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling
about and spraining of ankles."



CHAPTER X


Marianne's preserver, as Margaret, with more elegance than precision,
styled Willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to
make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Dashwood with
more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir John's account of him
and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the
visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection,
and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced
him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview
to be convinced.

Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a
remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form,
though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of
height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in
the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was
less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown,
but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant;
her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in
her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an
eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. From
Willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the
embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But
when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw
that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united
frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare,
that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such
a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to
herself for the rest of his stay.

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her
to talk. She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and
she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily
discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and
that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that
related to either. Encouraged by this to a further examination of his
opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her
favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so
rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have
been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the
excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was
strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by
each; or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no
longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her
eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught
all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they
conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for _one_
morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already
ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of
importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are
certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have
received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper.
But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such
extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon
have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to
explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages,
and then you can have nothing farther to ask."

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so
scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too
happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of
decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been
reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:--had I talked only of the
weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this
reproach would have been spared."

"My love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with Elinor--she
was only in jest. I should scold her myself, if she were capable of
wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new
friend." Marianne was softened in a moment.

Willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their
acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He
came to them every day. To enquire after Marianne was at first his
excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day
gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had
ceased to be possible, by Marianne's perfect recovery. She was
confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement
been less irksome. Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick
imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was
exactly formed to engage Marianne's heart, for with all this, he
joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind
which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and
which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.

His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read,
they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were
considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which
Edward had unfortunately wanted.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's;
and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he
strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too
much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons
or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other
people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of
undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too
easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution
which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne
could say in its support.

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized
her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her
ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Willoughby was
all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every
brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour
declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities
were strong.

[Illustration: _They sang together._]

Her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their
marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before
the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate
herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward and
Willoughby.

Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so
early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to
Elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit
were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the
other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his
feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to
sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that
the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own
satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that
however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might
forward the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking
opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel
Brandon. She saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five
and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?
and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him
indifferent. She liked him--in spite of his gravity and reserve, she
beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were
mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of
spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped
hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief
of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and
compassion.

Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted
by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being
neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

"Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when they
were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and
nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody
remembers to talk to."

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Marianne.

"Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice in
both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and
I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

"That he is patronised by _you_," replied Willoughby, "is certainly in
his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in
itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a
woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that could command the
indifference of any body else?"

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne will
make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If their
praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more
undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

"In defence of your _protégé_ you can even be saucy."

"My _protégé_, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will
always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between
thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been
abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of
giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always
answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good
nature."

"That is to say," cried Marianne contemptuously, "he has told you,
that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome."

"He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such
inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been
previously informed."

"Perhaps," said Willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the
existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."

"I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much
further than _your_ candour. But why should you dislike him?"

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very
respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice;
who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to
employ, and two new coats every year."

"Add to which," cried Marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste,
nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
ardour, and his voice no expression."

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Elinor,
"and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and
insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred,
well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an
amiable heart."

"Miss Dashwood," cried Willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly. You
are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my
will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be
artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Colonel
Brandon; he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he
has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and I cannot persuade
him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you,
however, to be told, that I believe his character to be in other
respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for
an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me
the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."



CHAPTER 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 into execution.
The private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water
were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow.
In every meeting of the kind Willoughby was included; and the ease and
familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly
calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the
Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of
Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving,
in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her
affection.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished
that it were less openly 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
indifference of her sister.

Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect
that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
This suspicion was given by some words which 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 minutiæ 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 enforced 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; Mamma she was sure would never object
to it; and any horse would do for _him_; he might always get one at
the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor
then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present
from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too
much.

"You are mistaken, Elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed."

Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
sister's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.

She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time
related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side
impossible. His concern however was very apparent; and after
expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, "But,
Marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I
shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Barton to
form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall
receive you."

This was all overheard by Miss Dashwood; and in the whole of the
sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her
sister by her Christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so
decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between
them. From that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each
other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she,
or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to
discover it by accident.

Margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this
matter in a still clearer light. Willoughby had spent the preceding
evening with them, and Margaret, by being left some time in the
parlour with only him and Marianne, had had opportunity for
observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to
her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.

"Oh, Elinor!" she cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about
Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very soon."

"You have said so," replied Elinor, "almost every day since they first
met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I
believe, before you were certain that Marianne wore his picture round
her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great
uncle."

"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be
married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."

"Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
_his_."

"But, indeed, Elinor, it is Marianne's. I am almost sure it is, for I
saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and mama went out
of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as
could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently
he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it
was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a
piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Elinor could not
withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance
was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.

Margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory
to her sister. When Mrs. Jennings attacked her one evening at the
park, to give the name of the young man who was Elinor's particular
favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her,
Margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "I must not
tell, may I, Elinor?"

This of course made every body laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh too.
But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had fixed
on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a
standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

[Illustration: _He cut off a long lock of her hair._]

Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good
to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to
Margaret--

"Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them."

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it was you
who told me of it yourself."

This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was eagerly
pressed to say something more.

"Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.
Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?"

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know
where he is too."

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland to be
sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."

"Margaret," said Marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this
is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence."

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such
a man once, and his name begins with an F."

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this
moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the
interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her
ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as
delighted her husband and mother. The idea however started by her, was
immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion
mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of
rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked
Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of
different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so
easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see
a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging to a
brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it could not
be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict
orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful,
and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be
allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit
them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years. They
contained a noble piece of water--a sail on which was to a form a
great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be
taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted
in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking,
considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the
last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was
persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.



CHAPTER XIII


Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very different from
what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,
fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate,
for they did not go at all.

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they
were to breakfast. The morning was rather favourable, though it had
rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky,
and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and
good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the
greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the
rest there was one for Colonel Brandon:--he took it, looked at the
direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

"What is the matter with Brandon?" said Sir John.

Nobody could tell.

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Middleton. "It must be
something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly."

In about five minutes he returned.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope;" said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse."

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a
letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear
the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying."

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Middleton,
"that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which
requires my immediate attendance in town."

"In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town at
this time of year?"

"My own loss is great," 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 tomorrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to
delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.
Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to
defer your journey till our return."

"I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour."

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, "There
are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of
them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this
trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was
of his own writing."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Marianne.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of
old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But,
however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the
two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked
up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his
usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of
disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be
unavoidable.

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

"I hope we shall see you at Barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as
you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return."

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in
my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here
by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Ay, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may
find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of."

Colonel Brandon's horses were announced.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir John.

"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you
had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power."

He then took leave of the whole party.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do."

To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.

"Come Colonel," said Mrs. Jennings, "before you go, do let us know
what you are going about."

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir John, left the
room.

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto
restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and
again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost every body.

"Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure."

"And who is Miss Williams?" asked Marianne.

"What! do not you know who Miss Williams is? I am sure you must have
heard of her before. She is a relation of the Colonel's, my dear; a
very near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the
young ladies." Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
"She is his natural daughter."

"Indeed!"

"Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel
will leave her all his fortune."

When Sir John returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret
on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as
they were all got together, they must do something by way of being
happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although
happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a
tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. The
carriages were then ordered; Willoughby's was first, and Marianne
never looked happier than when she got into it. He drove through the
park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of
them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the
return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive;
but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while
the others went on the downs.

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that
every body should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the
Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down
nearly twenty to table, which Sir John observed with great
contentment. Willoughby took his usual place between the two elder
Miss Dashwoods. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right hand; and they had
not been long seated, before she leant behind her and Willoughby, and
said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you
out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."

Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?"

"Did not you know," said Willoughby, "that we had been out in my
curricle?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined
to find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Miss
Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you,
I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when
I was there six years ago."

Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed
heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they
had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.
Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that
they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in
walking about the garden and going all over the house.

Elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very
unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter
the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the
smallest acquaintance.

As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about it;
and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance
related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was quite angry
with her for doubting it.

"Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that we
did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do
yourself?"

"Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and
with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

[Illustration: "_I have found you out in spite of all your tricks._"]

"Mr. Willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to
show that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was
impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter
morning in my life."

"I am afraid," replied Elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment
does not always evince its propriety."

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for
if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have
been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting
wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

"But, my dear Marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very
impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of
your own conduct?"

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of
impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our
lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her
commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in
walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will
one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and--"

"If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done."

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her;
and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her
sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it
_was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby
wanted particularly to 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 everything sadly involved. I do
think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else
can it be? I wonder whether it is so. I would give anything to know
the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss Williams and, by the bye, I
dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her.
May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for I
have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is
about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed
in his circumstances _now_, for he is a very prudent man, and to be
sure must have cleared the estate by this time. I wonder what it can
be! May be his sister is worse at Avignon, and has sent for him over.
His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him
out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the
bargain."

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every
fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel
Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly
away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides
that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting
amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise
disposed of. It was 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 left the
country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of
attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Dashwood's happening
to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he
warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had
established as perfect with him.

"What!" he exclaimed, "Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will
never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch
to its size, if my feelings are regarded."

"Do not be alarmed," said Miss Dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be
done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she
can employ her riches no better."

"Thank you, Willoughby. But you may be assured that I would not
sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one
whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it
that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in
the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it
in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this
place as to see no defect in it?"

"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as
the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I
rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again
in the exact plan of this cottage."

"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said
Elinor.

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing
belonging to it--in no one convenience or inconvenience about it,
should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under
such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at
Barton."

"I flatter myself," replied Elinor, "that even under the disadvantage
of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your
own house as faultless as you now do this."

"There certainly are circumstances," said Willoughby, "which might
greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of
my affection, which no other can possibly share."

Mrs. Dashwood looked with pleasure at Marianne, whose fine eyes were
fixed so expressively on Willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she
understood him.

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time
twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed within
view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one
should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first
news I should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country,
would be that Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate
satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of
prescience of what happiness I should experience from it, can account
for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?" speaking to her in a lowered
voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house
you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by
imaginary improvement! and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance
first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by
us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance,
and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has
hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort
than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world
could possibly afford."

Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should
be attempted.

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me
easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me
that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever
find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will
always consider me with the kindness which has made everything
belonging to you so dear to me."

The promise was readily given, and Willoughby's behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when he was
leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton."

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.



CHAPTER 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 mantelpiece 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 anything the matter with her?" cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered:--"is she ill?"

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced
smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill--for I
am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

"Disappointment?"

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Mrs. Smith has
this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent
cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my
dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by way of
exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."

"To London!--and are you going this morning?"

"Almost this moment."

[Illustration: _Apparently in violent affliction._]

"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 at this. And now, Elinor,
what have you to say?"

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

"Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have
happened. Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had
rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for
misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology
for the latter. You are resolved to think him blamable, 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 such reason to love, and no reason in the
world to think ill of?--to the possibility of motives unanswerable in
themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all,
what is it you suspect him of?"

"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is
the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed
in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of
the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be
candid in my judgment of every body. Willoughby may undoubtedly have
very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has.
But it would have been more like Willoughby to acknowledge them at
once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at
its being practiced by him."

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where
the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of
what I have said in his defence?--I am happy--and he is acquitted."

"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
_are_ engaged) from Mrs. Smith; and if that is the case, it must be
highly expedient for Willoughby to be but little in Devonshire at
present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."

"Concealing it from us! my dear child, do you accuse Willoughby and
Marianne of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have
been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

"I want no proof of their affection," said Elinor; "but of their
engagement I do."

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
them."

"I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has
not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last
fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future
wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been
daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate
respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How
could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that
Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should
leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of
his affection,--that they should part without a mutual exchange of
confidence?"

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that every circumstance except _one_ is
in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of
both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Willoughby,
if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the
nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a
part in his behaviour to your sister all this time? Do you suppose him
really indifferent to her?"

"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure."

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such
indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to
him."

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this
matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are
fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we
find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you
would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious girl! But I
require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to
justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly
open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's wishes. It must be
Willoughby therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of
honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to
create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

"I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby,
sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more
painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will
not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his
manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not
return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be
explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. He
had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest
affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Mrs.
Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware
that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away
for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part
by our family, 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
everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an
engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage
must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it
can be observed, may now be very advisable."

They were interrupted by the entrance of Margaret; and Elinor was then
at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to
acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

They saw nothing of Marianne till dinner time, when she entered the
room and took her place at the table without saying a word. Her eyes
were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then
restrained with difficulty. She avoided the looks of them all, could
neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently
pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of
fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. She
was without any power, because she was without any desire of command
over herself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Willoughby
overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most
anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if
they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings
connected with him.



CHAPTER 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 a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding
all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent
enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to
Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined,
and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had
written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther
sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day
applied. She spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing
and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears. In books
too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast
between the past and present was certain of giving. She read nothing
but what they had been used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these
employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and
silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as
lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy. But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or
she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so kind,
so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would
be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one. I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall
not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances
make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed,
were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;
but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed--

"We have never finished _Hamlet_, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went
away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he
comes again--; But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise. "No--nor many weeks."

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of
the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never
be found when the others set off. But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's _mind_ could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied
with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the
entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less
wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had
travelled on first coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching
that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect
which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot
which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated
one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes
they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment
afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed--

"It is he; it is indeed--I know it is!" and was hastening to meet him,
when Elinor cried out--

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The
person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air, his
coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne
from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being
Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon
within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart
sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back,
when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a
third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging
her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome
Edward Ferrars.

[Illustration: _Begging her to stop._]

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained
a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on _him_, and
in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him
than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between
Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable
coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual
behaviour. On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency
of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was
confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked
neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection. Marianne
saw and listened with increasing surprise. She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her,
by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London. No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the
same county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year--the woods and walks thickly covered
with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I
formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see
them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they,
the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard
them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven
as much as possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But
_sometimes_ they are." As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments; but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley. Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever
see their equals? To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that
farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant
people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust? They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks. His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present,
she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated
him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.



CHAPTER 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 expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood. Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her;
and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits. The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents
than inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter."

"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."

"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do
with it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.
_Your_ competence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and
without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every
kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more
noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?"

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than _that._"

Elinor laughed. "_Two_ thousand a year! _One_ is my wealth! I guessed
how it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said
Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure
I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of
servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on
less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.

"Hunters!" repeated Edward; "but why must you have hunters? Every body
does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune a-piece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth."

"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be! I wonder what I
should do with it!"

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor,
"and your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"
said Edward, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her. And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very
saucy. But I was willing to 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 any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
at all altered."

"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me. You are not
very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never
was a part of _my_ character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should
hardly call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all
she does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but
she is not often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours. This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at
Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but
I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness. I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy."

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."

Edward started. "Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved!--how, in
what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"

Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.



CHAPTER 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 upstairs she heard the parlour
door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself
come out.

