SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen

                                       1811

                             SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

                                 by Jane Austen

                          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 apiece.

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

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

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

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

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

coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer;

and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that

remained for his widow and daughters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

might prudently be in his power to do for them.

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

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

in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in

the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable

woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was:

he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young

when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was

a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.

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

himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a

thousand pounds apiece. 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! be 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 favorite 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 behavior, 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

neighborhood, 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 Misses

Dashwood, 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 off, 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 anything 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 apiece. 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 anything yearly. It may be very inconvenient some years to

spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."

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

should by no annuity in the case: whatever I may give them

occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly

allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if

they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the

richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much the

best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent

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

discharging my promise to my father."

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

within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any

money at all. The assistance he thought of, I dare say, was only

such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as

looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to

move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and

so forth, whenever they are in season. I'll lay my life that he

meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and

unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how

excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may

live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand

pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty

pounds a year apiece, 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 house-keeping 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 neighborly 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 enquiries for a suitable dwelling in the

neighborhood 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 improved.

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

promise on the part of his son in their favor, 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 hers

that difference of fortune should deep 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 that, in fact, of his frequent attention to her while she

draws, that, in 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, mamma, how

spiritless, how tame was Edward's manner in reading to us last

night! I felt for my sister more 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 broken my heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little

sensibility. Mamma, 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 hers!"

                          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 honored 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

everything 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 everything

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 I 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 favorite

pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future

felicity. Oh! if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to

learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!"

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

consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as

Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about

him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke a something almost

as unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it,

need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to

produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more

reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which

forbad the indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother

neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at

present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for

himself, without strictly attending to her views for his

aggrandisement. 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 spirit, 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 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 everything 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 piano-forte 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 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, everything was so far settled

in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters

to begin their journey.

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

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

wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being

there; "when shall I cease to regret you!- when learn to feel a home

elsewhere!- Oh! happy house, could you know what I suffer in now

viewing you from this spot, from whence, perhaps, I may view you no

more!- And you, ye well-known trees!- but you will continue the

same. No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become

motionless although we can observe you no longer!- No; you will

continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you

occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your

shade!- But who will remain to enjoy you?"

                          CHAPTER VI

    THE first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy

a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they

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

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

view of Barton Valley, as they entered it, gave them cheerfulness.

It was a pleasant, fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.

After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own

house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne in front;

and a neat wicket-gate admitted them into it.

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

compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was

regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted

green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow

passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each

side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square;

and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and

two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many

years, and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor

and small indeed!- but the tears which recollection called forth as

they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by

the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the

others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the

season was fine; and from first seeing the place under the advantage

of good weather, they received an impression in its favor 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 everything; 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 meantime, 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 piano-forte was

unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor's drawings were

affixed to the walls of their sitting room.

    In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after

breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called

to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them every accommodation

from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be

deficient. Sir John Middleton was a good looking man about forty. He

had formerly visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young

cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured;

and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their

arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to

be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest

desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and

pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they

were better settled at home that, though his entreaties were carried

to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give

offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour

after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit

arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by

a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their

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

satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

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

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

assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this

message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was

introduced to them the next day.

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

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

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

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

and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the

elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved

by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long

enough to detract something from their first admiration, by 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. There 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 pass. Sir

John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and

she humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady

Middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all

the year round, while Sir John's independent employments were in

existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and

abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and

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

to the good breeding of his wife.

    Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table,

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

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

satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting

about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier

they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the

juvenile part of the neighbourhood; for in summer he was for ever

forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in

winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who

was not suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.

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

of joy to him; and in every point of view he was charmed with the

inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at Barton. The

Misses Dashwood 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 drawingroom 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, be 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 piano-forte; for or

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 sympathise

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 southwesterly 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

apologised 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 an act of attention to her

child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an

interest to the action which came home to her feelings.

    She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of

address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But

this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged

to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby,

and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would

allow him the honour of calling to-morrow to enquire after Miss

Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to

make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

    His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were

instantly the theme of general admiration; and the laugh which his

gallantry raised against Marianne received particular spirit from

his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had seen less of his person

that the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his

lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after

their entering the house. But she bad seen enough of him to join in

all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always

adorned her praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy

had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his

carrying her into the house with so little previous formality there

was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to

her. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was

good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found

out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.

Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the

pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.

    Sir John called on them as soon as the next interval of fair

weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Marianne's

accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew

any gentleman of the name of Willoughby at Allenham.

    "Willoughby!" cried Sir John; "what, is he in the country? That is

good news however? I will ride over to-morrow, and ask him to dinner

on Thursday."

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

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

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

    "As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very

decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

    "And is that all you can say for him?" cried Marianne,

indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate

acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

    Sir John was rather puzzled.

    "Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all

that. But he is a pleasant, good-humoured fellow, and has got the

nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with

him to-day?"

    But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.

Willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of

his mind.

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

house at Allenham?"

    On this point Sir John could give more certain intelligence; and

he told them that Mr. Willoughby had no property of his own in the

country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady

at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he

was to inherit; adding, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching I

can tell you, Miss Dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own,

in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up

to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Miss

Marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself. Brandon

will be jealous, if she does not take care."

    "I do not believe," said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good-humoured

smile, "that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of

either of my daughters, towards what you call catching him. It is

not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very

safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however,

from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose

acquaintance will not be ineligible."

    "He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,"

repeated Sir John. "I remember last Christmas, at a little hop at

the Park, he danced from eight o'clock till four without once

sitting down."

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

elegance, with spirit?"

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

    "That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be.

Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no

moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue."

    "Ay, ay, 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

idolised 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 everything 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 bad

seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could

satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.

Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour,

and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his

behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest as

his abilities were strong.

    Her mother, too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of

their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led

before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to

congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Edward

and Willoughby.

    Colonel Brandon's partiality for Marianne, which had so early been

discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Elinor,

when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were

drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the

other had incurred before any partiality arose was removed when his

feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to

sensibility. Elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that

the sentiments which Mrs. Jennings had assigned him for her own

satisfaction were now actually excited by her sister; and that however

a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward

the affection of Mr. Willoughby, an equally striking opposition of

character was no hindrance to the regard of Colonel Brandon. She saw

it with concern; for what could a silent man of five-and-thirty

hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five-and-twenty? and as she

could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him

indifferent. She liked him- in spite of his gravity and reserve, she

beheld in him an object of interest. His manners, though serious, were

mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of

spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir John had dropped

hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief

of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and

compassion.

    Perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was

slighted by Willoughby and Marianne, who, prejudiced against him for

being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his

merits.

    "Brandon is just the kind of man," said Willoughby one day, when

they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of and

nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody

remembers to talk to."

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

    "Do not boast of it, however," said Elinor, "for it is injustice

in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the Park,

and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

    "That he is patronised by you," replied Willoughby, "is

certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is

a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being

approved by such a woman as Lady Middleton and Mrs. Jennings, that

could command the indifference of any body else?"

    "But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Marianne

will make amends for the regard of Lady Middleton and her mother. If

their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are

not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

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

    "My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will

always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between

thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been

abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of

giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always

answered my enquiries 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

enquiries, 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 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 her acquaintance, all the

particulars of Mr. Jenning's last illness, and what he said to his

wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable

than her mother only in being more silent. Elinor needed little

observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of

manner, with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and

mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was, therefore,

neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day

that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable,

for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not

oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided everything 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 consolation for

the indifference of her sister.

    Elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to

suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to

him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidently dropped

from him one evening at the Park, when they were sitting down together

by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were

fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with

a faint smile, "Your sister, I understand, does not approve of

second attachments."