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said 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 enquire too far, Marianne: remember I have no
knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance
and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep,
which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to
be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought
only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.
You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I
call it a very fine country,--the hills are steep, the woods seem full
of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug,--with rich
meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It
exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty
with utility--and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you
admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and
promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.
I know nothing of the picturesque."

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you
boast of it?"

"I suspect," said Elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation,
Edward here falls into another. Because he believes many people
pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really
feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater
indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he
possesses. He is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own."

"It is very true," said Marianne, "that admiration of landscape
scenery is become a mere jargon. Every body pretends to feel and tries
to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what
picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I
have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to
describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and
meaning."

"I am convinced," said Edward, "that you really feel all the delight
in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your
sister must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine
prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked,
twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall,
straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I
am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more
pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower,--and a troop of
tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the
world."

Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her
sister. Elinor only laughed.

The subject was continued no farther; and Marianne remained
thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
She was sitting by Edward, and in taking his tea from Mrs. Dashwood,
his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a
plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.

"I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward," she cried. "Is that
Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I should
have thought her hair had been darker."

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt; but when she saw
how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of
thought could not be surpassed by his. He coloured very deeply, and
giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, "Yes; it is my sister's
hair. The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise. That the hair
was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne;
the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne
considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must
have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.
She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and
affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of
something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every
opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all
doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of
mind still more settled. He was particularly grave the whole morning.
Marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own
forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little
offence it had given her sister.

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir John and Mrs.
Jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the
cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of
his mother-in-law, Sir John was not long in discovering that the name
of Ferrars began with an F. and this prepared a future mine of
raillery against the devoted Elinor, which nothing but the newness of
their acquaintance with Edward could have prevented from being
immediately sprung. But, as it was, she only learned, from some very
significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Margaret's
instructions, extended.

Sir John never came to the Dashwoods without either inviting them to
dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their
visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute,
he wished to engage them for both.

"You _must_ drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be
quite alone; and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we
shall be a large party."

Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may raise
a dance," said she. "And that will tempt _you_, Miss Marianne."

"A dance!" cried Marianne. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

[Illustration: _Came to take a survey of the guest._]

"Who? why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.
What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that
shall be nameless is gone!"

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among
us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And who
is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more
communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning
of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him
before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round
her, and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you
my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you."

"Certainly."

"Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at
the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said--

"Oh, Edward! How can you?--But the time will come I hope--I am sure
you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness
and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of
her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing
between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to
mention it.



CHAPTER 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 temporizing with his
mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will,
parent against child, was the cause of all. She would have been glad
to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to
yield, when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty
to be happy. But from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for
comfort to the renewal of her confidence in Edward's affection, to the
remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from
him while at Barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it
which he constantly wore round his finger.

"I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast the
last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to
engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some
inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it--you would
not be able to give them so much of your time. But (with a smile) you
would be materially benefited in one particular at least--you would
know where to go when you left them."

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this
point, as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will always
be a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary business to
engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing
like independence. But unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of
my friends, have made me what I am, an idle, helpless being. We never
could agree in our choice of a profession. I always preferred the
church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family.
They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. The
law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers
in the Temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and
drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I had no inclination for
the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family
approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too
old when the subject was first started to enter it; and, at length, as
there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might
be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one,
idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and
honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly
bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do
nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle
ever since."

"The consequence of which, I suppose, will be," said Mrs. Dashwood,
"since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons
will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and
trades as Columella's."

"They will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as
unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in
every thing."

"Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits,
Edward. You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike
yourself must be happy. But remember that the pain of parting from
friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their
education or state. Know your own happiness. You want nothing but
patience--or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your
mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so
anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her
happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.
How much may not a few months do?"

"I think," replied Edward, "that I may defy many months to produce any
good to me."

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to
Mrs. Dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which
shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Elinor's
feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.
But as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself
from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his
going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by
Marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by
seeking silence, solitude and idleness. Their means were as different
as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the
house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor
avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost
as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this
conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented
from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much
solicitude on her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no
more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.
The business of self-command she settled very easily;--with strong
affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
That her sister's affections _were_ calm, she dared not deny, though
she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she
gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that
sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.

Without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in
determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to
indulge meditation, Elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough
to think of Edward, and of Edward's behaviour, in every possible
variety which the different state of her spirits at different times
could produce,--with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and
doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of
her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments,
conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude
was produced. Her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could
not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so
interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross
her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.

From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was
roused one morning, soon after Edward's leaving them, by the arrival
of company. She happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little
gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew
her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the
door. Amongst them were Sir John and Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings,
but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite
unknown to her. She was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir
John perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of
knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to
open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short
between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to
speak at one without being heard at the other.

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you like
them?"

"Hush! they will hear you."

"Never mind if they do. It is only the Palmers. Charlotte is very
pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."

As Elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without
taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.

"Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open."

"She is walking, I believe."

They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to
wait till the door was opened before she told _her_ story. She came
hallooing to the window, "How do you do, my dear? How does Mrs.
Dashwood do? And where are your sisters? What! all alone! you will be
glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other son
and daughter to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I
thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea,
but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of
nothing but whether it might not be Colonel Brandon come back again;
so I said to Sir John, I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is
Colonel Brandon come back again--"

Elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to
receive the rest of the party; Lady Middleton introduced the two
strangers; Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret came down stairs at the same
time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs.
Jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into
the parlour, attended by Sir John.

Mrs. Palmer was several years younger than Lady Middleton, and totally
unlike her in every respect. She was short and plump, had a very
pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could
possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's,
but they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile,
smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled
when she went away. Her husband was a grave looking young man of five
or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his
wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the
room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies,
without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their
apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read
it as long as he stayed.

Mrs. Palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with
a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before
her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.

"Well! what a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so
charming! Only think, Mamma, how it is improved since I was here last!
I always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am! (turning to Mrs.
Dashwood) but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how
delightful every thing is! How I should like such a house for myself!
Should not you, Mr. Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from
the newspaper.

"Mr. Palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does
sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to
find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking
with surprise at them both.

Mrs. Jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and
continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing
their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told. Mrs. Palmer
laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every
body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an
agreeable surprise.

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.
Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice
as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on
different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they
had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it,
for they came all round by London upon account of some business, for
you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was
wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this
morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you
all!"

Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.

"She expects to be confined in February," continued Mrs. Jennings.

Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and
therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in
the paper.

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

"Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see a
monstrous pretty girl."

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and
ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she
appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed so
heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr. Palmer
looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and
then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught by
the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.

[Illustration: "_I declare they are quite charming_."]

"Oh! dear, how beautiful these are! Well! how delightful! Do but look,
mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at
them for ever." And then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that
there were any such things in the room.

When Lady Middleton rose to go away, Mr. Palmer rose also, laid down
the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the
room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at
the park. Mrs. Dashwood, who did not 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 tomorrow. We must
go, for the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a
sudden thing our coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the
carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I
would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me any
thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet
again in town very soon, I hope."

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, "I shall be quite
disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in world for
you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am
sure I shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till I am
confined, if Mrs. Dashwood should not like to go into public."

They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then entered
the room--"you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods to go to
town this winter."

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies,
began complaining of the weather.

"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes every thing and
every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as
without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance. What the
devil does Sir John mean by not having a billiard room in his house?
How few people know what comfort is! Sir John is as stupid as the
weather."

The rest of the company soon dropt in.

"I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been able
to take your usual walk to Allenham today."

Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know all
about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think
he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the
country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

"Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but
they say it is a sweet pretty place."

"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Palmer.

Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed
her interest in what was said.

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer--"then it must be some other
place that is so pretty I suppose."

When they were seated in the dining room, Sir John observed with
regret that they were only eight all together.

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should
be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"

"Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it before,
that it could not be done? They dined with us last."

"You and I, Sir John," said Mrs. Jennings, "should not stand upon such
ceremony."

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Palmer.

"My love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual
laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

"I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother
ill-bred."

"Ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady,
"you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back
again. So there I have the whip hand of you."

Charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid
of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her,
as they must live together. It was impossible for any one to be more
thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than Mrs.
Palmer. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her
husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was
highly diverted.

"Mr. Palmer is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Elinor. "He is
always out of humour."

Elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him
credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred
as he wished to appear. His temper might perhaps be a little soured by
finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable
bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly
woman,--but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any
sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it. It was rather a wish of
distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment
of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him. It was
the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too
common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by
establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to
attach any one to him except his wife.

"Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood," said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards, "I have
got such a favour to ask of you and your sister. Will you come and
spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do,--and come
while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be!
It will be quite delightful!--My love," applying to her husband,
"don't you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to Cleveland?"

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer--"I came into Devonshire with no
other view."

"There now,"--said his lady, "you see Mr. Palmer expects you; so you
cannot refuse to come."

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all
things. The Westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay
now, for Mr. Palmer is always going about the country canvassing
against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I
never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! it is very
fatiguing to him! for he is forced to make every body like him."

Elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the
hardship of such an obligation.

"How charming it will be," said Charlotte, "when he is in
Parliament!--won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to
see all his letters directed to him with an M.P. But do you know, he
says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won't. Don't you, Mr.
Palmer?"

Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.

"He cannot bear writing, you know," she continued; "he says it is
quite shocking."

"No," said he, "I never said any thing so irrational. Don't palm all
your abuses of languages upon me."

"There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!
Sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he
comes out with something so droll--all about any thing in the world."

She surprised Elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room,
by asking her whether she did not like Mr. Palmer excessively.

"Certainly," said Elinor; "he seems very agreeable."

"Well--I am so glad you do. I thought you would, he is so pleasant;
and Mr. Palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters I can
tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't
come to Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it."

Elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing
the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. She thought it probable
that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Palmer might be able to
give some more particular account of Willoughby's general character,
than could be gathered from the Middletons' partial acquaintance with
him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of
his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Marianne. She
began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland,
and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.

"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Palmer;--"Not
that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him for ever in
town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while
he was at Allenham. Mama saw him here once before, but I was with my
uncle at Weymouth. However, I dare say we should have seen a great
deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily
that we should never have been in the country together. He is very
little at Combe, I believe; but if he were ever so much there, I do
not think Mr. Palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you
know, and besides it is such a way off. I know why you inquire about
him, very well; your sister is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of
it, for then I shall have her for a neighbour you know."

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "you know much more of the matter than
I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body
talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."

"My dear Mrs. Palmer!"

"Upon my honour I did. I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in
Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

"You surprise me very much. Colonel Brandon tell you of it! Surely you
must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not
be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect
Colonel Brandon to do."

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how
it happened. When we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and
so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and
another, and I said to him, 'So, Colonel, there is a new family come
to Barton cottage, I hear, and mama sends me word they are very
pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Willoughby
of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you must know, as you
have been in Devonshire so lately.'"

"And what did the Colonel say?"

"Oh--he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true,
so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite
delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?"

"Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?"

"Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but
say fine things of you."

"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I
think him uncommonly pleasing."

"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should
be so grave and so dull. Mamma says _he_ was in love with your sister
too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly
ever falls in love with any body."

"Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?" said
Elinor.

"Oh! yes, extremely well; that is, I do not believe many people are
acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all
think him extremely agreeable I assure you. Nobody is more liked than
Mr. Willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister. She
is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he
is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and
agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her. However, I don't
think her hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think
you both excessively pretty, and so does Mr. Palmer too I am sure,
though we could not get him to own it last night."

Mrs. Palmer's information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.

"I am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued Charlotte.
"And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how
much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at
the cottage! Nothing can be like it, to be sure! And I am so glad your
sister is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at
Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts."

"You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?"

"Yes, a great while; ever since my sister married. He was a particular
friend of Sir John's. I believe," she added in a low voice, "he would
have been very glad to have had me, if he could. Sir John and Lady
Middleton wished it very much. But mama did not think the match good
enough for me, otherwise Sir John would have mentioned it to the
Colonel, and we should have been married immediately."

"Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John's proposal to your mother
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?"

"Oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, I dare say he would have
liked it of all things. He had not seen me then above twice, for it
was before I left school. However, I am much happier as I am. Mr.
Palmer is the kind of man I like."



CHAPTER 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 attention they were making themselves
agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual
raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring
their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the
importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in
admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be
doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in
which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing
delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such
foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children,
the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous;
her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the
excessive affection and endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her
offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Middleton without the smallest
surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the
impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins
submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their
ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen
away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It
suggested no other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit
so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.

"John is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss 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!"

[Illustration: _Mischievous tricks._]

"And here is my sweet little Annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing
a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the
last two minutes; "And she is always so gentle and quiet--Never was
there such a quiet little thing!"

But unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's
head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this
pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone
by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was
excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the Miss Steeles, and
every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which
affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little
sufferer. She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her
wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the Miss Steeles, who was
on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by
the other. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to
cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two
brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings
were ineffectual till Lady Middleton luckily remembering that in a
scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been
successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly
proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of
screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that
it would not be rejected. She was carried out of the room therefore in
her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys
chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay
behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room
had not known for many hours.

"Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were gone.
"It might have been a very sad accident."

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under
totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of
heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in
reality."

"What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!" said Lucy Steele.

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not
feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the
whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.
She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Middleton
with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than Miss Lucy.

"And Sir John too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he
is!"

Here too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just,
came in without any éclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly
good humoured and friendly.

"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine
children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already, and
indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

"I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I have
witnessed this morning."

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather
too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it
is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see
children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame
and quiet."

"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never
think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss
Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now
said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood?
I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of
the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.

"Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss
Steele.

"We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who seemed
to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

"I think every one _must_ admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever saw
the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate
its beauties as we do."

"And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so
many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast
addition always."

"But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister,
"that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as
Sussex?"

"Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't pretend to say that there an't. I'm
sure there's a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how
could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was
only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they
had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may
not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with
them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they
dress smart and behave civil. But I can't bear to see them dirty and
nasty. Now there's Mr. Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man,
quite a beau, clerk to Mr. Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but
meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. I suppose your
brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was
so rich?"

"Upon my word," replied Elinor, "I cannot tell you, for I do not
perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that
if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is
not the smallest alteration in him."

"Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men's being beaux--they have
something else to do."

"Lord! Anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but
beaux;--you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing
else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house
and the furniture.

This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and
folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not
blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want
of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish
of knowing them better.

Not so the Miss Steeles. They came from Exeter, well provided with
admiration for the use of Sir John Middleton, his family, and all his
relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair
cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant,
accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom
they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. And to be
better acquainted therefore, Elinor soon found was their inevitable
lot, for as Sir John was entirely on the side of the Miss Steeles,
their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of
intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or
two together in the same room almost every day. Sir John could do no
more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together
was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes
for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being
established friends.

To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their
unreserve, by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew
or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate
particulars,--and Elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the
eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as
to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to Barton.

"'Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said
she, "and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I
hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,--but perhaps you may
have a friend in the corner already."

Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in
proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been
with respect to Marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of
the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since
Edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to
her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and
winks, as to excite general attention. The letter F had been likewise
invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless
jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had
been long established with Elinor.

The Miss Steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these
jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the
name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently
expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness
into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did not sport long
with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as
much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele had in hearing it.

"His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray
do not tell it, for it's a great secret."

[Illustration: _Drinking to her best affections._]

"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 toward
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 enquiring about her in such
a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but
perhaps there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I
hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent."

Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by
saying, with some hesitation--

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I
would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I
should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you_; indeed, I should
be very glad of your advice how to manage in such and uncomfortable
situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble
_you._ I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."

"I am sorry I do _not_," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it
could be of any use to _you_ to know my opinion of her. But really I
never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and
therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry
into her character."

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But
if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs.
Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time _may_
come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be
very intimately connected."

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side
glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much
delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. _Robert_ Ferrars--I never saw him in
my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."

What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and
though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt
in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could
have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was
always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully
kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it
but Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not
felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I
really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs.
Ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not
think Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted
you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all
your family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods
quite as his own sisters."--She paused.

[Illustration: _Amiably bashful._]

Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she
heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself
to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,
which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude--"May I ask
if your engagement is of long standing?"

"We have been engaged these four years."

"Four years!"

"Yes."

Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.

"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

"Your uncle!"

"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"

"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
increased with her increase of emotion.

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me
was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was
formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he
was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter
into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of
his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so
prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as
me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he
is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after
a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's
honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward
Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,
that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake
of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must
allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on
who all my happiness depends."

"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I
should never have heard him even mention your name."

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has
been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family,
and, therefore, there could be no _occasion_ for ever mentioning my
name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's
suspecting any thing, _that_ was reason enough for his not mentioning
it."

She was silent. Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not
sink with it.

"Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature
from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be
so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be
sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was
drew for. I have had it above these three years."

She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or
her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind,
she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost
instantly, acknowledging the likeness.

"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in
return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first
opportunity."

"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your
faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what
importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she
would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I
fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do
me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your
secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so
unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being
acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no
change.

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be
sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by
description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as
if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really
thought some explanation was due to you after my making such
particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate,
that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only
person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she
does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of
her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you
must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world
t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she
should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my
mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I
have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in
such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly
meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.

"Sometimes," continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether
it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."
As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at
other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the
thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of
such a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to
me--I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to
do in such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?"

"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give
you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct
you."

"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor
Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful
low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left
us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him
quite ill."

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he
came directly from town?"

"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us,
that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth."
She remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning
nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect
even to their names.

"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was
the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more
than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor
fellow!--I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes
in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;"
taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction
to Elinor. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but
that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he
had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."

Elinor saw that it _was_ his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few
moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she
could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she
struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that
her success was speedy, and for the time complete.

"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I
have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
_that._ If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave
him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last,
and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"

"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a
few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was
then at liberty to think and be wretched.



CHAPTER XXIII


However small Elinor's general dependence on Lucy's veracity might be,
it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the
present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of
inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Lucy had asserted to
be true, therefore, Elinor could not, dared not longer doubt;
supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and
proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes. Their
opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Pratt was a foundation
for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Edward's visit
near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at
his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the
intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family
connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter,
the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame
every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact,
which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself. Her
resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe,
for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas,
other considerations, soon arose. Had Edward been intentionally
deceiving her? Had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?
Was his engagement to Lucy an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it
might once have been, she could not believe it such at present. His
affection was all her own. She could not be deceived in that. Her
mother, sisters, Fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her
at Norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity. He certainly
loved her. What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much
could it not tempt her to forgive! He had been blamable, highly
blamable, in remaining at Norland after he first felt her influence
over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be
defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured
himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless. His imprudence
had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived
himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. She might in time
regain tranquillity; but _he_, what had he to look forward to? Could
he ever be tolerably happy with Lucy Steele; could he, were his
affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his
delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like
her--illiterate, artful, and selfish?

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to
every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding
years--years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the
understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education,
while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society
and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity
which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

If in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his
difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were
they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was
undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune
to herself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated
from Lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy
was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family
opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!

As these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she
wept for him, more than for herself. Supported by the conviction of
having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by
the belief that Edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she
thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow,
command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her
mother and sisters. And so well was she able to answer her own
expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after
she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one
would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor
was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever
from the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling
on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly
possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove
near their house.

The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had
been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to
unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress. On the
contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of
what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from
hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from
the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more
than she felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive
no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress,
while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their
example nor from their praise. She was stronger alone, and her own
good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken,
her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so
poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Much as she had suffered from her first conversation with Lucy on the
subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for
more reasons than one. She wanted to hear many particulars of their
engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what
Lucy really felt for Edward, whether there were any sincerity in her
declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to
convince Lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her
calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in
it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary
agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least
doubtful. That Lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very
probable: it was plain that Edward had always spoken highly in her
praise, not merely from Lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to
trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so
confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir John's joking
intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Elinor
remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by
Edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it
natural that Lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very
confidence was a proof. What other reason for the disclosure of the
affair could there be, but that Elinor might be informed by it of
Lucy's superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in
future? She had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her
rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as
every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own
affection for Edward and to see him as little as possible; she could
not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Lucy that her
heart was unwounded. And as she could now have nothing more painful to
hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust
her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with
composure.

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be
commanded, though Lucy was as well disposed as herself to take
advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine
enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most
easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at
least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly
at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of
conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir John or
Lady Middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever
given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.
They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together,
playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was
sufficiently noisy.

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording
Elinor any chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at
the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they
would all dine with Lady Middleton that day, as he was obliged to
attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone,
except her mother and the two Miss Steeles. Elinor, who foresaw a
fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this
was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil
and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united
them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the
invitation; Margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally
compliant, and Marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their
parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her
seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

The young ladies went, and Lady Middleton was happily preserved from
the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the
meeting was exactly such as Elinor had expected; it produced not one
novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less
interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining
parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied
them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the
impossibility of engaging Lucy's attention to attempt it. They quitted
it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then
placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever
entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They
all rose up in preparation for a round game.

"I am glad," said Lady Middleton to Lucy, "you are not going to finish
poor little Annamaria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must
hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the
dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and
then I hope she will not much mind it."

This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,
"Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Middleton; I am only waiting
to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have
been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel
for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am
resolved to finish the basket after supper."

"You are very good, I hope it won't hurt your eyes:--will you ring the
bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly
disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for
though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon
having it done."

Lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with
an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could
taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt
child.

Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. No one made
any objection but Marianne, who with her usual inattention to the
forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the
goodness to excuse _me_--you know I detest cards. I shall go to the
piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without
farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never
made so rude a speech.

"Marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"
said Elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not
much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever
heard."

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

"Perhaps," continued Elinor, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be
of some use to Miss Lucy Steele, in rolling her papers for her; and
there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be
impossible I think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening. I
should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in
it."

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried
Lucy, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there
was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Annamaria
after all."

"Oh! that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear little
soul, how I do love her!"

"You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you
really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut
in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by
a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to
practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same
time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair
rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the
utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte at
which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had
by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself,
was luckily so near them that Miss Dashwood now judged she might
safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting
subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.



CHAPTER XXIV


In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.

"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with,
if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on
its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward
again."

"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my
heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended
you by what I told you that Monday."

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke
it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my
intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for
the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"

"And yet I do assure you," replied Lucy, her little sharp eyes full of
meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your
manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you was
angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for
having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am
very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not
blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my
heart speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of
my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else I am
sure."

"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you,
to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall
never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one;
you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have
need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr.
Ferrars, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to
marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every
prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very
small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love
him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all
that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must
wait, it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the
world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Edward's affection and
constancy nothing can deprive me of I know."

"That conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly
supported by the same trust in your's. If the strength of your
reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under
many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement,
your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."

Lucy here looked up; but Elinor was careful in guarding her
countenance from every expression that could give her words a
suspicious tendency.

"Edward's love for me," said Lucy, "has been pretty well put to the
test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and
it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt
it now. I can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm
on that account from the first."

Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

Lucy went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from
our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the
world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for
suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had
been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or
any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had
talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less
happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am
particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case
I am sure I could not be deceived."

"All this," thought Elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon
neither of us."

"But what," said she after a short silence, "are your views? or have
you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars's death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity?--Is her son determined to submit to
this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in
which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure
for a while by owning the truth?"

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs.
Ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of
anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to Robert,
and the idea of that, for Edward's sake, frightens away all my
inclination for hasty measures."

"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason."

Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.

"Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?" asked Elinor.

"Not at all--I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother--silly and a great coxcomb."

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne's music. "Oh, they are talking of
their favourite beaux, I dare say."

"No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux
are _not_ great coxcombs."

"I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood's is not," said Mrs. Jennings,
laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved
young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes."

[Illustration: "_I can answer for it," said Mrs. Jennings._]

"Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I dare
say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss
Dashwood's."

Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked
angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy
first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Marianne was
then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent
concerto--

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my
head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you into
the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen
enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every
other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as
he can, and then through your interest, which I am sure you would be
kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some
regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him Norland
living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present
incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for
us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."

"I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of my
esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that my
interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is
brother to Mrs. John Dashwood--_that_ must be recommendation enough to
her husband."

"But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward's going into
orders."

"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."

They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with
a deep sigh--

"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at
once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties
on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we
should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your
advice, Miss Dashwood?"

"No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well
that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the
side of your wishes."

"Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know
nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do
really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by all
means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it will be
more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it
immediately."

Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and
replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving
any opinion on the subject had I formed one. It raises my influence
much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached
is too much for an indifferent person."

"'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some
pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your
judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be
supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your
opinion would not be worth having."

Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might
provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve;
and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.
Another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this
speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.

"Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she with all
her accustomary complacency.

"Certainly not."

"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened
at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you
there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure, your
brother and sister will ask you to come to them."

"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.
Anne and me are to go the latter end of January to some relations who
have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go
for the sake of seeing Edward. He will be there in February, otherwise
London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it."

Elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the
first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was
therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any
reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them
dislike each other less than they had done before; and Elinor sat down
to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Edward was not
only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that
he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which
sincere affection on _her_ side would have given, for self-interest
alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which
she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.

From this time the subject was never revived by Elinor, and when
entered on by Lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing
it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her
happiness whenever she received a letter from Edward, it was treated
by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as
civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an
indulgence which Lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to
herself.

The visit of the Miss Steeles at Barton Park was lengthened far beyond
what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could
not be spared; Sir John would not hear of their going; and in spite of
their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of
the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which
was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to
stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due
celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share
of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.



CHAPTER XXV


Though Mrs. Jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of
the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not
without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her
husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the
town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets
near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began on the approach of
January to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and
very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder Misses Dashwood to
accompany her. Elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her
sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan,
immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she
believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason
alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at
that time of the year. Mrs. Jennings received the refusal with some
surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.

"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_
beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart
upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I
shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. It will only be
sending Betty by the coach, and I hope I can afford _that._ We three
shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town,
if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always
go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to
it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my
hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of
you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have
done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for
you to all the young men, you may depend upon it."

"I have a notion," said Sir John, "that Miss Marianne would not object
to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it. It is very
hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because Miss
Dashwood does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for
town, when you are tired of Barton, without saying a word to Miss
Dashwood about it."

"Nay," cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of
Miss Marianne's company, whether Miss Dashwood will go or not, only
the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable
for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might
talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one
or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! how do
you think I can live poking by myself, I who have been always used
till this winter to have Charlotte with me. Come, Miss Marianne, let
us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Miss Dashwood will change her
mind by and bye, why so much the better."

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with warmth:
"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give
me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of,
to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother,--I
feel the justice of what Elinor has urged, and if she were to be made
less happy, less comfortable by our absence--Oh! no, nothing should
tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."

Mrs. Jennings repeated her assurance that Mrs. Dashwood could spare
them perfectly well; and Elinor, who now understood her sister, and
saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by
her eagerness to be with Willoughby again, made no farther direct
opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's
decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any
support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not
approve of for Marianne, and which on her own account she had
particular reasons to avoid. Whatever Marianne was desirous of, her
mother would be eager to promote--she could not expect to influence
the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which
she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared
not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to London.
That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs.
Jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook
every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be
most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object,
was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object
to her, as Elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared
to witness.

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Dashwood, persuaded that
such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her
daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to
herself, how much the heart of Marianne was in it, would not hear of
their declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both
accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual
cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all,
from this separation.

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what I could
wish. Margaret and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
When you and the Middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and
happily together with our books and our music! You will find Margaret
so improved when you come back again! I have a little plan of
alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without
any inconvenience to any one. It is very right that you _should_ go to
town; I would have every young woman of your condition in life
acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be
under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to
you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your
brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife,
when I consider whose son he is, I cannot bear to have you so wholly
estranged from each other."

"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Elinor, "you
have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which
occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion,
cannot be so easily removed."

Marianne's countenance sunk.

"And what," said Mrs. Dashwood, "is my dear prudent Elinor going to
suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do let
me hear a word about the expense of it."

"My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings's
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or
whose protection will give us consequence."

"That is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society,
separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing
at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady
Middleton."

"If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings," said
Marianne, "at least it need not prevent _my_ accepting her invitation.
I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every
unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards
the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in
persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved
within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go
likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left
to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should
be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her
domestic hours. To this determination she was the more easily
reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account,
was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without
any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

"I will have you _both_ go," said Mrs. Dashwood; "these objections are
nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and
especially in being together; and if Elinor would ever condescend to
anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of
sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her
acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."

Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
mother's dependence on the attachment of Edward and herself, that the
shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on
this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to
begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "I like Edward
Ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the
rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me,
whether I am ever known to them or not."

Mrs. Dashwood smiled, and said nothing. Marianne lifted up her eyes in
astonishment, and Elinor conjectured that she might as well have held
her tongue.

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the
invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Jennings received the
information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness
and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir John was
delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of
being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in
London, was something. Even Lady Middleton took the trouble of being
delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as
for the Miss Steeles, especially Lucy, they had never been so happy in
their lives as this intelligence made them.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with
less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself,
it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and
when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her
sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all
her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she
could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow
herself to distrust the consequence.

Marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the
perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone. Her
unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness;
and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
Her mother's affliction was hardly less, and Elinor was the only one
of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short
of eternal.

Their departure took place in the first week in January. The
Middletons were to follow in about a week. The Miss Steeles kept their
station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the
family.