    "No," replied Elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."

    "Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist."

    "I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting

on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I

know not. A few years, however, will settle her opinions on the

reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be

more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body

but herself."

    "This will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is

something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is

sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

    "I cannot agree with you there," said Elinor. "There are

inconveniences attending such feelings, as Marianne's, which all the

charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.

Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety

at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look

forward to as her greatest possible advantage."

    After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,-

    "Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against

a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are

those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from

the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances,

to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

    "Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of her

principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any

instance of a second attachment's being pardonable."

    "This," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of

sentiments- No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a

young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such

opinions as are but too common and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I

once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who

thought and judged like her, but who from an enforced change- from a series

of unfortunate circumstances-" Here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that

he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures which

might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have

passed without suspicion had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what

concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a

slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of

past regard. Elinor attempted no more.  But Marianne, in her place, would not

have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under

her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy

order of disastrous love.

                          CHAPTER 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 mamma. 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 Highchurch 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 mamma

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 everybody laugh; and Elinor tried to laugh

too. But the effort was painful. She was convinced that Margaret had

fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to

become a standing joke with Mrs. Jennings.

    Marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than

good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner

to Margaret-

    "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right

to repeat them."

    "I never had any conjectures about it," replied Margaret; "it

was you who told me of it yourself."

    This increased the mirth of the company, and Margaret was

eagerly pressed to say something more.

    "Oh, pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it," said Mrs.

Jennings. "What is the gentleman's name?"

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

know where he is too."

    "Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Norland

to be sure. He is the curate of the parish, I dare say."

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

    "Margaret," said Marianne, with great warmth, "you know that all

this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person

in existence."

    "Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there

was such a man once, and his name begins with an F."

    Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing,

at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the

interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from

her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of

raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The idea, however,

started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on

every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on

the subject of rain by both of them. Willoughby opened the

piano-forte, and asked Marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the

various endeavours of different people to quit the topic it fell to

the ground. But not so easily did Elinor recover from the alarm into

which it had thrown her.

    A party was formed this evening for going on the following day

to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Barton, belonging

to a brother-in-law of Colonel Brandon, without whose interest it

could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left

strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly

beautiful; and Sir John, who was particularly warm in their praise,

might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to

visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years.

They contained a noble piece of water,- a sail on which was to a

form a great part of the morning's amusement: cold provisions were

to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and everything

conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

    To some few of the company it appeared rather a bold

undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained

every day for the last fortnight; and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a

cold, was persuaded by Elinor to stay at home.

                          CHAPTER XIII

    THEIR intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently

from what Elinor had expected. She was prepared to be wet through,

fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate,

for they did not go at all.

    By ten o'clock the whole party 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: 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 to-day, for it is on

business which requires my immediate attendance in town."

    "In town!" cried Mrs. Jennings. "What can you have to do in town

at this time of year?"

    "My own loss is great," be continued, "in being obliged to leave

so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my

presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

    What a blow upon them all was this!

    "But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon," said

Marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

    He shook his head.

    "We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we

are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is

all."

    "I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power

to delay my journey for one day!"

    "If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs.

Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

    "You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you

were to defer your journey till our return."

    "I cannot afford to lose one hour."

    Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne,

"there are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is

one of them. He was afraid of catching cold, I dare say, and

invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas

the letter was of his own writing."

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

    "There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, 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 Misses Dashwood

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

Misses Dashwood. Mrs. Jennings sat on Elinor's right-hand; and they

had not been long seated, before she lent behind her and Willoughby,

and said to Marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found

you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the

morning."

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

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

curricle?"

    "Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was

determined to find out where you had been to. I hope you like your

house, Miss Marianne. It is a very large one, I know; and when I

come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it

wanted it very much when I was there six years ago."

    Marianne turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Jennings laughed

heartily; and Elinor found that in her resolution to know where they

had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of Mr.

Willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that

they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in

walking about the garden, and going all over the house.

    Elinor could hardly believe this to be true; as it seemed very

unlikely that Willoughby should propose, or Marianne consent, to enter

the house while Mrs. Smith was in it, with whom Marianne had not the

smallest acquaintance.

    As soon as they left the dining-room, Elinor enquired of her about

it; and great was her surprise when she found that every

circumstance related by Mrs. Jennings was perfectly true. Marianne was

quite angry with her for doubting it.

    "Why should you imagine, Elinor, that we did not go there, or that

we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do

yourself?"

    "Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and

with no other companion than Mr. Willoughby."

    "Mr. Willoughby, however, is the only person who can have a

right to show that house; and as 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 by, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious

when I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the

world more likely, for I have a notion she is always rather sickly.

I would lay any wager it is about Miss Williams. It is not so very

likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a

very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by

this time. I wonder what it can be! May be his sister is worse at

Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry

seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble, with

all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."

    So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with

every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they

arose. Elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of

Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so

suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of her feeling; for

besides that the circumstance did not, in her opinion, justify such

lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was

otherwise disposed of. It was engossed by the extraordinary silence of

her sister and Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be

peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every

day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the

disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge to her

mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other

declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.

    She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately

in their power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no

reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at

about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which

that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained

of his poverty. But for this strange kind of secrecy, maintained by

them relative to their engagement, which, in fact, concealed nothing

at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to

their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered

her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to

prevent her making any enquiry 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 love, 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 in-convenience

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 bear 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 to-morrow to dinner?" said Mrs. Dashwood, when

he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for

we must walk to the Park, to call on Lady Middleton."

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

                          CHAPTER XV

    MRS. DASHWOOD'S visit to Middleton took place the next day, and

two of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself

from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment;

and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by

Willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were

absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.

    On their return from the Park they found Willoughby's curricle and

servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Dashwood was convinced

that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had

foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had

taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Marianne

came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with

her handkerchief at her eyes, and without noticing them ran up stairs.

Surprised and alarmed, they proceeded directly into the room she had

just quitted, where they found only Willoughby, who was leaning

against the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round

on their coming in, and his countenance 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!"

    "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 despatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and by

way of exhilaration I am now come to take my farewell of you."

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

    "Almost this moment."

    "This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged; and her

business will not detain you from us long, I hope."

    He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind; but I have no

idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Mrs. Smith

are never repeated within the twelvemonth."

    "And is Mrs. Smith your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in

the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Willoughby,

can you wait for an invitation here?"

    His colour increased; and, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he

only replied, "You are too good."

    Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal

amazement. For a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first

spoke.

    "I have only to add, my dear Willoughby, that at Barton cottage

you will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here

immediately, because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing

to Mrs. Smith; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to

question your judgment than to doubt your inclination."

    "My engagements at present," replied Willoughby, confusedly,

"are of such a nature- that- I dare not flatter myself-"

    He stopt. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and

another pause succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said, with

a faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not

torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society

it is impossible for me now to enjoy."

    He then hastily took leave of them all, and left the room. They

saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

    Mrs. Dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted

the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which

this sudden departure occasioned.

    Elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's. She

thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.

Willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and

affection of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept

her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike

himself, greatly disturbed her. One moment she feared that no

serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that

some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her

sister:- the distress in which Marianne had quitted the room was

such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though,

when she considered what Marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed

almost impossible.

    But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her

sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the

tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Marianne was in

all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding

and encouraging as a duty.

    In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes

were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

    "Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,"

said she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he

travel?"

    "It is all very strange. So suddenly to be gone! It seems but

the work of a moment. And last night he was with us so happy, so

cheerful, so affectionate? And now, after only ten minutes' notice,-

gone, too, without intending to return!- something more than what be

owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave

like himself. You must have seen the difference as well as I. What can

it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have 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 everything

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 dissapprove 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 in to 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 be 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 no thing 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 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 he entirely done away.

If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

    "A mighty concession, indeed! If you were to see them at the

altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious

girl! But I require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever

passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been

uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your sister's

wishes. It must be Willoughby, therefore, whom you suspect. But why?

Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any

inconsistency on his side to create alarm? can he be deceitful?"

    "I hope not, I believe not," cried Elinor. "I love Willoughby,

sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more

painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will

not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in

his manners this morning: he did not speak like himself, and did not

return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be

explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.

He had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the

greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of

offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon,

and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was

going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a

suspicious part by our family, be might well be embarrassed and

disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties

would have been more to his honour, I think, as well as more

consistent with his general character;- but I will not raise

objections against any one's conduct on so liberal 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, be 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 piano-forte,

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 from the post, and carries them to it. We have already

agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that

it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass

through Sir John's hands."

    Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find

in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one

method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible, of

knowing the real state of the affair and of instantly removing all

mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother.

    "Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is

or she is not engaged to Willoughby? From you, her mother, and so

kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It

would be the natural result of your affection for her. She used to

be all unreserve, and to you more especially."

    "I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it

possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an

enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should

never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a

confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any

one. I know Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and

that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when

circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not

attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less;

because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes

might direct."

    Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her

sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common

sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs.

Dashwood's romantic delicacy.

    It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned

before Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings,

indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a

painful hour; but one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a

volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed,-

    "We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went

away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he

comes again-; but it may be months, perhaps, before that happens."

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

weeks."

    Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave

Elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of

confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

    One morning, about a week after his leaving the country,

Marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk,

instead of wandering away by herself. Hitherto she had carefully

avoided every companion in her rambles. If her sisters intended to

walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if

they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills,

and could never be found when the others set off. But at length she

was secured by the exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such

continual seclusion. They walked along the road through the valley,

and chiefly in silence, for Marianne's mind could not be controlled,

and Elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt

more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though

still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road

which they had travelled on first coming to Barton lay before them;

and on reaching that point they stopped to look around them and

examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the

cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any

of their walks before.

    Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated

one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes

they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment

afterwards Marianne rapturously exclaimed,-

    "It is he- it is indeed;- I know it is!" and was hastening to meet

him, when Elinor cried out,-

    "Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby.

The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

    "He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has. His air,

his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

    She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne

from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being

Willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her. They were soon

within thirty yards of the gentleman. Marianne looked again; her heart

sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back,

when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a

third, almost as well known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging

her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome

Edward Ferrars.

    He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be

forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have

gained a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on

him, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own

disappointment.

    He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back

with them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

    He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but

especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her

reception of him than even Elinor herself. To Marianne, indeed, the

meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that

unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in

their mutual behaviour. On Edward's side more particularly, there

was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such

an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure

in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what

was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no

mark of affection. Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise.

She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every

feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to

Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to

those of his brother elect.

    After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and

enquiries of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from

London. No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

    "A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the

same county with Elinor without seeing her before.

    He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been

staying with some friends near Plymouth.

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

    "I was at Norland about a month ago."

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

    "Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it

always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly

covered with dead leaves."

    "Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I

formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see

them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have

they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one

to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off,

and driven as much as possible from the sight."

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

leaves."

    "No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But

sometimes they are." As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a

few moments; but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,

calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton Valley. Look up

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 grandour, 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 re-animate

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 expense, no affection for strangers, no profession,

and no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter."

    "I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and

have every reason to hope I never shall. Thank Heaven! I cannot be

forced into genius and eloquence."

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

    "As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish,

as well as every body else, to be perfectly happy; but, like every

body else, it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

    "Strange that it would!" cried Marianne. "What have wealth or

grandeur to do with happiness?"

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

with it."

    "Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness

where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can

afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

    "Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.

Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and

without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every

kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more

noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?"

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

that."

    Elinor laughed. "Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I

guessed how it would end."

    "And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income," said

Marianne. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am

sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of

servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on

less."

    Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately

their future expenses at Combe Magna.

    "Hunters!" repeated Edward- "but why must you have hunters?

Every body does not hunt."

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

    "I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that

somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

    "Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with

animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary

happiness.

    "We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in

spite of the insufficiency of wealth."

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

should do with it!"

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

    "I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said

Mrs. Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich my help."

    "You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor,

"and your difficulties will soon vanish."

    "What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,"

said Edward, "In such an event! What a happy day for booksellers,

music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Miss Dashwood, would give a

general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you- and as

for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music

enough in London to content her. And books!- Thomson, Cowper, Scott-

she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every

copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she

would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted

tree. Should not you, Marianne? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But

I was willing to 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- 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 one's self 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, then, to bring your sister over to your

plan of general civility," said Edward to Elinor, "Do you gain no

ground?"

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

Marianne.

    "My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the

question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's. I

never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem

negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural 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 up stairs she heard the

parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward

himself come out.

    "I am going into the village to see my horses," said be, "as you

are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

    Edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding

country; in his walk to the village he had seen many parts of the

valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher

situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole,

which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured

Marianne's attention; and she was beginning to describe her own

admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the

objects that had particularly struck him, when Edward interrupted

her by saying, "You must not enquire too far, Marianne; remember I

have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my

ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call

hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth,

which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of

sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of

a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can

honestly give. I call it a very fine country,- the hills are steep,

the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable

and snug,- with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered

here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country,

because it unites beauty with utility- and I dare- say it is a

picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to

be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brushwood, 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 affection,

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 to-morrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we

shall be a large party."

    Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may

raise a dance?" said she. "And that will tempt you, Miss Marianne."

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

    "Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be sure.

What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that

shall be nameless is gone!"

    "I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were

among us again."

    This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And

who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom

he was sitting.

    She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more

communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning

of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him

before; and when their visitors left them he went immediately round

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; lie 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 dispositions and designs. The shortness of

his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated

in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of

temporising with his mother. The old well-established grievance of

duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She

would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease,

this opposition was to yield,- when Mrs. Ferrars would be reformed,

and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes she

was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in

Edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look

or word which fell from him while at Barton, and above all, to that

flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger.

    "I think, Edward," said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast

the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any

profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans

and actions. Some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might

result from it- you would not be able to give them so much of your

time. But (with a smile) you would be materially benefited in one

particular at least- you would know where to go when you left them."

    "I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this

point as you think now. It has been, and is, and probably will

always be, a heavy misfortune to me, that I have had no necessary

business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or

afford me any thing like independence. But unfortunately my own

nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what I am, an idle,

helpless being. We never could agree in our choice of a profession.

I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart

enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal

too smart for me. The law was allowed to be genteel enough: many young

men, who had chambers in the Temple, made a very good appearance in

the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs. But I

had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of

it, which my family approved. As for the navy, it had fashion on its

side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter

it; and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any

profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a

red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the

whole to be 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 everything 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 everything 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 everything was told. Mrs.

Palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and

everybody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an

agreeable surprise.

    "You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs.

Jennings, leaning forward towards Elinor, and speaking in a low voice,

as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on

different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing

they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey

of it, for they came all round by London upon account of some

business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her

daughter) it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at

home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed

so much to see you all?"

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

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

    Lady Middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and

therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Palmer if there was any news in

the paper.

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

    "Here comes Marianne," cried Sir John. "Now, Palmer, you shall see

a monstrous pretty girl."