CHAPTER XXVI


Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and
beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their
acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age
and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a
measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with
that happy ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally
shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every
occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the
rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and
beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own
prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and
how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation
to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of
hope. A short, a very short time however must now decide what
Willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in
town. Marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on
finding him there; and Elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every
new light as to his character which her own observation or the
intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his
behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain
what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place.
Should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was
determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be
otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature--she must then
learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which
might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as
they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in
silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque
beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight
exclusively addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct
therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility
which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to
Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her
whenever she could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both
with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their
ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them
choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their
preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They
reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released,
after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to
enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.

The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young
ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable
apartment. It had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece
still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof
of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some
effect.

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her
mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did
the same. "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you
better defer your letter for a day or two?"

"I am _not_ going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily,
and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more;
it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby;
and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however
mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be
engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her
pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be
no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter
conveyed for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at
once.

Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them
which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any
dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed
anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.

It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being
much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.
The tea things were brought in, and already had Marianne been
disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a
loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any
other house, Elinor felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's
approach, and Marianne, starting up, moved towards the door. Every
thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened
the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening
half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a
conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy
of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh,
Elinor, it is Willoughby, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to
throw herself into his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she
immediately left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the
same time her regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her;
and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister
should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and
disappointment in seeing him. She instantly saw that it was not
unnoticed by him, that he even observed Marianne as she quitted the
room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the
recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.

"Is your sister ill?" said he.

Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to
which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.

He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries
about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether
Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by
any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying
something, she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen
him last. "Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever
since; I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it
has never been in my power to return to Barton."

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to
her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and
she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on
the subject than she had ever felt.

Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not
come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me
a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have
been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things
to do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had
Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever
since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I
should be in town today?"

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been
dining."

"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does
Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two
young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,
but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which
you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.
Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be
young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very
handsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I
don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has
been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you
been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come,
let's have no secrets among friends."

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and
Marianne was obliged to appear again.

After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were
unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished
their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and
in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see
them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure
from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all
along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after
having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have
forgiven them if they had not come!

"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think
he said when he heard of your coming with Mamma? I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!"

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,
or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their
acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on
Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all
accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to
which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it
at first was induced to go likewise.

Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in
constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her
mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them,
from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and
dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of
any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both:
she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at
home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the
tediousness of Mrs. Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing
pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on
none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner
had they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and
when Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a
sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been
there.

"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to
the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the
negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain
that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

The man replied that none had.

"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her
sister with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she
would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to
Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come
nor write! Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an
engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be
carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire;
and how will _my_ interference be borne."

She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances
continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would
represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some
serious enquiry into the affair.

Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening
engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table
for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she
would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her
own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure
to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured
for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she
returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and
forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to
the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.



CHAPTER XXVII


"If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Jennings, when
they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir John will not like
leaving Barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a
day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem
to take it so much to heart."

"That is true," cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to
the window as she spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of
that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."

It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
"It is charming weather for _them_ indeed," she continued, as she sat
down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they
must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be
expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a
series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts
will soon set in, and in all probability with severity. In another day
or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer--nay,
perhaps it may freeze tonight!"

"At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from
seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say we
shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next
week."

"Ay, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own way."

"And now," silently conjectured Elinor, "she will write to Combe by
this day's post."

But if she _did_, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy
which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the
truth of it might be, and far as Elinor was from feeling thorough
contentment about it, yet while she saw Marianne in spirits, she could
not be very uncomfortable herself. And Marianne was in spirits; happy
in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation
of a frost.

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
Jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and
Marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind,
watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the
air.

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Elinor? There
seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm
even in my muff. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem
parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a
clear afternoon."

Elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but Marianne persevered,
and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning
in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of
approaching frost.

The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.
Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her
behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in her
household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and
excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret,
she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction
could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased
to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she
had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much
real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at
home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with
them almost every day; he came to look at Marianne and talk to Elinor,
who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from
any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much
concern his continued regard for her sister. She feared it was a
strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness with which
he often watched Marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than
when at Barton.

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Willoughby
was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the
morning's drive.

"Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were out."
Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured
to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." But Marianne
seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. 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 any thing. She insisted on
being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley
Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when
they returned was enough to inform her, that Willoughby had paid no
second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the
table.

"For me!" cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.

"No, ma'am, for my mistress."

But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

"It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!"

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be longer
silent.

"Yes, a little--not much."

After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Marianne."

"Nay, Elinor, this reproach from _you_--you who have confidence in no
one!"

"Me!" returned Elinor in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I have
nothing to tell."

"Nor I," answered Marianne with energy, "our situations then are
alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do
not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was
not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to
press for greater openness in Marianne.

Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it
aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in Conduit
Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and
cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part, and a
violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street.
The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew
near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Jennings, that
they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had some
difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen
nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for
amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again
in her absence.

Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not
materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled
in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty
young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair,
however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an
unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the
reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it
was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it
known that Lady Middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine
couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.

Mr. and Mrs. Palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had
not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to
avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and
therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on
their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know
who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Jennings from the other side
of the room. Marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she
entered: it was enough--_he_ was not there--and she sat down, equally
ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been
assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss
Dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though
Colonel Brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house,
and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were
to come.

"I thought you were both in Devonshire," said he.

"Did you?" replied Elinor.

"When do you go back again?"

"I do not know." And thus ended their discourse.

Never had Marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was
that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. She
complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Jennings, "we know the reason of all that very
well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you
would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very
pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

"Invited!" cried Marianne.

"So my daughter Middleton told me, for it seems Sir John met him
somewhere in the street this morning." Marianne said no more, but
looked exceedingly hurt. Impatient in this situation to be doing
something that might lead to her sister's relief, Elinor resolved to
write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears
for the health of Marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been
so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure
by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that Marianne was again
writing to Willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other
person.

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Jennings went out by herself on
business, and Elinor began her letter directly, while Marianne, too
restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one
window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.
Elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all
that had passed, her suspicions of Willoughby's inconstancy, urging
her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Marianne an
account of her real situation with respect to him.

Her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and
Colonel Brandon was announced. Marianne, who had seen him from the
window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he
entered it. He looked more than usually grave, and though expressing
satisfaction at finding Miss Dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in
particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
Elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her
sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the
first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than
once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks
unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had
appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring,
something particular about her. After a pause of several minutes,
their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some
agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a
brother? Elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no
answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of
asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's
engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known."

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family
do not know it."

He looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my
inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy
intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally
talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

"By many--by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you
are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But
still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps
rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to
support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today,
accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in
your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I
could ask the question. Is every thing finally settled? Is it
impossible to-? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of
succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in
saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I
have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely
resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if
concealment be possible, is all that remains."

These words, which conveyed to Elinor a direct avowal of his love for
her sister, affected her very much. She was not immediately able to
say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated
for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The
real state of things between Willoughby and her sister was so little
known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as
liable to say too much as too little. Yet as she was convinced that
Marianne's affection for Willoughby, could leave no hope of Colonel
Brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and
at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she
thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say
more than she really knew or believed. She acknowledged, therefore,
that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on
which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no
doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.

He listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak,
rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion,
"to your sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he
may endeavour to deserve her,"--took leave, and went away.

Elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to
lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on
the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Colonel Brandon's
unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her
anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.



CHAPTER XXVIII


Nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make Elinor
regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for Willoughby
neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time
to attend Lady Middleton to a party, from which Mrs. Jennings was kept
away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this
party, Marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and
seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared,
without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. She sat by the
drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Middleton's
arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her
attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's
presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Middleton waited
for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one
was expected.

They arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as
the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended
the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to
another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up,
quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their
tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were
permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and
inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some
time spent in saying little or doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to
Cassino, and as Marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and
Elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great
distance from the table.

They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived
Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest
conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon
caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to
speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see
her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor
turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be
unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him, and her
whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved
towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there--he is there--Oh! why does
he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?"

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what you
feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

This however was more than she could believe herself; and to be
composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Marianne,
it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience which
affected every feature.

[Illustration: _At that moment she first perceived him._]

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up,
and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to
him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than
Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to
observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs.
Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed
of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a
word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her
face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest
emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you
not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"

He could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and
he held her hand only for a moment. During all this time he was
evidently struggling for composure. Elinor watched his countenance and
saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he
spoke with calmness.

"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday,
and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find
yourselves and Mrs. Jennings at home. My card was not lost, I hope."

"But have you not received my notes?" cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure--some dreadful mistake. What
can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven's sake tell
me, what is the matter?"

He made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment
returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom
he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant
exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had
the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town,
which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a
slight bow and joined his friend.

Marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into
her chair, and Elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried
to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with
lavender water.

"Go to him, Elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force
him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again--must speak to him
instantly. I cannot rest--I shall not have a moment's peace till this
is explained--some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him
this moment."

"How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is
not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow."

With difficulty however could she prevent her from following him
herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at
least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him
with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Marianne
continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her
feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time Elinor saw
Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and
telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking
to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm. She
instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady Middleton to take them
home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.

Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed
that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her
wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they
departed as soon 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 XXIX


Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun
gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Marianne,
only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for
the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and
writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her. In this
situation, Elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first
perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent
anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness--

"Marianne, may I ask--"

"No, Elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no
longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return
of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could
go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still
obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of
her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the
last time to Willoughby.

Elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power;
and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had
not Marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous
irritability, not to speak to her for the world. In such
circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long
together; and the restless state of Marianne's mind not only prevented
her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but
requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her
wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of
every body.

At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to
engage Mrs. 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
death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as
plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come
from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her
hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremor 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 won't keep her waiting much
longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
Pray, when are they to be married?"

Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,
obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,
trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself
into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I
thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to
imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive
yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me
more than to hear of their being going to be married."

"For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don't we
all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in
love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see
them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I
know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding
clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it
yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such
thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever
so long. I tell every body of it and so does Charlotte."

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.
Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and
you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."

Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more,
and eager at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried
away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne
stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand,
and two or three others laying by her. Elinor drew near, but without
saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed
her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of
tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne's. The
latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of
this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction,
she put all the letters into Elinor's hands; and then covering her
face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Elinor, who
knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its
course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat
spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as
follows:--

"Bond Street, January.

"MY DEAR MADAM,

     "I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for
     which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much
     concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last
     night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am
     quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so
     unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of
     what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional.
     I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your
     family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and
     flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or
     misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole
     family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as
     to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to
     express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more
     guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever
     have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you
     understand that my affections have been long engaged
     elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before
     this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I
     obey your commands in returning the letters with which I
     have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you
     so obligingly bestowed on me.

I am, dear Madam,

Your most obedient humble servant,

"JOHN WILLOUGHBY."

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss
Dashwood, may be imagined. Though aware, before she began it, that it
must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their
separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be
suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby
capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable
and delicate feeling--so far from the common decorum of a gentleman,
as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of
bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret,
acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection
whatever;--a letter of which every line was an insult, and which
proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.

She paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then
read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase
her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against
him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound
Marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss
to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most
irremediable of all evils,--a connection, for life, with an
unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most
important.

In her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the
depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the
very different mind of a very different person, who had no other
connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with
every thing that passed, Elinor forgot the immediate distress of her
sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and
so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on
hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see
who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to
perceive Mrs. Jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered
till one. Determined not to quit Marianne, though hopeless of
contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse
herself from attending Mrs. Jennings, on account of her sister being
indisposed. Mrs. Jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for
its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Elinor, after seeing
her safe off, returned to Marianne, whom she found attempting to rise
from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from
falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest
and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many
nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no
longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this
was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous
faintness. A glass of wine, which Elinor procured for her directly,
made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some
sense of her kindness, by saying, "Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make
you!"

"I only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing I _could_ do,
which might be of comfort to you."

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne,
who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "Oh! Elinor, I
am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in
silence.

"Exert yourself, dear Marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill
yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her
misery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Marianne; "leave me, leave me, if I
distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.
Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of
exertion! Happy, happy Elinor, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I
suffer."

"Do you call _me_ happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew! And can you
believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

"Forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck;
"I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you have; but yet you
are--you must be happy; Edward loves you--what, oh what, can do away
such happiness as that?"

"Many, many circumstances," said Elinor, solemnly.

"No, no, no," cried Marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you. You
_can_ have no grief."

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing
can do away."

"You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends? Is
your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you
suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of
his character had been delayed to a later period;--if your engagement
had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been,
before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of unhappy
confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

"Engagement!" cried Marianne, "there has been no engagement."

"No engagement!"

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith
with me."

"But he told you that he loved you."

"Yes--no--never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never
professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been--but it never
was."

"Yet you wrote to him?"

"Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot
talk."

Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now
raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the
contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had sent him on
their arrival in town, was to this effect:--

"Berkeley Street, January.

     "How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this;
     and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when
     you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither,
     though with Mrs. Jennings, was a temptation we could not
     resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here
     tonight, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall
     expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

M.D."

Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance
at the Middletons', was in these words:--

     "I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the
     day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having
     received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week
     ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more
     to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon
     as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected
     this in vain. You had better come earlier another time,
     because we are generally out by one. We were last night at
     Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told
     that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so?
     You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if
     that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not
     suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your
     personal assurance of its being otherwise.

M.D."

The contents of her last note to him were these:--

     "What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last
     night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared
     to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally
     produced,--with the familiarity which our intimacy at Barton
     appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have
     passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct
     which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though
     I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for
     your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your
     justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or
     purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may
     have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain
     the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in
     being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be
     obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am
     to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed
     you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your
     behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told
     as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state
     of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty
     on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your
     sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my
     notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.

M.D."

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have
been so answered, Elinor, for Willoughby's sake, would have been
unwilling to believe. But her condemnation of him did not blind her to
the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was
silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such
unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding,
and most severely condemned by the event, when Marianne, perceiving
that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained
nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.

"I felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if
the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

"I can believe it," said Elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel
the same."

"He _did_ feel the same, Elinor--for weeks and weeks he felt it. I
know he did. Whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the
blackest art employed against me can have done it), I was once as dear
to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can
so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest
supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his
voice at that moment! Have you forgot the last evening of our being
together at Barton? The morning that we parted too! When he told me
that it might be many weeks before we met again--his distress--can I
ever forget his distress?"

For a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had
passed away, she added, in a firmer tone--

"Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby."

"Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been
instigated?"

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather
believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me
in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. This
woman of whom he writes--whoever she be--or any one, in short, but
your own dear self, mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to
bely me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I
would not rather suspect of evil than Willoughby, whose heart I know
so well?"

Elinor would not contend, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so
detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph,
my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own
innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a
reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

"No, no," cried Marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride. I care
not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be
open to all the world. Elinor, Elinor, they who suffer little may be
proud and independent as they like--may resist insult, or return
mortification--but I cannot. I must feel--I must be wretched--and they
are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

"But for my mother's sake and mine--"

"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so
miserable--oh! who can require it?"