    He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and

ushered her in himself. Mrs. Jennings asked her, as soon as she

appeared, if she had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Palmer laughed

so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. Mr.

Palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes,

and then returned to his newspaper. Mrs. Palmer's eye was now caught

by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.

    "Oh dear, how beautiful these are! Well, how delightful! Do but

look, mamma, 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 Misses Dashwood entered the drawing room of the Park the

next day, at one door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other,

looking as good humoured and merry as before. She took them all most

affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them

again.

    "I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between

Elinor and Marianne; "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might

not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again

to-morrow. We must go, for the Westons come to us next week, you know.

It was quite a sudden thing our coming at all; and I knew nothing of

it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then Mr. Palmer asked

me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so droll! He never tells me

any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall

meet again in town very soon, I hope."

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

    "Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh; "I shall be

quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in

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 Misses Dashwood 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

everything and everybody 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 dropped in.

    "I am afraid, Miss Marianne," said Sir John, "you have not been

able to take your usual walk to Allenham to-day."

    Marianne looked very grave, and said nothing.

    "Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Palmer; "for we know

all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I

think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in

the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."

    "Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

    "Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house;

but they say it is a sweet, pretty place."

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

    Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance

betrayed her interest in what was said.

    "Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Palmer;- "then it must be some

other place that is so pretty, I suppose."

    When they were seated in the dining-room, Sir John observed with

regret that they were only eight 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

to-day?"

    "Did not I tell you, Sir John, when you spoke to me about it

before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last."

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

upon such ceremony."

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

    "My love you contradict everybody," said his wife with her usual

laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

    "I did not know I contradicted anybody 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 everybody, and his general abuse of everything 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 Misses Dashwood 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 enquiring 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. Some how or other I never happened to be staying at Barton while

he was at Allenham. Mamma 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

enquire 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 mamma 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 mamma 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 mamma 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 relation 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 Misses Dashwood of the Misses Steele's 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 Misses Steele, as he had been already

boasting of the Misses Steele 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 anything, 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 Misses Steele 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 to-day!" said she, on his taking Miss

Steele's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window- "he is

full of monkey tricks."

    And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of

the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William

is!"

    "And here is my sweet little Anna-Maria," 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

Misses Steele, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical

an emergency, which affection could suggest, as likely to assauge

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 Misses Steele, who was on her knees to attend her, and her

mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other. With such a reward for

her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still

screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to

touch her: and all their united soothings were ineffectual, till

Lady Middleton, luckily remembering that in a scene of similar

distress last week some apricot marmalade had been successfully

applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for

this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in

the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would

not be rejected. She was carried out of the room, therefore, in her

mother's arms, in quest of this medicine; and as the two boys chose to

follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the

four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not

known for many hours.

    "Poor little creatures!" said Miss Steele, as soon as they were

gone; "it might have been a very sad accident."

    "Yet I hardly know how," cried Marianne, "unless it had been under

totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of

heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in

reality."

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

    Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did

not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor, therefore,

the whole task of telling lies, when politeness required it, always

fell. She did her best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady

Middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than

Miss Lucy.

    "And Sir John, too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming

man he is!"

    Here, too, Miss Dashwood's commendation, being only simple and

just, came in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was

perfectly good humoured and friendly.

    "And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such

fine children in my life. I declare I quite doat upon them already,

and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

    "I should guess so," said Elinor, with a smile, "from what I

have witnessed this morning."

    "I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons

rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough;

but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and, for my part, I love to

see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they

are tame and quiet."

    "I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park I

never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

    A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by

Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who

now said, rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Miss

Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

    In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at

least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she

was.

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

Steele.

    "We have heard Sir John admire it excessively," said Lucy, who

seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.

    "I think every one must admire it," replied Elinor, "who ever

saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can

estimate its beauties as we do."

    "And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have

not so many in this part of the world. For my part, I think they are a

vast addition always."

    "But why should you think," said Lucy, looking ashamed of her

sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as

Sussex?"

    "Nay, my dear, I'm sure I don't protend to say that there ain'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 Misses 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 Misses Steele 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 Misses Steele. 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 Jack was entirely on the side of the Misses Steele,

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 Misses Steele 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 conjectual; 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 Misses Steele, as she expected, had now all the benefit of

these jokes; and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know

the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often

impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general

inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But Sir John did

not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for

he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as Miss Steele

had in hearing it.

    "His name is Ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but

pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret."

    "Ferrars!" repeated Miss Steele; "Mr. Ferrars is the happy man, is

he? What! your sister-in-law's brother, Miss Dashwood? a very

agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well."

    "How can you say so, Anne?" cried Lucy, who generally made an

amendment to all her sister's assertions. "Though we have seen him

once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to

know him very well."

    Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. "And who was

this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?" She wished

very much to have the subject continued, though she did not choose

to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and, for the

first time in her life she thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in

curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to

communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken of Edward

increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather

ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or

fancying herself to know, something to his disadvantage. But her

curiosity was unavailing; for no farther notice was taken of Mr.

Ferrars's name by Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly

mentioned by Sir John.

                          CHAPTER XXII

    MARIANNE, who had never much toleration for any thing like

impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of

taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from

the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Misses Steele, 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 desirious 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 Misses Dashwood

quite as his own sisters." She paused.

    Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what

she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing

herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness

of manner which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude,-

"May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?"

    "We have been engaged these four years."

    "Four years!"

    "Yes."

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

    "I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till

the other day."

    "Our acquaintance, however, is of many years' date. He was under

my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."

    "Your uncle!"

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

    "I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits,

which increased with her increase of emotion.

    "He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near

Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me

was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was

formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he

was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter

into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation

of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so

prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as

me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible

he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."

    "Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but

after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of

Edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood, "Engaged to

Mr. Edward Ferrars!- I confess myself so totally surprised at what you

tell me, that really- I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some

mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."

    "We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward

Ferrars, the eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother

of your sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood is the person I mean; you

must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the

man on whom 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 sit 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 enquiries 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 the 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 some time 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, but it with us, and seeing me so

much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid it is just the same with him

how; 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 Misses 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 Misses Steele 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 everything 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 intrusted 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

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 Misses Steele. 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 omitted

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 Anna-Maria'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

to-morrow; for though I told her it certainly would not, I am sure she

depends upon having it done."

    Lucy directly drew her work-table near her, and reseated herself

with an alacrity and cheerfulness, which seemed to infer, that she

could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for

a spoilt child.

    Lady Middleton proposed a rubber of Cassino 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

Anna-Maria after all."

    "Oh, that would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Steele. "Dear

little soul, how I do love her!"

    "You are very kind," said Lady Middleton to Elinor; "and as you

really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut

in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"

    Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and

thus, by a little of that address which Marianne could never

condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton

at the same time. Lucy made room for her with ready attention; and the

two fair rivals were thus seated, side by side, at the same table,

and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The

piano-forte at which Marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own

thoughts, had by this time forgotten that anybody 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 apologise, 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

everything 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 everything to you; and he is,

undoubtedly, supported by the same trust in yours. 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 given 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 favorite beaux, I dare say."

    "No sister," cried Lucy, "you are mistaken there- our favorite

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 modest, prettiest

behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly

little creature, there is no finding out who she likes."

    "Oh," cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them, "I

dare say Lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Miss

Dashwood's."

    Elinor blushed in spite of herself. Lucy bit her lip, and looked

angrily at her sister. A mutual silence took place for some time. Lucy

first put an end to it by saying, in a lower tone, though Marianne was

then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent

concerto.

    "I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into

my head for bringing matters to bear; indeed I am bound to let you

into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have

seen enough of Edward to know that he would prefer the church to every

other profession; now my plan is, that he should take orders as soon

as he can; and then, through your interest, which I am sure you

would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope

out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give

him Norland living, which I understand is a very good one, and the

present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be

enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for

the rest."

    "I should always be happy," replied Elinor, "to show any mark of

my esteem and friendship for Mr. Ferrars; but do you not perceive that

my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He

is brother to Mrs. John Dashwood- that must be recommendation enough

to her husband."

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

into orders."

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

    They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy

exclaimed with a deep sigh,

    "I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the

business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with

difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for

a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give

me your advice, Miss Dashwood?"

    "No," answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated

feelings; "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very

well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were

on the side of your wishes."

    "Indeed you wrong me," replied Lucy, with great solemnity; "I know

nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I

do really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'I advise you by

all means to put an end to your engagement with Edward Ferrars, it

will be more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve

upon doing it immediately."

    Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward's future wife, and

replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving

any opinion on the subject, had I formed one. It raises my influence

much too high: the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached

is too much for an indifferent person."

    "'Tis because you are an indifferent person," said Lucy, with some

pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your

judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be

supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your

opinion would not be worth having."

    Elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they

might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and

unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject

again. Another pause, therefore, of many minutes' duration,

succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to end it.

    "Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?" said she,

with all her accustomary complacency.

    "Certainly not."

    "I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes

brightened at the information; "it would have gave me such pleasure to

meet you there! But I dare say you will go for all that. To be sure,

your brother and sister will ask you to come to them."

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

do."

    "How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there.

Ann 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 confidant 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 Misses Steele 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-by, why so much the better."

    "I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Marianne, with

warmth: "your invitation has insured my gratitude forever; 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's 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 forsee, 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 Misses Steele, 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 Misses Steele 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 mantel piece

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 enquiry. 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 headaches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of everything 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

enquiries 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 to-day?"

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

been dining."

    "Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How

does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

    "Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well; and I am commissioned to tell

you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

    "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 enquiries, 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 Misses

Dashwood 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 enquiry 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 enquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged,

her mind was equally abstracted from everything 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 everything pretty,

expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determined 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

enquire; 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 to-night!"

    "At any rate," said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings

from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "I dare say

we shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next

week."

    "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 for 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 ill 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

perserved, 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 Misses Dashwood had no greater reason to be disatisfied with

Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with

her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Every thing in

her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and

excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret,

she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction

could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions.

Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular

than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the

want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties,

which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have

little to amuse her.

    Colonel Brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was

with them almost every day: he came to look at Marianne, and talk to

Elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him

than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw, at the same time,

with much concern, his continued regard for her sister. She feared

it was a strengthening regard. It grieved her to see the earnestness

with which he often watched Marianne; and his spirits were certainly

worse than when at Barton.

    About a week after their arrival, it became certain that

Willoughby was also arrived. His card was on the table when they

came in from the morning's drive.

    "Good God!" cried Marianne, "he has been here while we were

out." Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now

ventured to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again to-morrow." But

Marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and, on Mrs. Jenning's entrance,

escaped with the precious card.

    This event, while it raised the spirits of Elinor, restored to

those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation.

From this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing

him every hour of the day made her unfit for any thing. She insisted

on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

    Elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley

Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister, when

they returned, was enough to inform her that Willoughby had paid no

second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the

table,

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

    "No, ma'am, for my mistress."

    But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.

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

    "You are expecting for letter, then?" said Elinor, unable to be

longer silent.

    "Yes, a little- not much."

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

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

one!"

    "Me!" returned Elinor, in some confusion; "indeed, Marianne, I

have nothing to tell."

    "Nor I," answered Marianne with energy; "our situations then are

alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you

communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

    Elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she

was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances,

to press for greater openness in Marianne.

    Mrs. Jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she

read it aloud. It was from Lady Middleton, announcing their arrival in

Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her

mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir John's part,

and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley

Street. The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of

appointment drew near, necessary as it was, in common civility to Mrs.

Jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, Elinor had

some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen

nothing of Willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for

amusement abroad than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again

in her absence.

    Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not

materially altered by a change of abode; for, although scarcely

settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him nearly

twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an

affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the

country, an unpremediated dance was very allowable; but in London,

where the reputation of elegance was more important, and less easily

obtained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few

girls, to have it know that Lady Middleton had given a small dance, of

eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere sideboard

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 Misses Dashwood, 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.

    "Ay, ay," 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 enquiries 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 enquiring,

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 enquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secresy

intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally

talked of."

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

    "By many- by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom

you are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons.

But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is,

perhaps, rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find

something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me

in to-day, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr.

Willoughby, in your sister's writing. I came to enquire, but I was

convinced before I could ask the question. Is everything 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 stayed, 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 courtesying to the lady

of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take

their share of the heat and inconvenience to which their arrival

must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little or

doing less, Lady Middleton sat down to cassino; and as Marianne was

not in spirits for moving about, she and Elinor luckily succeeding

to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.

    They had not remained in this manner long, before Elinor perceived

Willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest

conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman. She soon

caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to

speak to her, or to approach Marianne, though he could not but see

her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady. Elinor

turned involuntarily to Marianne, to see whether it could be

unobserved by her. At that moment she first perceived him; and her

whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved

towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.

    "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "he is there- he is there! Oh,

why does he not look at me? Why cannot I speak to him?"

    "Pray, pray be composed," cried Elinor, "and do not betray what

you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

    This, however, was more than she could believe herself; and to

be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of

Marianne, it was beyond her wish. She sat in an agony of impatience

which affected every feature.

    At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started

up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand

to him. He approached; and addressing himself rather to Elinor than

Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to

observe her attitude, enquired, in a hurried manner, after Mrs.

Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was

robbed of all persence 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 to-morrow."

    With difficulty, however, could she prevent her from following him

herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at

least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him

with more privacy and more effect, was impossible, for Marianne

continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of

her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. In a short time

Elinor saw Willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase;

and telling Marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of

speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to

be calm. She instantly begged her sister would entreat Lady

Middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute

longer.

    Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being

informed that Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a

moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a

friend, they departed as soon 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

everybody. At breakfast she neither ate nor attempted to eat any

thing; and Elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging

her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in

endeavouring to engage Mrs. Jenning's notice entirely to herself.

    As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Jennings it lasted a

considerable time; and they were just setting themselves after it

round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to

Marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a

death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Elinor, who saw as

plainly by this as if she had seen the direction that it must come

from Willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her

hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour

as made her fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Jenning's notice. That

good lady, however, saw only that Marianne had received a letter

from Willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she

treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it

to her liking. Of Elinor's distress she was too busily employed in

measuring lengths of worsted for her rug to see any thing at all;

and calmly continuing her talk as soon as Marianne disappeared, she

said,-

    "Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in

my life! My girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish

enough; but as for Miss Marianne, she is quite an altered creature.

I hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much

longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.

Pray, when are they to be married?"

    Elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment,

obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore,

trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, ma'am, talked yourself

into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I

thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to

imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive

yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me

more than to hear of their 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 villany.

    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 anything I could

do, which might be of comfort to you."

    This, as everything 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, of what, can do

away such happiness as that?"

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

    "No, no, no," cried Marianne, wildly: "he loves you, and only you.

You can have no grief."

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

    "And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which

nothing can do away."

    "You must not talk so, Marianne. Have you no comforts? no friends?

Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you

suffer now, think of what you would have suffered, if the discovery of

his character had been delayed to a later period:- if your

engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have

been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of

unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more

dreadful."

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

    "No engagement!"

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

faith with me."

    "But he told you that he loved you."