Again they were both silent. Elinor was employed in walking
thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire,
without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning
objects through the other; and Marianne, seated at the foot of the
bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up
Willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence,
exclaimed--

"It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours!
Cruel, cruel--nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he
might have heard against me, ought he not to have suspended his
belief? ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power
of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)
which you so obligingly bestowed on me'--that is unpardonable.
Willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh,
barbarously insolent!--Elinor, can he be justified?"

"No, Marianne, in no possible way."

"And yet this woman--who knows what her art may have been?--how long
it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!--Who
is she?--Who can she be?--Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young
and attractive among his female acquaintance?--Oh! no one, no one:--he
talked to me only of myself."

Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended
thus:--

"Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be
gone to-morrow?"

"To-morrow, Marianne!"

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby's sake--and
now who cares for me? Who regards me?"

"It would be impossible to go to-morrow. We owe Mrs. Jennings much
more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent
such a hasty removal as that."

"Well then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long,
I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.
The Middletons and Palmers--how am I to bear their pity? The pity of
such a woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!"

Elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but
no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body
she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more
hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at
all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for
assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which she was at length
persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Jennings
returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.



CHAPTER XXX


Mrs. Jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and
without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the
door and walked in with a look of real concern.

"How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to
Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.

"How is she, Miss Dashwood? Poor thing! she looks very bad. No
wonder. Ay, it is but too true. He is to be married very soon--a
good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Taylor told
me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend
of Miss Grey herself, else I am sure I should not have believed it;
and I was almost ready to sink as it was. Well, said I, all I can say
is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance
abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his wife may plague his
heart out. And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I
have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him
again, I will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a
day. But there is one comfort, my dear Miss Marianne--he is not the
only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face
you will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb her
any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done
with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know,
and that will amuse her."

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she
supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with
them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go down;
she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."
Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive,
though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner,
said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could,
while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into
the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was
calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or had
she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well-meant but ill-judged
attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but
not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts
preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its
effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous,
made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities,
which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good
friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was
due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her
therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a
favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have
the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy
in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the
day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a
check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings's
endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of
sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the
consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on
Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of
Misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got
up and hurried out of the room.

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it
grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without
finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to
do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I
would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to
me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there
is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord
bless you! they care no more about such things!"

"The lady then,--Miss Grey I think you called her,--is very rich?"

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,
stylish girl they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very
well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family
are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts, it
won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No
wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't
signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes
love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to
fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is
ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let
his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once?
I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait till
matters came round. But that won't do nowadays; nothing in the way
of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."

"Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be
amiable?"

"I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her
mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one day
Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison
would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs. Ellison
could never agree."

"And who are the Ellisons?"

"Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for
herself; and a pretty choice she has made!--What now," after pausing a
moment, "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to moan
by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor dear, it
seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by and by we shall have a
few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall we play at?
She hates whist I know; but is there no round game she cares for?"

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I dare say,
will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade her if I
can to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

"Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own
supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and
so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been
hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that came
today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I
would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then you know,
how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but
a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at
about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be when
they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in
Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see
them 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
does talking ever do you know?"

"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many
cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances
which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to
become the public conversation. I must do _this_ justice to Mr.
Willoughby--he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."

"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement
indeed! after taking her all over Allenham House, and fixing on the
very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"

Elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther,
and she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby's; since,
though Marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the
enforcement of the real truth. After a short silence on both sides,
Mrs. Jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.

"Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill wind, for it will be
all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye,
that he will. Mind me, now, if they an't married by Mid-summer. Lord!
how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will
be all to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year
without debt or drawback--except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I
had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and
then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you;
exactly what I call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and
conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered
with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in
one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the only time we were
there! Then, there is a dovecote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a
very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for;
and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile
from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit
up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the
carriages that pass along. Oh! 'tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in
the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my
fancy, a thousand times prettier than Barton Park, where they are
forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour
nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Colonel as soon
as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down. If we
_can_ but put Willoughby out of her head!"

"Ay, if we can do that, Ma'am," said Elinor, "we shall do very well
with or without Colonel Brandon." And then rising, she went away to
join Marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room,
leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which,
till Elinor's entrance, had been her only light.

"You had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received
from her.

"I will leave you," said Elinor, "if you will go to bed." But this,
from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first
refused to do. Her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion,
however, soon softened her to compliance, and Elinor saw her lay her
aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some
quiet rest before she left her.

In the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by
Mrs. Jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have
some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor
husband! how fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old
colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the
world. Do take it to your sister."

"Dear Ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the
complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have
just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think
nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me
leave, I will drink the wine myself."

Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes
earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she
swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a
colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its
healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried
on herself as on her sister.

Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner
of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately fancied
that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short,
that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence. Mrs.
Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his
entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor
presided, and whispered, "The Colonel looks as grave as ever you see.
He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

[Illustration: "_How fond he was of it!_"]

He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to her's, and, with a look
which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after
her sister.

"Marianne is not well," said she. "She has been indisposed all day,
and we have persuaded her to go to bed."

"Perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning
may be--there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at
first."

"What did you hear?"

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think--in short, that a man,
whom I _knew_ to be engaged--but how shall I tell you? If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

"You mean," answered Elinor, with forced calmness, "Mr. Willoughby's
marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have
been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first
unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear
it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies
were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other
an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting
concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name
of Willoughby, John Willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my
attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing
was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Miss Grey--it was
no longer to be a secret--it would take place even within a few weeks,
with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing,
especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still
more:--as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe
Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!--but it would be
impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt,
on inquiry,--for I stayed in the shop till they were gone,--was a Mrs.
Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss
Grey's guardian."

"It is. But have you likewise heard that Miss Grey has fifty thousand
pounds? In that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable--at least I think--" He
stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust
itself, "And your sister,--how did she,--"

"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they
may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel
affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard;
and even now, perhaps--but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was
really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some
points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon, "there is, indeed! But your sister does
not--I think you said so--she does not consider quite as you do?"

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could."

He made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the
tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was
necessarily dropped. Mrs. Jennings, who had watched them with pleasure
while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Miss
Dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Colonel
Brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of
hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening
more serious and thoughtful than usual.



CHAPTER XXXI


From a night of more sleep than she had expected, Marianne awoke the
next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had
closed her eyes.

Elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt;
and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject
again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate
counsel on Elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying
opinions on Marianne's, as before. Sometimes she could believe
Willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at
others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.
At one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all
the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and
at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, she
was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was
possible, the presence of Mrs. Jennings, and in a determined silence
when obliged to endure it. Her heart was hardened against the belief
of Mrs. Jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.

"No, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel. Her kindness
is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants
is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her
sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable
refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her
on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a
polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half
there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities
and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She
expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own,
and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their
actions on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters
were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart
of Mrs. Jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her
own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself,
though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost
good-will.

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling,
from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room,
saying--

"Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."

Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her
a letter from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition,
explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and
instantly followed by Willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the
room to enforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the
assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the
next. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was
before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed
such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant,
she had never suffered.

The cruelty of Mrs. Jennings, no language, within her reach in her
moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could
reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with
passionate violence;--a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its
object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still
referring her to the letter of comfort. But the letter, when she was
calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Willoughby filled
every page. Her mother, still confident of their engagement, and
relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by
Elinor's application, to 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 _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me
hear it."

"You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,--but
this will give you no idea--I must go farther back. You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_
be a short one. On such a subject," sighing heavily, "can I have
little temptation to be diffuse."

He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation--(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)--a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park--it was the evening of a
dance--in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling,
in some measure, your sister Marianne."

"Indeed," answered Elinor, "I have _not_ forgotten it." He looked
pleased by this remembrance, and added--

"If I am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender
recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well
in mind as person. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of
fancy and spirits. This lady was one of my nearest relations, an
orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father. Our
ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were
playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not
love Eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as
perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you
might think me incapable of having ever felt. Her's, for me, was, I
believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to Mr. Willoughby
and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate. At
seventeen she was lost to me for ever. She was married--married
against her inclination to my brother. Her fortune was large, and our
family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is all that can be
said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped
that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for
some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she
experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though
she had promised me that nothing--but how blindly I relate! I have
never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few hours of
eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly, of my
cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a relation
far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement,
till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her fortitude too
far, and the blow was a severe one, but had her marriage been happy,
so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it,
or at least I should not have now to lament it. This however was not
the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not
what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her
unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so
inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural. She resigned
herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it
been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the
remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with such a
husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or
restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their
marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies) she should
fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps--but I meant to promote the
happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose
had procured my exchange. The shock which her marriage had given me,"
he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling
weight--was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years
afterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which threw this
gloom,--even now the recollection of what I suffered--"

He could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes
about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by
his distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and coming to her,
took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect. A few
minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned
to England. My first care, when I _did_ arrive, was of course to seek
for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could
not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to
fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of
sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor
sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my
brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months
before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it,
that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to
dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last, however, and after I
had been six months in England, I _did_ find her. Regard for a former
servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me
to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and
there, 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 a
happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see
the other be. But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been
distressing you for nothing. Ah! Miss Dashwood--a subject such as
this--untouched for fourteen years--it is dangerous to handle it at
all! I _will_ be more collected--more concise. She left to my care her
only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty
connection, who was then about three years old. She loved the child,
and had always kept it with her. It was a valued, a precious trust to
me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by
watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations
allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was
therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and
after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago,
and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she
visited me at Delaford. I called her a distant relation; but I am
well aware that I have in general been suspected of a much nearer
connection with her. It is now three years ago (she had just reached
her fourteenth year,) that I removed her from school, to place her
under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in Dorsetshire,
who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time
of life; and for two years I had every reason to be pleased with her
situation. But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly
disappeared. I had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned
out,) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young
friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him
to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his
daughter--better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and
ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though
she certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a
quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for
he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were
ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he
tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of
his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I
could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight
long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared,
may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "could it be--could Willoughby!"--

"The first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a
letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from
Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party
to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly,
which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body,
and which I believe gave offence to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby
imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in
breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one
whom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would
it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the
smiles of your sister? No, he had already done that, which no man who
_can_ feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and
innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with
no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He
had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor
relieved her."

"This is beyond every thing!" exclaimed Elinor.

"His character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse
than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, guess
what I must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever,
and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what I must have
felt for all your sakes. When I came to you last week and found you
alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to
do when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you
then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so
deceived; to see your sister--but what could I do? I had no hope of
interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister's
influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable
usage, who can tell what were his designs on her. Whatever they may
have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless _will_, turn
with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with
that of my poor Eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless
situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an
affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a
mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life.
Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her
own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can
bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still
more her friend by them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for
her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. Use your own
discretion, however, in communicating to her what I have told you. You
must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and
from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her
regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this
account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to
have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others."

Elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness;
attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage
to Marianne, from the communication of what had passed.

"I have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him
than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most
perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first
she will suffer much, I am sure she will soon become easier. Have
you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Willoughby
since you left him at Barton?"

"Yes," he replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable."

Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying--

"What? have you met him to--"

"I could meet him no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most
reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town,
which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he
to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the
meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a
soldier she presumed not to censure it.

"Such," said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy
resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so
imperfectly have I discharged my trust!"

"Is she still in town?"

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near
her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there
she remains."

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Elinor
from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again
the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion
and esteem for him.



CHAPTER XXXII


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 this guilt
_was_ carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he
called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind
of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less
violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.
Her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.
She felt the loss of Willoughby's character yet more heavily than she
had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of Miss
Williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his
designs might _once_ have been on herself, preyed altogether so much
on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she
felt even to Elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave
more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most
open and most frequent confession of them.

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what
her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly
less painful than Marianne's, and an indignation even greater than
Elinor's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other,
arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her
anxious solicitude for Marianne, and entreat she would bear up with
fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of
Marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which
_she_ could wish her not to indulge!

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Dashwood had
determined that it would be better for Marianne to be any where, at
that time, than at Barton, where every thing within her view would be
bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by
constantly placing Willoughby before her, such as she had always seen
him there. She recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all
means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Jennings; the length of
which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to
comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of
objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Barton, would
be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat Marianne, at
times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some
amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.

From all danger of seeing Willoughby again, her mother considered her
to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his
acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her
friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence
could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in
its favour in the crowd of London than even in the retirement of
Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at
Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at
first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain
one.

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where
they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his
wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged
it right that they should sometimes see their brother.

Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she
submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved
perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt
it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by
requiring her longer continuance in London it deprived her of the only
possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her
mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent
her ever knowing a moment's rest.

But it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought
evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and Elinor, on the
other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid
Edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their
longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it
would be better for Marianne than an immediate return into Devonshire.

Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby's
name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing
it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor
Sir John, nor even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
Elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards
herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day
after day to the indignation of them all.

Sir John, could not have thought it possible. "A man of whom he had
always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He
did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an
unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart.
He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for
all the world! No, not if it were to be by the side of Barton covert,
and they were kept watching for two hours together. Such a scoundrel
of a fellow! such a deceitful dog! It was only the last time they met
that he had offered him one of Folly's puppies! and this was the end
of it!"

Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. "She was determined to
drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she
had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her
heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify,
for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much
that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should
tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."

The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was 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.

[Illustration: _Offered him one of Folly's puppies._]

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a
happy relief to Elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by
the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to her to
be sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their
circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who
would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any
anxiety for her sister's health.

Every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the
moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried
down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more
indispensable to comfort than good-nature.

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day,
or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very
shocking, indeed!" and by the means of this continual though gentle
vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first
without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without
recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the
dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was
wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the
interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though
rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would
at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her
as soon as she married.

Colonel Brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome
to Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate
discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with
which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with
confidence. His chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing
past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye
with which Marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her
voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or
could oblige herself to speak to him. _These_ assured him that his
exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and
_these_ gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter;
but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that
the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither
prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make
it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of
Mid-summer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end
of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding
between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to declare that
the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would
all be made over to _her_; and Mrs. Jennings had, for some time ceased
to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby's
letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he
was married. She had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to
herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she
was desirous that Marianne should not receive the first notice of it
from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every
morning.

She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on
it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would
burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less
pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now
hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to
prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow
first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.

About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's
house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holborn, presented themselves again
before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and
were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave her
pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the
overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her _still_ in town.

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
_still_," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.
"But I always thought I _should_ I was almost sure you would not leave
London yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Barton, that you
should not stay above a _month._ But I thought, at the time, that you
would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would
have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and
sister came. And now to be sure you will be in no _hurry_ to be gone.
I am amazingly glad you did not keep to _your word._"

Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her
self-command to make it appear that she did _not._

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Jennings, "and how did you travel?"

"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to
attend us. Dr. Davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join
him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or
twelve shillings more than we did."

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Jennings; "very pretty, indeed! and the Doctor is
a single man, I warrant you."

"There now," said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs
at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they
are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never
think about him from one hour's end to another. 'Lord! here comes your
beau, Nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing
the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I--I cannot think who
you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine."