    "Yes- no- never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never

professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never

was."

    "Yet you wrote to him?"

    "Yes; could that be wrong, after all that had passed? But I cannot

talk."

    Elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters

which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran

over the contents of all. The first, which was what her sister had

sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect:-

                                        BERKELEY STREET, January.

    "How surprised you will be, Willoughby, on receiving this; and I

think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I

am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, though with Mrs.

Jennings, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive

this in time to come here to-night, but I will not depend on it. At

any rate I shall expect you to-morrow. For the present, adieu.

                                                       "M.D."

    Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the

dance at the Middletons', was in these words:-

    "I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day

before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any

answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been

expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of

the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason

of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier

another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last

night at Lady Middleton's, where there was a dance. I have been told

that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must

be very much altered, indeed, since we parted, if that could be the

case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I

hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being

otherwise.

                                                       "M.D."

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

    "What am I to imagine, Willoughby, by your behaviour last night?

Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with

the pleasure which our separation naturally produced,- with the

familiarity which our intimacy at Barton appeared to me to justify.

I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in

endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less

than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any

reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear

your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or

purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered

me in your opinion. Tell me what it is; explain the grounds on which

you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you.

It would grieve me, indeed, to be obliged to think ill of you; but

if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have

hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that

your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as

soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful

indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be

case 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 severly 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 convenant 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, mamma, and Edward, may have been so

barbarous to believe 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, 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 mamma. 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 quite 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 Parry and Sandersons luckily

are coming to-night, you know, and that will amuse her."

    She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she

supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

    Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with

them. Elinor even advised her against it. But "no, she would go

down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be

less." Elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a

motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the

dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she

could, while Marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist

her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

    When there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more, and

was calmer than her sister had expected. Had she tried to speak, or

had she been conscious of half Mrs. Jennings's well meant but

ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been

maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction

of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was

passing before her.

    Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings's kindness, though its

effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous,

made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities,

which her sister could not make or return for herself. Their good

friend saw that Marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was

due to her which might make her at all less so. She treated her,

therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a

favorite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have

the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy

in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of

the day. Had not Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen

a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by Mrs.

Jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety

of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the

consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on

Marianne, she could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of

misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got

up and hurried out of the room.

    "Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it

grieves me to see her! And I declare if she is not gone away without

finishing her wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! nothing seems to

do her any good. I am sure if I knew of any thing she would like, I

would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to

me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill! But when there is

plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless

you! they care no more about such things!"

    "The lady, then,- Miss Grey, I think you called her,- is very

rich?"

    "Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see her? a smart,

stylish girl, they say, but not handsome. I remember her aunt very

well, Biddy Henshawe; she married a very wealthy man. But the family

are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! and by all accounts,

it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No

wonder! dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't

signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes

love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to

fly off from his word, only because he grows poor, and a richer girl

is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses,

let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at

once? I warrant you, Miss Marianne would have been ready to wait

till matters came round. But that won't do now a-days; nothing in

the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this

age."

    "Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be

amiable?"

    "I never heard any harm of her; indeed I hardly ever heard her

mentioned; except that Mrs. Taylor did say this morning, that one

day Miss Walker hinted to her, that she believed Mr. and Mrs.

Ellison would not be sorry to have Miss Grey married, for she and Mrs.

Ellison could never agree."

    "And who are the Ellisons?"

    "Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age, and may choose for

herself; and a pretty choice she has made!- What now," after pausing a

moment, "your poor sister is gone to her own room, I suppose, to

moan by herself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort her? Poor

dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone. Well, by-and-by we

shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little. What shall

we play at? She hates whist, I know; but is there no round game she

cares for?"

    "Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Marianne, I

dare say, will not leave her room again this evening. I shall persuade

her, if I can, to go early to bed, for I am sure she wants rest."

    "Ay, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own

supper, and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and

so cast down this last week or two, for this matter, I suppose, has

been hanging over her head as long as that. And so the letter that

came to-day finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of

it, I would not have joked her about it for all my money. But then,

you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being

nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be

laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters

will be when they hear it! If I had 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; ay, that he will. Mind me, now, if they ain't married by

Midsummer. Lord! how he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come

to-night. It will be all to one a better match for your sister. Two

thousand a year, without debt or drawback- except the little

love-child, indeed; ay, 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 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. 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 Parton Park, where they are forced to send three

miles for their meat, and have not a neighbor 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 out, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the

world. Do take it to your sister."

    "Dear ma'am," replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of the

complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have

just left Marianne in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I

think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will

give me leave, I will drink the wine myself."

    Mrs. Jennings, though regretting that she had not been five

minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Elinor, as she

swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a

colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its

healing powers, on a disappointed heart, might be as reasonably

tried on herself as on her sister.

    Colonel Brandon came in while the party were at tea; and by his

manner of looking round the room for Marianne, Elinor immediately

fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and,

in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence.

Mrs. Jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his

entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Elinor

presided, and whispered, "The Colonel looks as grave as ever, you see;

he knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

    He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look

which perfectly assured her of his good information, enquired 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 enquiry,- 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 out-stretched hand, and countence 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 enquiry 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 ensured 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. Hers, 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 once her uncle and guardian.

My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had

hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty,

and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for

she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and

though she had promised me that nothing- but how blindly I relate! I

have never told you how this was brought on. We were within a few

hours of eloping together for Scotland. The treachery, or the folly,

of my cousin's maid betrayed us. I was banished to the house of a

relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no

amusement, till my father's point was gained. I had depended on her

fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one;- but had her

marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have

reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it.

This, however, was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his

pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he

treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young,

so lively, so inexperienced as Mrs. Brandon's, was but too natural.

She resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation;

and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets

which the remembrance of me occasioned. But can we wonder that, with

such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to

advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after

their marriage, and I was with my regiment in the East Indies), she

should fall? Had I remained in England, perhaps,- but I meant to

promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and

for that purpose had procured my exchange. The shock which her

marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation,

"was of trifling weight was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about

two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was that which threw this

gloom,- even now the recollection of what I suffered-"

    He could say no more, and, rising hastily, walked for a few

minutes about the room. Elinor, affected by his relation, and still

more by his distress, could not speak. He saw her concern, and

coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with

grateful respect. A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to

proceed with composure.

    "It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I

returned to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course

to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.

I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every

reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in

a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune,

nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance; and I learnt from my

brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some

months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he

imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had

obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. At last,

however, and after I had been six months in England, I did find her.

Regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into

misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he

was confined for debt; and there, the same house, under a similar

confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered- so faded- worn

down by acute suffering of every kind! hardly could I believe the

melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the

lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. What I

endured in so beholding her- but I have no right to wound your

feelings by attempting to describe it- I have pained you too much

already. That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a

consumption, was- yes, in such a situation, it was my greatest

comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a

better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed

in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her

every day during the rest of her short life: I was with her in her

last moments."

    Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings

in an exclamation of tended 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 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

everybody, 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 or 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 Prandon, 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 not 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 favor 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 advantages; 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 every body she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."

    The rest of Mrs. Palmer's sympathy was shown in procuring all

the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and

communicating them to Elinor. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's

the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby's

portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey's clothes might be

seen.

    The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion

was 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 Misses Dashwood,

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

never prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her

to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that,

instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and

by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good

understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed rather to

declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the

yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and Mrs. Jennings had,

for some time, ceased to think at all of Mr. Ferrars.

    Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of

Willoughby's letter, Elinor had the painful office of informing her

sister that he was married. She had taken care to have the

intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the

ceremony was over, as she was desirous that Marianne should not

receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw

her eagerly examining every morning.