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking--but it won't do--the Doctor is
the man, I see."

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and I
beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she
certainly would _not_, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

"I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a
cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

"No, I do not think we shall."

"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for
so long a time together!"

"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit is
but just begun!"

[Illustration: _A very smart beau._]

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 XXXIII


After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties,
and consented to go out with her and Mrs. Jennings one morning for
half an hour. She expressly conditioned, however, for paying no
visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in
Sackville Street, where Elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the
exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Jennings recollected that there
was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call;
and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved, that while her
young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return
for them.

On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people
before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to
tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be
done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to
promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing
there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of exciting
his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye,
and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He
was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size,
shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining
and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the
shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no
leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was
comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which
served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of
strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first
style of fashion.

Marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and
resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on
the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of
the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by
remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect
her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing
around her, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls,
all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the
last day on which his existence could be continued without the
possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely
care, and bestowing another glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a
one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off
with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point
of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her
side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some
surprise to be her brother.

[Illustration: _Introduced to Mrs. Jennings._]

Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was really far
from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them
satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and
attentive.

Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was
impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild beasts
at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs.
Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended
to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one
has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to
bespeak Fanny a seal. But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able
to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs.
Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the
Middletons too, you must introduce me to _them_. As my mother-in-law's
relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are
excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand."

"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness
in every particular, is more than I can express."

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are
related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to
make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you
are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for
nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the
most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all
seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great satisfaction to us
to hear it, I assure you."

Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to
be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.
Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for
them at the door.

Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.
Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being
able to call on them the next day, took leave.

[Illustration: _Mrs. Jennings assured him directly that she should not
stand upon ceremony._]

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from
their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged
with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."
Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not
stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like
it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood very soon, and
bring her sisters to see her. His manners to _them_, though calm, were
perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively civil; and on
Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a
curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be
rich, to be equally civil to _him._

After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with him
to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady Middleton.
The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented. As soon as
they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

"Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?"

"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think,
Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable
establishment in life."

"Me, brother! what do you mean?"

"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What
is the amount of his fortune?"

"I believe about two thousand a year."

"Two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart
it were _twice_ as much, for your sake."

"Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that
Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying _me._

"You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very little
trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he may be
undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his
friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little
attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix
him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should
not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on
your side--in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is
quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable--you have
too much sense not to see all that. Colonel Brandon must be the man;
and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with
you and your family. It is a match that must give universal
satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that," lowering his
voice to an important whisper, "will be exceedingly welcome to _all
parties._" Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean
to say--your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled;
Fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I
assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars, a very good-natured
woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much
the other day."

Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

"It would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something
droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling at the
same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."

"Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to be
married?"

"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the utmost
liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if
the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only daughter
of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable
connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place
in time. A thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away,
to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble spirit. To give
you another instance of her liberality:--The other day, as soon as we
came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just
now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to the amount of two
hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a
great expense while we are here."

He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to
say--

"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be
considerable; but your income is a large one."

"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to
complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope
will in time be better. The enclosure of Norland Common, now carrying
on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase
within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place,
where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me
in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I
felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my
conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his
convenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money."

"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth."

"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for
more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have
been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low,
that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's
hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

Elinor could only smile.

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming
to Norland. Our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the
Stanhill effects that remained at Norland (and very valuable they
were) to your mother. Far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he
had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose,
but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large
purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken
away. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be
from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Ferrars's kindness is."

"Certainly," said Elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, I hope you
may yet live to be in easy circumstances."

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but
however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone
laid of Fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
flower-garden marked out."

"Where is the green-house to be?"

"Upon the knoll behind the house. The old walnut trees are all come
down to make room for it. It will be a very fine object from many
parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before
it, and be exceedingly pretty. We have cleared away all the old thorns
that grew in patches over the brow."

Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very
thankful that Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the
necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in
his next visit at Gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he
began to congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.

"She seems a most valuable woman indeed--Her house, her style of
living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an
acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but
in the end may prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town
is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks
altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she
dies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave."

"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her
jointure, which will descend to her children."

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few
people of common prudence will do _that_; and whatever she saves, she
will be able to dispose of."

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?"

"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I
cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.
Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and
treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on
her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not
disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can
hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."

"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have
little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Elinor, what is
the matter with Marianne?--she looks very unwell, has lost her colour,
and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?"

"She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks."

"I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing of an illness
destroys the bloom for ever! Her's has been a very short one! She was
as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw; and as likely to
attract the man. There was something in her style of beauty, to
please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say that she would
marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly
fond of _you_, but so it happened to strike her. She will be mistaken,
however. I question whether Marianne _now_, will marry a man worth
more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and I am very
much deceived if _you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very
little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Elinor, I shall be exceedingly
glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having
Fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your
visitors."

Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no
likelihood of her marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation
of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really
resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the
marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough
for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly
anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from
Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means
of atoning for his own neglect.

They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John
came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on
all sides. Sir John was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood
did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very
good-natured fellow: while Lady Middleton saw enough of fashion in his
appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and Mr. Dashwood
went away delighted with both.

"I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny," said he, as he
walked back with his sister. "Lady Middleton is really a most elegant
woman! Such a woman as I am sure Fanny will be glad to know. And Mrs.
Jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant
as her daughter. Your sister need not have any scruple even of
visiting _her_, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case,
and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Jennings was the widow
of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Fanny and Mrs.
Ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her
daughters were such kind of women as Fanny would like to associate
with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."



CHAPTER XXXIV


Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment,
that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her
daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former,
even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means
unworthy her notice; and as for Lady Middleton, she found her one of
the most charming women in the world!

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a
kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually
attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid
propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. John Dashwood to the
good opinion of Lady Middleton did not suit the fancy of Mrs.
Jennings, and to _her_ she appeared nothing more than a little
proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's
sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to
say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley
Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.

Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not 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 anything, they determined
to give them--a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began,
invited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very
good house for three months. Their sisters and Mrs. Jennings were
invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to secure Colonel
Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,
received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more
pleasure. They were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn
whether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing
_her_, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement;
for though she could now meet Edward's mother without that strong
anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though
she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of
herself, her desire of being in company with Mrs. Ferrars, her
curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.

The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon
afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing
that the Miss Steeles were also to be at it.

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so
agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was
certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as
ready as Sir John to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit
Street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the Miss
Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods' invitation was known, that their
visit should begin a few days before the party took place.

Their claims to the notice of Mrs. John Dashwood, as the nieces of
the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother,
might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her
table; but as Lady Middleton's guests they must be welcome; and Lucy,
who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a
nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have
an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier
in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. John Dashwood's card.

On Elinor its effect was very different. She began immediately to
determine, that Edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his
mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the
first time, after all that passed, in the company of Lucy!--she hardly
knew how she could bear it!

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her
own recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself
to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward
certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to
be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept
away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal
when they were together.

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies
to this formidable mother-in-law.

"Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!" said Lucy, as they walked up the stairs
together--for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs. Jennings,
that they all followed the servant at the same time--"There is nobody
here but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good
gracious!--In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness
depends on--that is to be my mother!"--

Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the
possibility of its being Miss Morton's mother, rather than her own,
whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured
her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her--to the utter
amazement of Lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at
least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Elinor.

Mrs. Ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in
her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her
complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and
naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had
rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it
the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of
many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to
the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her,
not one fell to the share of Miss Dashwood, whom she eyed with the
spirited determination of disliking her at all events.

Elinor could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months
ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs.
Ferrars' power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her
manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made
to humble her more, only amused her. She could not but smile to see
the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very
person--for Lucy was particularly distinguished--whom of all others,
had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious
to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound
them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while she smiled at a
graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited
folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with
which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly
despising them all four.

Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss
Steele wanted only to be teased about Dr. Davies to be perfectly
happy.

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every
thing bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's
ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions
which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its owner
having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell
out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had
tried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of
conversation, appeared; but there, the deficiency was considerable.
John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing,
and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in
this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors,
who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications
for being agreeable--Want of sense, either natural or improved--want
of elegance--want of spirits--or want of temper.

When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this
poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen _had_ supplied the
discourse with some variety--the variety of politics, inclosing land,
and breaking horses--but then it was all over; and one subject only
engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative
heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,
who were nearly of the same age.

Had both the children been there, the affair might have been
determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was
present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every
body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to
repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.

The parties stood thus:--

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the
tallest, politely decided in favour of the other. The two
grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were
equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other,
thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could
not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world
between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address gave it, as
fast as she could, in favour of each.

Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William's side, by which
she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the
necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when
called on for her's, offended them all, by declaring that she had no
opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.

Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty
pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted
and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these
screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other
gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel
Brandon for his admiration.

"These are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of
taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether
you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she
is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."

The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship,
warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by
Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course
excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars,
not aware of their being Elinor's work, particularly requested to look
at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady
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.

[Illustration: _Mrs. Ferrars._]

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more
stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "Miss
Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at
his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth
than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as
they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was
amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a
sister slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell
such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart
taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of
affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's
chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to
hers, said in a low, but eager, voice--

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make _you_
unhappy."

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her
face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body's
attention was called, and almost every body was concerned. Colonel
Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs.
Jennings, with a very intelligent "Ah! poor dear," immediately gave
her her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the
author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to
one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account
of the whole shocking affair.

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 XXXV


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 anything be so flattering
as Mrs. Ferrars's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable
as she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the
very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her
behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to
me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and was not you quite struck
with it?"

"She was certainly very civil to you."

"Civil!--Did you see nothing but only civility?--I saw a vast deal
more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!--No pride,
no hauteur, and your sister just the same--all sweetness and
affability!"

Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to
own that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to
go on.

"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing
could be more flattering than their treatment of you;--but as that was
not the case--"

"I guessed you would say so," replied Lucy quickly--"but there was no
reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she
did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan't talk me out of
my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no
difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a
charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women,
indeed!--I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs.
Dashwood was!"

To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

"Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?--you seem low--you don't speak;--sure you
an't well."

"I never was in better health."

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I
should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest
comfort to me in the world!--Heaven knows what I should have done
without your friendship."--

Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied--

"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. Poor Edward!--But
now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty
often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall
be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half
his time with his sister--besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars
will visit now;--and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good
to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are
such charming women!--I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I
think of her, you cannot speak too high."

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she
_should_ tell her sister. Lucy continued.

"I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took
a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for
instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice
of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way--you know what I
mean--if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should
have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where
she _does_ dislike, I know it is most violent."

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by
the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars,
and Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each 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, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about,
but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself
so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching
Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it,
and _that_ in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several
minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude,
before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it
was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy
hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing
him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and
strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a
voice that expressed the affection of a sister.

"Dear Edward!" she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!--This
would almost make amends for every thing?"

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such
witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all
sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was
looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward 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 outstayed him, had his visit lasted
two hours, soon afterwards went away.

"What can bring her here so often?" said Marianne, on her leaving
them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone!--how 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.

[Illustration: _Drawing him a little aside._]



CHAPTER XXXVI


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, in
fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.

They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and
by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on
_their_ ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to
monopolize. Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton's
behaviour to Elinor and Marianne, she did not really like them at all.
Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not
believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she
fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to
be satirical; but _that_ did not signify. It was censure in common
use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Lucy. It checked the
idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Middleton was
ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Lucy was
proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would
despise her for offering. Miss Steele was the least discomposed of the
three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her
to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and
minute account of the whole affair between Marianne and Mr.
Willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the
sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their
arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though
she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to Elinor, and
more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before
Marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the
former, or of disgust in the latter. An effort even yet lighter might
have made her their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about
the Doctor! But so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined
to oblige her, that if Sir John dined from home, she might spend a
whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what
she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally
unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing
for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young
friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old
woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, sometimes at
her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent
spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Charlotte's well
doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail
of her situation, as only Miss Steele had curiosity enough to desire.
One thing _did_ disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
Mr. Palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his
sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly
perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between
this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no
convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was
not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even
be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the
finest child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time
befell Mrs. John Dashwood. It so happened that while her two sisters
with Mrs. Jennings were first calling on her in Harley Street, another
of her acquaintance had dropt in--a circumstance in itself not
apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations
of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our
conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness
must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present
instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss
Dashwoods, and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood's sisters, she
immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this
misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of
invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a
small musical party at her house. The consequence of which was, that
Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly
great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Miss Dashwoods,
but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness
of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that
they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of
disappointing them, it was true, must always be her's. But that was
not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which
they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any
thing better from them.

Marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of
going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to
her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and
mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting
the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till
the last moment, where it was to take her.

To her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as
not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her
toilet, which it received from Miss Steele in the first five minutes
of their being together, when it was finished. Nothing escaped _her_
minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and
asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every
part of Marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns
altogether with better judgment than Marianne herself, and was not
without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing
cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.
The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally
concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was
considered by Marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after
undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the
colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost
sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and
she dared to say she would make a great many conquests."

With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present
occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter
five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very
agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house
of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part
that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like
other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real
taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all;
and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation,
and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in
England.

As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no
scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it
suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and
violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the
room. In one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of
young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on
toothpick-cases at Gray's. She perceived him soon afterwards looking
at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just
determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came
towards her, and Mr. Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert
Ferrars.

He addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow
which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was
exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by Lucy. Happy
had it been for her, if her regard for Edward had depended less on his
own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his
brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the
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 of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with
the modesty and worth of the other. Why they _were_ different, Robert
exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
_gaucherie_ which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper
society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any
natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education;
while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material
superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school,
was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I
often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,'
I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now
irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you
be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment, to
place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his
life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,
instead of 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 vigor, said--

"My love I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
But I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend
a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls;
and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very
well by Edward. We can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but
the Miss Steeles may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like
them; indeed, you _do_ like them, you know, very much already, and so
does my mother; and they are such favourites with Harry!"

Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss
Steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution
of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly
suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by
bringing Elinor to town as Colonel Brandon's wife, and Marianne as
_their_ visitor.

Fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had
procured it, wrote the next morning to Lucy, to request her company
and her sister's, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady
Middleton could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and
reasonably happy. Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her,
herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such
an opportunity of being with Edward and his family was, above all
things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the
most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not
be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the
visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,
was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'
time.

When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after
its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the
expectations of Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed
on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will
towards her arose from something more than merely malice against
herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing
that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady
Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. John
Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.

The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor
of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
Sir John, who called on them more than once, brought home such
accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.
Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in
her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book
made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name; and did not
know whether she should ever be able to part with them.



CHAPTER XXXVII


Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother
felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her;
and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day,
returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in
which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready to resume their former
share.

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in
Berkeley Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit
to Mrs. Palmer, entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by
herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to
hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea,
began directly to justify it, by saying--

"Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?"

"No, ma'am. What is it?"

"Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.
Palmer's, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was
sure it was very ill--it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
So I looked at it directly, and, 'Lord! my dear,' says I, 'it is
nothing in the world, but the red gum--' and nurse said just the same.
But Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent
for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he
stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the child, 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?"

[Illustration: _In a whisper._]

"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.
Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short of
the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward Ferrars,
the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it
turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr.
Edward Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to
my cousin Lucy! There's for you, my dear! And not a creature knowing a
syllable of the matter, except Nancy! Could you have believed such a
thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another;
but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody
suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together,
or I am sure I should have found it out directly. Well, and so this
was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Ferrars, and neither she nor
your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter: till this very
morning, poor Nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no
conjurer, popt it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself, 'they are
all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about
it;' and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone
at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come--for she had
just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she
thought to make a match between Edward and some Lord's daughter or
other, I forget who. So you may think what a blow it was to all her
vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with
such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his
own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his
steward in the country. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene
took place, for Lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming
what was going on. Poor soul! I pity _her._ And I must say, I think
she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and
soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy, she fell upon her knees,
and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and
said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they should
not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to
go down upon _his_ knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till
they had packed up their clothes. _Then_ she fell into hysterics
again, and he was so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan,
and Mr. Donavan found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was
at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just
stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such a condition, he says,
she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad. I declare, I
have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart, it
will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward
will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully!
for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not
wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!--and Mr. Donavan
thinks just the same. He and I had a great deal of talk about it; and
the best of all is, that he is gone back again to Harley Street, that
he may be within call when Mrs. Ferrars is told of it, for she was
sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister
was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what I
care. I have no pity for either of them. I have no notion of people's
making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on
earth why Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs.
Ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though Lucy has
next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make
the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs. Ferrars would only allow
him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it
as 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 soothe her
distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment. The first
question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was--

"How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to you?"

"I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton
Park last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."

At these words, Marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her
lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed--

"Four months!--Have you known of this four months?"

Elinor confirmed it.

"What!--while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your
heart?--And I have reproached you for being happy!"--

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!"

"Four months!" cried Marianne again. "So calm! so cheerful! how have
you been supported?"

"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Lucy, obliged me
to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of
the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in
them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to
satisfy."

Marianne seemed much struck.

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added
Elinor; "and once or twice I have attempted it; but without betraying
my trust, I never could have convinced you."

"Four months! and yet you loved him!"

"Yes. But I did not love only him;--and while the comfort of others
was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.
Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have
you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer
materially myself. I have many things to support me. I am not
conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of
my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it
farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very
happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now
he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does
not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good
may be built. And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in
the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said
of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is
not meant--it is not fit--it is not possible that it should be so.
Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and
understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to
forget that he ever thought another superior to _her._"

"If such is your way of thinking," said Marianne, "if the loss of what
is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your
resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be
wondered at. They are brought more within my comprehension."

"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. For
four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without
being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it
would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained
to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least. It was told
me,--it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose
prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought,
with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to
oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most
deeply interested;--and it has not been only once;--I have had her
hopes and exultation to listen to again and again. I have known myself
to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance
that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him
unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had
to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of
his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without
enjoying its advantages. And all this has been going on at a time,
when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If
you can think me capable of ever feeling, surely you may suppose that
I have suffered _now._ The composure of mind with which I have brought
myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have
been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful
exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to
relieve my spirits at first. No, Marianne. _Then_, if I had not been
bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely--not
even what I owed to my dearest friends--from openly 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.

[Illustration: "_You have heard, I suppose._"]

"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 she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of
land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters
grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this,
if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the
certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds
she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so
far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if
he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support,
she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."

Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands
together, and cried, "Gracious God! can this be possible!"

"Well may you wonder, Marianne," replied her brother, "at the
obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation
is very natural."

Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and
forbore.

"All this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain. Edward said
very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.
Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would
stand to it, cost him what it might."

"Then," cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be
silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr.
Dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a
rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as
yourself, for Lucy Steele is my cousin, and I believe there is not a
better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good
husband."

John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not
open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially
anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any
resentment--

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours,
madam. Miss Lucy Steele is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman,
but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under
her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large
fortune as Mrs. Ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little
extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour
of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Jennings. We all wish
her extremely happy; and 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."

[Illustration: _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 anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued John,
"than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which
might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely."

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his
visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really
believed there was no material danger in Fanny's indisposition, and
that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away;
leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present
occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Ferrars's conduct, the
Dashwoods', and Edward's.

Marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and
as her vehemence made reserve impossible in Elinor, and unnecessary in
Mrs. Jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the
party.



CHAPTER XXXVIII


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 is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such
ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Lucy might think
about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set
it down for certain."

"I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure you,"
said Elinor.

[Illustration: "_She put in the feather last night._"]

"Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know, very well, and by more
than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks, that nobody in their senses
could expect Mr. Ferrars to give up a woman like Miss Morton, with
thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Lucy Steele that had
nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides
that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point
he was afraid Mr. Ferrars would be off; and when Edward did not come
near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I
believe in my heart Lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away
from your brother's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all
Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what was become of
him. Once Lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose
against that. However this morning he came just as we came home from
church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for Wednesday
to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them,
and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but Lucy,
and nobody but Lucy would he have. And how he had been so worried by
what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house,
he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or
other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday,
on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and
over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune,
and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the
engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but
two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to
go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a
curacy, and how was they to live upon that?--He could not bear to
think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least
mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift
for himself. I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.
And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he
said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath
he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to
marry Miss Morton, or any thing like it. But, to be sure, Lucy would
not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a
great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that--Oh, la! one
can't repeat such kind of things you know)--she told him directly, she
had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with
him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be
very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. So then
he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should
do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait
to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any
more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was
come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so
I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if
she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Edward; so I just
run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with
the Richardsons."

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Elinor;
"you were all in the same room together, were not you?"

"No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!--To be sure you must know
better than that. (Laughing affectedly.)--No, no; they were shut up in
the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at
the door."

"How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only
learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it
before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me
particulars 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.

[Illustration: _Listening at the door._]

"Edward talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is
lodging at No. --, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an't she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan't say anything against them to _you_; and to be sure they did
send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for.
And for my part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask
us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however,
nothing was said about them, and I took care to keep mine out of
sight. Edward have got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go
there for a time; and after _that_, as soon as he can light upon a
Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get! Good
gracious! (giggling as she spoke) I'd lay my life I know what my
cousins will say, when they hear of it. They will tell me I should
write to the Doctor, to get Edward the curacy of his new living. I
know they will; but I am sure I would not do such a thing for all the
world. 'La!' I shall say directly, 'I wonder how you could think of
such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'"

"Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the
worst. You have got your answer ready."

Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach
of her own party made another more necessary.

"Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to
you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I assure you
they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal of money, and
they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Jennings
about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not
in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same; and if anything
should happen to take you and your sister away, and Mrs. Jennings
should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay
with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Middleton
won't ask us any more this bout. Good-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 able to be taken for promoting its
end, was all her communication; and this produced from Mrs. Jennings
the following natural remark:--

"Wait for his having a living!--ay, we all know how _that_ will
end:--they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it,
will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest
of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Steele and Mr.
Pratt can give her. Then they will have a child every year! and Lord
help 'em! how poor they will be!--I must see what I can give them
towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed!--as I
talked of t'other day. No, no, they must get a stout girl of all
works. Betty's sister would never do for them _now._"

The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from
Lucy herself. It was as follows:

"Bartlett's Building, March.

     "I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take
     of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will
     make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and
     my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through
     lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed
     to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully,
     we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always
     be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and
     great persecutions, but however, at the same time,
     gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least
     among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully
     remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am
     sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs.
     Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday
     afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though
     earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to
     it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the
     spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never
     be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could
     have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be
     sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be
     ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to
     recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am
     very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings
     too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or
     Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.
     Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it
     for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't
     think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come
     this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my
     cousins would be proud to know her. My paper reminds me to
     conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully
     remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and
     the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to
     Miss Marianne,

"I am, 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 XXXIX


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 enforced
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;--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 of 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 evils she had started.

Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guest, that she
pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland.
Elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her
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 honorable to listen, and had even
changed her seat, on purpose that she might _not_ hear, to one close
by the piano forte 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
apologising 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 200 L 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 anybody 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 an 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 XL


"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 a 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 to 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 have been 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. Ay, 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 tomorrow."

"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 be, 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 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 befall 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 reconsider 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!"

[Illustration: _Both gained considerable amusement_]

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 seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the
Colonel to do some thing 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 shan't 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 XLI


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
any thing 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 tithes should be raised to the utmost; and
scarcely 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 enquiry, 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 in to 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 enquire 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, upon her late behaviour, is she
supposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she 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 her
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.

[Illustration: "_Of one thing I may assure you._"]

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 XLII


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 tranquility 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 a 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 to 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, 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.

[Illustration: _Showing her child to the housekeeper._]

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 decrease 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 a 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.

[Illustration: _The gardener's lamentations._]

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 of confidant 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 a 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, and 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 XLIII


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 tomorrow
would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have
produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment 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 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, &c. 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 seizure 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," cried 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 soothe 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 despatching 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 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--or
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 soothe 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
despatch, 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 a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching
all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in
further advice. But he judged it unnecessary: he had still something
more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was 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 any thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health,
friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with
sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent
gratitude;--but it lead 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 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 to the
drawing-room,--she entered it,--and saw only Willoughby.

[Illustration: _Opened a window-shutter._]



CHAPTER XLIV


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 her there, came across her. But she had
promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor 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?"

[Illustration: "_I entreat you to stay._"]

"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, will it 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 you 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 hers? 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 enquiring 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 hers; 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. A 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 this
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?"

[Illustration: "_I was formally dismissed._"]

"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 my self 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 a 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 every thing 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?"

"Ah!--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 hers 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
every thing 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 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."

[Illustration: "_I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight._"]

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 any thing
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 hand-writing."

"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 blamable," 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 had 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 a 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 are all gone off in a fright, &c. 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 any thing. 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 hers;--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 mantelpiece 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 may 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 XLV


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 further
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 hers 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 XLVI


Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength,
and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to
enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the
latter, into Mrs. Palmer's dressing-room. When there, at her own
particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to
him for fetching her mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than
his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to
very different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what
arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the
actions and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that
something more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On _her_
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was
soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there
as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs.
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active
good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well
as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the
cottage, in the course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after
taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so
earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due
to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and
bidding Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was
carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed
anxious that she should engross at least half. Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk
of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings
was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid
for the loss of her two young companions; and Colonel Brandon
immediately afterwards took his solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue. Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her
comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found
their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits. To
Elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. She,
who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by
anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor
fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally
share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as
she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to
contentment and cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which
every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful
recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her
face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But
here, Elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she
assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw
only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender
than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In the whole
of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened
to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the
sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could
be connected. She said little, but every sentence aimed at
cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed
away without the atonement of a smile. After dinner she would try her
piano-forte. She went to it; but the music on which her eye first
rested was an opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some
of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name
in his hand-writing. That would not do. She shook her head, put the
music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained
of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again;
declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in
future practice much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as
the only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said
she, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its
foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall
be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be
later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall
divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan,
and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing
beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at
the Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know
I can borrow of Colonel Brandon. By reading only six hours a-day, I
shall gain in the course of a 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 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.

[Illustration: "_And see how the children go on._"]

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, to the Palmers,
the Steeles, to every common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and
unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper
irritated by their very attention. To John, to Fanny, yes, even to them,
little as they deserve, I had given less than their due. But you, you
above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew
your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me;
but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I
imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part
in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which
you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew
you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away
from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to
exist but with me, regretting only _that_ heart which had deserted and
wronged me, and leaving you, for I professed an unbounded affection, to
be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
deserved. Marianne pressed her hand and replied--

"You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my
plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others,
nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, my
mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will
share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I
shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do
mix in other society, it will be only to 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 low voice, "If I could but know _his_
heart, everything would become easy."

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at
all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word. She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A
thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears
covered her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her
curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked
of nothing but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was
carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where
minuteness could be safely indulged. As soon as they entered the
house, Marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just
articulate through her tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister
and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a
solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind
anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the
subject again, should Marianne fail to do it, she turned into the
parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.



CHAPTER XLVII


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 so injured the peace of the dearest
of our friends, and the best of men!--No--my Marianne has not a heart
to be made happy with such a man!--Her conscience, her sensitive
conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband
ought to have felt."

Marianne sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

"You consider the matter," said Elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a
sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as
well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances,
reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved
you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would
have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less
certain. Had you married, you must have been always poor. His
expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct
declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His
demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income,
must have brought on distresses which would not be the _less_ grievous
to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.
_Your_ sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when
aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear
to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched
only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it,
but beyond that--and how little could the utmost of your single
management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?
beyond _that_, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge
_his_ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing
on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your
own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which
had involved him in such difficulties?"

Marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "Selfish?" in a
tone that implied, "do you really think him selfish?"

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Elinor, "from the beginning to
the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was
selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which
afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession
of it, and which finally carried him from Barton. His own enjoyment,
or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."

"It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object."

"At present," continued Elinor, "he regrets what he has done. And why
does he regret it?--Because he finds it has not answered towards
himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now
unembarrassed--he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks
only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than
yourself. But does it follow that had he married you, he would have
been happy?--The inconveniences would have been different. He would
then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they
are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a wife of
whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always
necessitous--always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank
the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far
more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a
wife."

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to
regret--nothing but my own folly."

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Dashwood;
"_she_ must be answerable."

Marianne would not let her proceed;--and Elinor, satisfied that each
felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that
might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first
subject, immediately continued--

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the
story--that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first
offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime
has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present
discontents."

Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led
by it to an enumeration of Colonel Brandon's injuries and merits, warm
as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her daughter did not
look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.

Elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three
following days, that Marianne did not continue to gain strength as she
had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried
to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the
effect of time upon her health.

Margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each
other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their
usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to
Barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward. She had heard
nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans,
nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed
between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and
in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:--"We know
nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so
prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford"; which
was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence,
for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and
when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his
mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary
communication--

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married."

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her
turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics. Mrs. Dashwood,
whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively
taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's
countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards,
alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to
bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense
enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance,
supported her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather
better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the
maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so
far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just
beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.
Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor
had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

[Illustration: "_I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is
married._"]

"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
however, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."

"But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?"

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since
she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken
young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy."

"Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up;--he never was a gentleman much for talking."

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself
forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

"No, ma'am, only they two."

"Do you know where they came from?"

"They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy--Mrs. Ferrars told me."

"And are they going farther westward?"

"Yes, ma'am--but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and
then they'd be sure and call here."

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than
to expect them. She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and
was very confident that Edward would never come near them. She
observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going
down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to
hear more.

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

"No, ma'am--the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any
longer; I was afraid of being late."

"Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?"

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady--and she seemed vastly contented."

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the
tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret
might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as
both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had
often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to
go without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and
Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a
similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Dashwood feared to
hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now
found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of
herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly
softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness,
suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that she
had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her
daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well
understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to
believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this
persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to
her Elinor; that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged,
more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness,
and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter
suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and
greater fortitude.



CHAPTER XLVIII


Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an
unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it,
and certainty itself. She now found, that in spite of herself, she had
always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something
would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his
own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of
establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of
all. But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the
lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the
intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be
in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the
living, surprised her a little at first. But she soon saw how likely
it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure
him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay. They were
married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. What
had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her
mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at
Delaford;--Delaford,--that place in which so much conspired to give
her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet
desired to avoid. She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house;
saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire
of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be
suspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest
in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs.
Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In Edward, she knew not what
she saw, nor what she wished to see. Happy or unhappy, nothing pleased
her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London
would write to them to announce the event, and give farther
particulars,--but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no
tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault
with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.

"When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?" was an inquiry which
sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should
not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel
Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on
horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It
was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she could hear
more; and she trembled in expectation of it. But--it was _not_ Colonel
Brandon--neither his air--nor his height. Were it possible, she must
say it must be Edward. She looked again. He had just dismounted;--she
could not be mistaken,--it _was_ Edward. She moved away and sat down.
"He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us. I _will_ be calm, I
_will_ be mistress of myself."

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the
mistake. She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look
at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. She would have
given the world to be able to speak--and to make them understand that
she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to
him;--but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their
own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the
appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel
path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before
them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for
Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if
fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of
that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be
guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him
her hand, and wished him joy.

[Illustration: _It was Edward._]

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor's lips
had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over,
she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too
late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again
and talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal
her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole
of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and
therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a
strict silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very
awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who
felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a
hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own
voice, now said--

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?"

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise. "No, my mother
is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to
inquire for Mrs. _Edward_ Ferrars."

She dared not look up;--but her mother and Marianne both turned their
eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and,
after some hesitation, said,--

"Perhaps you mean--my brother--you mean Mrs.--Mrs. _Robert_ Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!"--was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an
accent of the utmost amazement;--and though Elinor could not speak,
even _her_ eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He
rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not
knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and
while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to
pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice--

"Perhaps you do not know--you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to--to the youngest--to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but
Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of
such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as
soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first
she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any
where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw, or
even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a
reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of
Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word,
quitted the room, and walked out towards the village, leaving the
others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his
situation, so wonderful and so sudden,--a perplexity which they had no
means of lessening but by their own conjectures.



CHAPTER XLIX


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
brother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen
from the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never
have happened; for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at
the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I
then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a
distance from her for a few months, I should very soon have outgrown
the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as
in such case I must have done. But instead of having any thing to do,
instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to
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 every thing by turns but tranquil. But when the
second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude
removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been,--saw
him honourably released from his former engagement,--saw him instantly
profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection
as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be,--she was
oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed
as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the
better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits,
or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.

Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;--for whatever
other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a
week should be given up to the enjoyment of Elinor's company, or
suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and
the future;--for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of
incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in
common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is
different. Between _them_ no subject is finished, no communication is
even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.

Lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;--and
Elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in
every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable
circumstances she had ever heard. How they could be thrown together,
and by what attraction Robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of
whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any
admiration,--a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose
account that brother had been thrown off by his family--it was beyond
her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it was a delightful
affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her
reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.

Edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps,
at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so
worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all
the rest. Elinor remembered what Robert had told her in Harley Street,
of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs
might have done, if applied to in time. She repeated it to Edward.

"_That_ was exactly like Robert," was his immediate observation. "And
_that_," he presently added, "might perhaps be in _his_ head when the
acquaintance between them first began. And Lucy perhaps at first might
think only of procuring his good offices in my favour. Other designs
might afterward arise."

How long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally
at a loss with herself to make out; for at Oxford, where he had
remained for choice ever since his quitting London, he had had no
means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very
last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual. Not
the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him
for what followed;--and when at last it burst on him in a letter from
Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified
between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He
put the letter into Elinor's hands.

"DEAR SIR,

     "Being very sure I have long lost your affections, I have
     thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and
     have no doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to
     think I might be with you; but I scorn to accept a hand
     while the heart was another's. Sincerely wish you happy in
     your choice, and it shall not be my fault if we are not
     always good friends, as our near relationship now makes
     proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will, and am sure
     you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your
     brother has gained my affections entirely, and as we could
     not live without one another, we are just returned from the
     altar, and are now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks,
     which place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,
     but thought I would first trouble you with these few lines,
     and shall always remain--

     "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,

     "LUCY FERRARS."

     "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture
     the first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls--but the
     ring with my hair you are very welcome to keep."

Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

"I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.
"For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by _you_ in
former days. In a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife! how I have
blushed over the pages of her writing! and I believe I may say that
since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only
letter I ever received from her, of which the substance made me any
amends for the defect of the style."

"However it may have come about," said Elinor, after a pause,--"they
are certainly married. And your mother has brought on herself a most
appropriate punishment. The independence she settled on Robert,
through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his
own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand
a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for
intending to do. She will hardly be less hurt, I suppose, by Robert's
marrying Lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her."

"She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her favourite. She
will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him
much sooner."

In what state the affair stood at present between them, Edward knew
not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been
attempted by him. He had quitted Oxford within four and twenty hours
after Lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the
nearest road to Barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of
conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate
connection. He could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with
Miss Dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking _that_ fate, it is to be
supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of
Colonel Brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own
deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did
not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception. It was his
business, however, to say that he _did_, and he said it very prettily.
What he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred
to the imagination of husbands and wives.

That Lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of
malice against him in her message by Thomas, was perfectly clear to
Elinor; and Edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her
character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost
meanness of wanton ill-nature. Though his eyes had been long opened,
even before his acquaintance with Elinor began, to her ignorance and a
want of liberality in some of her opinions, they had been equally
imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter
reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed,
good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself. Nothing but
such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an
engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to
his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret
to him.

"I thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give
her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend
in the world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there
seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living
creature, how could I suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly
insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but
the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And even now, I
cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage
it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the
smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
She could not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living."

"No; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour;
that your own family might in time relent. And at any rate, she lost
nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it
fettered neither her inclination nor her actions. The connection was
certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration
among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it
would be better for her to marry _you_ than be single."

Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have
been more natural than Lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the
motive of it.

Elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence
which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them
at Norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.

"Your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because--to say
nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to
fancy and expect _what_, as you were _then_ situated, could never be."

He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken
confidence in the force of his engagement.

"I was simple enough to think, that because my _faith_ was plighted to
another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the
consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred
as my honour. I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only
friendship; and till I began to make comparisons between yourself and
Lucy, I did not know how far I was got. After that, I suppose, I _was_
wrong in remaining so much in Sussex, and the arguments with which I
reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than
these:--The danger is my own; I am doing no injury to anybody but
myself."

Elinor smiled, and shook her head.

Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon's being expected at the
Cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with
him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer
resented his giving him the living of Delaford--"Which, at present,"
said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the
occasion, he must think I have never forgiven him for offering."

_Now_ he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the
place. But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed
all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the
parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor
herself, who had heard so much of it from Colonel Brandon, and heard
it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.

One question after this only remained undecided, between them, one
difficulty only was to be overcome. They were brought together by
mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends;
their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness
certain--and they only wanted something to live upon. Edward had two
thousand pounds, and Elinor one, which, with Delaford living, was all
that they could call their own; for it was impossible that Mrs.
Dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite
enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year
would supply them with the comforts of life.

Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his
mother towards him; and on _that_ he rested for the residue of their
income. But Elinor had no such dependence; for since Edward would
still be unable to marry Miss Morton, and his 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 that mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the
wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting
girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she
was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by
all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. "I do think," she
continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two
days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a soul
suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul! came
crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs.
Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy it
seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on
purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven
shillings in the world;--so I was very glad to give her five guineas
to take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four
weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with the
Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take them
along with them in the chaise is worse than all. Poor Mr. Edward! I
cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to Barton,
and Miss Marianne must try to comfort him."

Mr. Dashwood's strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women--poor Fanny had suffered agonies of
sensibility--and he considered the existence of each, under such a
blow, with grateful wonder. Robert's offence was unpardonable, but
Lucy's was infinitely worse. Neither of them were ever again to be
mentioned to Mrs. Ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced
to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her
daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence. The secrecy with
which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally
treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any
suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have
been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on Elinor to join
with him in regretting that Lucy's engagement with Edward had not
rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of
spreading misery farther in the family. He thus continued:--

"Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward's name, which does not
surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been
received from him on the occasion. Perhaps, however, he is kept silent
by his fear of offending, and I shall, therefore, give him a hint, by
a line to Oxford, that his sister and I both think a letter of proper
submission from him, addressed perhaps to Fanny, and by her 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 L


After a proper resistance on the part of Mrs. Ferrars, just so violent
and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always
seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, Edward
was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.

Her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating. For many years of
her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of
Edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar
annihilation of Robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and
now, by the resuscitation of Edward, she had one again.

In spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not
feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his
present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he
feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him
off as rapidly as before. With apprehensive caution therefore it was
revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness. Mrs.
Ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying
Miss Dashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in Miss
Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and
enforced the assertion, by observing that Miss Morton was the daughter
of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while Miss Dashwood was
only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than _three_;
but when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her
representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she
judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit; and
therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own
dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she
issued her decree of consent to the marriage of Edward and Elinor.

What she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next
to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though Edward was
now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while Robert was
inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest
objection was made against Edward's taking orders for the sake of two
hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for
the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had
been given with Fanny.

It was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected,
by Edward and Elinor; and Mrs. Ferrars herself, by her shuffling
excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.

With an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them,
they had nothing to wait for after Edward was in possession of the
living, but the readiness of the house, to which Colonel Brandon, with
an eager desire for the accommodation of Elinor, was making
considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their
completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments
and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, Elinor,
as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying
till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in Barton
church early in the autumn.

The first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at
the Mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of
the Parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the
spot;--could 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 couples in the
world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of
Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their
cows.

They were visited on their first settling by almost all their
relations and friends. Mrs. Ferrars came to inspect the happiness
which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the
Dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from Sussex to do them
honour.

"I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister," said John, as
they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford
House, "_that_ would be saying too much, for certainly you have been
one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is. But, I
confess, it would give me great pleasure to call Colonel Brandon
brother. His property here, his place, his house,--every thing is in
such respectable and excellent condition! And his woods,--I have not
seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as there is now standing in
Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not seem exactly
the person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be
advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as
Colonel Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may
happen; for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of
anybody else,--and it will always be in your power to set her off to
advantage, and so forth. In short, you may as well give her a chance;
You understand me."

But though Mrs. Ferrars _did_ come to see them, and always treated
them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never
insulted by her real favour and preference. _That_ was due to the
folly of Robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by
them before many months had passed away. The selfish sagacity of the
latter, which had at first drawn Robert into the scrape, was the
principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful
humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the
smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars
to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.

[Illustration: _Everything in such respectable condition_]

The whole of Lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which
crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging
instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest,
however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing
every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time
and conscience. When Robert first sought her acquaintance, and
privately visited her in Bartlett's Buildings, it was only with the
view imputed to him by his brother. He merely meant to persuade her to
give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but
the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two
interviews would settle the matter. In that point, however, and that
only, he erred; for though Lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence
would convince her in _time_, another visit, another conversation, was
always wanted to produce this conviction. Some doubts always lingered
in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another
half hour's discourse with himself. His attendance was by this means
secured, and the rest followed in course. Instead of talking of
Edward, they came gradually to talk only of Robert,--a subject on
which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she
soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it
became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his
brother. He was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking Edward, and
very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent. What
immediately followed is known. They passed some months in great
happiness at Dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances
to cut--and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and from
thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by
the simple expedient of asking it, which, at Lucy's instigation, was
adopted. The forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable,
comprehended only Robert; and Lucy, who had owed his mother no duty
and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks
longer unpardoned. But perseverance in humility of conduct and
messages, in self-condemnation for Robert's offence, and gratitude for
the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty
notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon
afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and
influence. Lucy became as necessary to Mrs. Ferrars, as either Robert
or Fanny; and while Edward was never cordially forgiven for having
once intended to marry her, and Elinor, though superior to her in
fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, _she_ was in every
thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite
child. They settled in town, received very liberal assistance from
Mrs. Ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods;
and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting
between Fanny and Lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part,
as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between Robert and Lucy
themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived
together.

What Edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have
puzzled many people to find out; and what Robert had done to succeed
to it, might have puzzled them still more. It was an arrangement,
however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing
ever appeared in Robert's style of living or of talking to give a
suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either
leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much;--and if
Edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every
particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home,
and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed
no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an
exchange.

Elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well
be contrived, without rendering the cottage at Barton entirely
useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their
time with her. Mrs. Dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well
as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at Delaford; for her wish
of bringing Marianne and Colonel Brandon together was hardly less
earnest, though rather more liberal than what John had expressed. It
was now her darling object. Precious as was the company of her
daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its
constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see Marianne settled
at the mansion-house was equally the wish of Edward and Elinor. They
each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and Marianne, by
general consent, was to be the reward of all.

With such a confederacy against her--with a knowledge so intimate of
his goodness--with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself,
which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody
else--burst on her--what could she do?

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to
discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her
conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an
affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no
sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily
to give her hand to another!--and _that_ other, a man who had suffered
no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two
years before, she had considered too old to be married,--and who still
sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible
passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,
instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her
only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm
and sober judgment she had determined on,--she found herself at
nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties,
placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the
patroness of a village.

Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him,
believed he deserved to be;--in Marianne he was consoled for every
past affliction;--her regard and her society restored his mind to
animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found
her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and
delight of each observing friend. Marianne could never love by halves;
and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband,
as it had once been to Willoughby.

Willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his
punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness
of Mrs. Smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character,
as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had
he behaved with honour towards Marianne, he might at once have been
happy and rich. That his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought
its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted;--nor that he
long thought of Colonel Brandon with envy, and of Marianne with
regret. But that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from
society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a
broken heart, must not be depended on--for he did neither. He lived to
exert, and frequently to enjoy himself. His wife was not always out of
humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses
and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable
degree of domestic felicity.

For Marianne, however, in spite of his incivility in surviving her
loss, he always retained that decided regard which interested him in
every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of
perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him
in after-days as bearing no comparison with Mrs. Brandon.

Mrs. Dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without
attempting a removal to Delaford; and fortunately for Sir John and
Mrs. Jennings, when Marianne was taken from them, Margaret had
reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible
for being supposed to have a lover.

Between Barton and Delaford, there was that constant communication
which strong family affection would naturally dictate;--and among the
merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked
as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost
within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement
between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.

THE END





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