    She received the news with resolute composure; made no observation

on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would

burst out, and for the rest of the day she was in a state hardly

less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.

    The Willoughby's 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 Misses Steele, lately arrived at their

cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, Holburn, presented

themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and

Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

    Elinor only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave

her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to

the overpowering delight of Lucy in finding her still in town.

    "I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here

still," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.

"But I always thought I should. I was almost sure you would not

leave London yet a while; 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, "every body

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. By beau, indeed! said I- I

cannot think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine."

    "Ay, ay, that is very pretty talking- but it won't do- the

Doctor is the man, I see."

    "No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness,

"and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

    Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that

she certainly would not, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.

    "I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss

Dashwood, when they come to town," said Lucy, returning, after a

cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

    "No, I do not think we shall."

    "Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

    Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.

    "What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both

for so long a time together!"

    "Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Jennings. "Why, their visit

is but just begun!"

    Lucy was silenced.

    "I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood," said Miss

Steele. "I am sorry she is not well;" for Marianne had left the room

on their arrival.

    "You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the

pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with

nervous headaches, 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 theirs, she should pay her visit,

and return for them.

    On ascending the stairs, the Misses Dashwood 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 Misses Dashwood, but such

a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off

with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

    Elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the

point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at

her side. She turned her eyes towards his face, and found him, with

some surprise, to be her brother.

    Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make

a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. John Dashwood was

really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave

them satisfaction; and his enquiries after their mother were

respectful and attentive.

    Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.

    "I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but

it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Harry to see the wild

beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with

Mrs. Ferrars. Harry was vastly pleased. This morning I had fully

intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour,

but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come

here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But to-morrow I think I shall

certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to

your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very good

fortune. And the Middletons, too, you must introduce me to them. As my

mother-in-law's relations, I shall be happy to show them every

respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I

understand."

    "Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their

friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express."

    "I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad,

indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune;

they are related to you; and every civility and accommodation that can

serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.

And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage, and

want for nothing! Edward brought us a most charming account of the

place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was,

and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing. It was a great

satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you."

    Elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry

to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs.

Jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited

for them at the door.

    Mr. Dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to Mrs.

Jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of

being able to call on them the next day, took leave.

    His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology

from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much

engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going

any where." Mrs. Jennings, however, assured him directly, that she

should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or

something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. John Dashwood

very soon, and bring her sisters to see her. His manners to them,

though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Jennings, most attentively

civil; and on Colonel Brandon's coming in soon after himself, he

eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted

to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to him.

    After staying with them half an hour, he asked Elinor to walk with

him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir John and Lady

Middleton. The weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented.

As soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began.

    "Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?"

    "Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

    "I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I

think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very

respectable establishment in life."

    "Me, brother! What do you mean?"

    "He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.

What is the amount of his fortune?"

    "I believe about two thousand a year."

    "Two thousand a year!" and then working himself up to a pitch of

enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Elinor, I wish with all my heart

it were twice as much for your sake."

    "Indeed I believe you," replied Elinor; "but I am very sure that

Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me."

    "You are mistaken, Elinor; you are very much mistaken. A very

little trouble on your side secures him. Perhaps just at present he

may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang

back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those

little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give

will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why

you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior

attachment on your side;- in short, you know, as to an attachment of

that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are

insurmountable- you have too much sense not to see all that. Colonel

Brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part

to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that

must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing

that," lowering his voice to an important whisper, "will be

exceedingly welcome to all parties." Recollecting himself, however, he

added, "That is, I mean to say- your friends are all truly anxious

to see you well settled; Fanny particularly, for she has your interest

very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Ferrars,

a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure;

she said as much the other day."

    Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.

    "It would be something remarkable, now," he continued,

"something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister

settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."

    "Is Mr. Edward Ferrars," said Elinor, with resolution, "going to

be married?"

    "It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in

agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Ferrars, with the

utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a

year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Hon. Miss Morton, only

daughter of the late Lord Morton, with thirty thousand pounds. A

very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its

taking place in time. A thousand a year is a great deal for a mother

to give away, to make over for ever; but Mrs. Ferrars has a noble

spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality:- The other

day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very

plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into Fanny's hands to

the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is,

for we must live at a great expense while we are here."

    He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to

say,-

    "Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be

considerable; but your income is a large one."

    "Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean

to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I

hope will in time be better. The 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 fortunate 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, anything of an

illness destroys the bloom for ever! Hers has been a very short one!

She was as handsome a girl last September, as I ever saw,- and as

likely to attract the men. There was something in her style of

beauty to please them particularly. I remember Fanny used to say, that

she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is

exceedingly fond of you, but so it happened to strike her. She will be

mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne, 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 every body 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 sat 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 of 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 seduously 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 Misses

Dashwood 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 Misses Steele 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 Misses

Steele, 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

she 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 Miss

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 Misses Steele, 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 Misses Steele courted its continuance,

without thoroughly despising them all four.

    Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and

Miss Steele wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davis to be perfectly

happy.

    The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and

everything bespoke the mistress's inclination for show, and the

master's ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and

additions which were making to the Norland estate, and in spite of its

owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to

sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which

he had tried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of

conversation, appeared; but there the deficiency was considerable.

John Dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth

hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar

disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of

their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these

disqualifications for being agreeable- want of sense, either natural

or improved- want of elegance- want of spirits- or want of temper.

    When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this

poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the

discourse with some variety- the variety of politics, enclosing

land, and breaking horses- but then it was all over; and one subject

only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative

heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton's second son William,

who were nearly of the same age.

    Had both the children been there, the affair might have been

determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was

present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and everybody

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 hers, 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

anything painted by Miss Dashwood; and on the curiosity of the

others being of course excited, they were handed round for general

inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being Elinor's work,

particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received

gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons's approbation, Fanny presented

them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time,

that they were done by Miss Dashwood.

    "Hum"- said Mrs. Ferrars- "very pretty,"- and without regarding

them at all, returned them to her daughter.

    Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been

quite rude enough; for, colouring a little, she immediately said,-

    "They are very pretty, ma'am- an't they?" But then again the dread

of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came

over her, for she presently added,-

    "Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of

painting, ma'am?- She does paint most delightfully!- How beautifully

her last landscape is done!"

    "Beautifully indeed! But she does everything well."

    Marianne could not bear this. She was already greatly displeased

with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's

expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant

by it, provoked her immediately to say, with warmth,-

    "This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton

to us? who knows, or who cares, for her?- it is Elinor of whom we

think and speak."

    And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's

hands to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

    Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more

stiffly than ever, pronounced, in retort, this bitter philippic, "Miss

Morton is Lord Morton's daughter."

    Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright

at his sister's audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's

warmth than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's

eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only

what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to

see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

    Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of

Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed to her to

foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor as her own wounded

heart taught her to think of with horror; and, urged by a strong

impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to

her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one

cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice,-

    "Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you

unhappy."

    She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome; and hiding

her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears. Everybody's

attention was called, and almost everybody 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

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 Perkeley 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 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 doors 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 secresy 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 enquired

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 to 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 teazing

to Edward!"

    "Why so? We were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest

known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see

her as well as ourselves."

    Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "You know, Elinor, that

this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to

have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case,

you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do

it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances that are not

really wanted."

    She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say

more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she

could give no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as

the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was

obliged to submit to it. All that she could hope was, that Edward

would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing

Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of

the pain that had attended their recent meeting- and this she had

every reason to expect.

                          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 Misses Dashwood, at the particular

request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day, in every day,

in Conduit Street. For their own comfort, they would much rather

have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings's house; but

it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody.

Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Middleton and the two

Misses Steele, 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 monopolise. 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, any

more than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir John dined

from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other

raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on

herself.

    All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally

unsuspected by Mrs. Jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing

for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young

friends every night on having escaped the company of a stupid old

woman so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir John's, 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

out-run truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of

the Misses Dashwood, and understanding them to be Mrs. 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 Misses Dashwood, 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 hers. 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 anything 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 everything, and

asked everything; 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 piano-forte whenever it

suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and

violincello, 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 familiary 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 explained to her himself, in the course of a quarter

of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and

lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed kept him from

mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it

much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a

private education; while he himself, though probably without any

particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the

advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world

as any other man.

    "Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so

I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear

madam,' I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is

now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would

you be persuaded by my uncle, Sir Robert, against your own judgment,

to place Edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of

his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself,

instead of sending him to Mr. Pratt's, all this would have been

prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and

my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

    Elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be

her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she

could not think of Edward's abode in Mr. Pratt's family, with any

satisfaction.

    "You reside in Devonshire, I think," was his next observation, "in

a cottage near Dawlish?"

    Elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather

surprising to him, that anybody could live in Devonshire, without

living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation, however, on

their species of house.

    "For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage;

there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I

protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and

build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might

drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and

be happy. I advise everybody 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; 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 anything else; and a

thought struck him, during the evening, which he communicated to his

wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of

Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had

suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become

such, while Mrs. Jenning's engagements kept her from home. The expense

would be nothing; the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an

attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be

requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his

father. Fanny was startled at the proposal.

    "I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting

Lady Middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I

should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay

them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening

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 Misses Steele

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 Misses Steele 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

Misses Steele immediately; and his conscience was pacified by the

resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time,

however, slily 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 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

everything 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 Misses Steele 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 Misses Dashwood very ready to re-assume their

former share.

    About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled

in Berkley 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. Donovan was

sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from Harley

Street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever he saw the

child, be said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world, but

the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just as he was going

away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I

happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if

there was any news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked

grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a

whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies

under your care as to their sister's indisposition, I think it

advisable to say, that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I

hope Mrs. Dashwood will do very well.'"

    "What! is Fanny ill?"

    "That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I, 'is Mrs.

Dashwood ill?' So then it all came out; and the long and the short

of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward

Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but,

however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never anything

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 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 down upon his

knees, 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 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

everything; 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 feeling or to

represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the

self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of Edward's

engagements 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 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 anything herself.

    The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from

their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the

dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife.

    "You have heard, I suppose," said he, with great solemnity, as

soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place

under our roof yesterday."

    They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for

speech.

    "Your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs.

Ferrars too- in short it has been a scene of such complicated

distress- but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without

our being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics

all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says

there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a

good one, and her resolution equal to anything. She has borne it all

with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of

any body 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, everything 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 any body,

especially any body 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 enquiry."

    "Poor young man! and what is to become of him?"

    "What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to

the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more

deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live

on it? And when to that is added the recollection that he might, but

for his own folly, within three months, have been in the receipt of

two thousand five hundred a year (for Miss Morton has thirty

thousand pounds), I cannot picture to myself a more wretched

condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is

totally out of our power to assist him."

    "Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Jennings, "I am sure he should be

very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him

if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at

his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns."

    Elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward,

though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

    "If he would only have done as well by himself," said John

Dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now

have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for

nothing; but as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist

him. And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must

be worse than all,- his mother has determined, with a very natural

kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon Robert immediately, which

might have been Edward's, on proper conditions. I left her this

morning with her lawyer, talking over the business."

    "Well!" said Mrs. Jennings, "that is her revenge. Every body 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 enquiry 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 any

body 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 theirs. 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 ribands? 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.

    "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, somewhere 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 soever 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

ran 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 you not?"

    "No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make

love when any body else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know

better than that. (Laughing affectedly.) No, no; they were shut up

in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at

the door."

    "How!" cried Elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you

only learnt yourself by listening at the door! I am sorry I did not

know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me

particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known

yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"

    "Oh, la! there is nothing in that. I only stood at the door, and

heard what I could. And I am sure Lucy would have done just the same

by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many

secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or

behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."

    Elinor tried to talk of something else; but Miss Steele could

not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her

mind.

    "Edward talks of going to Oxford, soon," said she; "but now he

is, 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 given 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 directly, 'I wonder how you could think of

such a thing? I write to the Doctor, indeed!'"

    "Well," said Elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the

worst. You have got your answer ready."

    Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the

approach of her own party made another more necessary.

    "Oh, la! here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to

say to you, but I must not stay away from them not any longer. I

assure you they are very genteel people. He makes a monstrous deal

of money, and they keep their own coach. I have not time to speak to

Mrs. Jennings about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to

hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Middleton the same;

and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and

Mrs. Jennings should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to

come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady

Middleton won't ask us any more this bout. Good-by; I am sorry Miss

Marianne was not here. 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 perferment, of which 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, it would be a great kindness, and my

cousins would be proud to know her.- My paper reminds me to

conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully

remembered to her, and to Sir John and Lady Middleton, and the dear

children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,

                                               "I am, &c. &c."

    As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she

concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands

of Mrs. Jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction

and praise.

    "Very well indeed!- how prettily she writes!- ay, 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 MISSES DASHWOOD 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 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; and represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix

the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished

to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other

plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From

Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to

Barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and

their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down;

and as there could be no occasion 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 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

Misses Dashwood," 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 be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more

valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I

believe, did not make more than 200l. per annum; and though it is

certainly capable of improvement, I fear not to such an amount as to

afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my

pleasure in presenting him to it will be very great. Pray assure him

of it."

    Elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been

greater had the Colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.

The preferment, which only two days before she had considered as

hopeless for Edward, was already provided to enable him to marry;

and she, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! Her

emotion was such as Mrs. Jennings had attributed to a very different

cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might

have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general

benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which

together prompted Colonel Brandon to this act, were strongly felt

and warmly expressed. She thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke

of Edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew

them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with

pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office

to another. But, at the same time, she could not help thinking that no

one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office, in short,

from which, unwilling to give Edward the pain of receiving an

obligation from her, she would have been very glad to be spared

herself; but Colonel Brandon, on motives of equal delicacy,

declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given

through her means, that she would not, on any account, make farther

opposition. Edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately

she had heard his address from Miss Steele. She could undertake,

therefore, to inform him of it, in the course of the day. After this

had been settled, Colonel Brandon began to talk of his own advantage

in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and then it

was that he mentioned, with regret, that the house was small and

indifferent; an evil which Elinor, as Mrs. Jennings had supposed her

to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

    "The smallness of the house," said she, "I cannot imagine any

inconvenience to them; for it will be in proportion to their family

and income."

    By which the Colonel was surprised to find that she was

considering Mr. Ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the

presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford

living could supply such an income as 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 unforseen 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 forsee 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 enquiring 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 goodby, 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 band, 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 great 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 inform,

as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair.

    "Mrs. Jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with

me, at least I understood her so,- or I certainly should not have

intruded on you in such a manner; though, at the same time, I should

have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and

your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time- it is not

probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again.

I go to Oxford to-morrow."

    "You would not have gone, however," said Elinor, recovering

herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon

as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not

been able to give them in person. Mrs. Jennings was quite right in

what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which

I was on the point of communicating by paper. I am charged with a most

agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke).

Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me

to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great

pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and

only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on

having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his

wish that the living- it is about two hundred a year- were much more

considerable, and such as might better enable you to- as might be more

than a temporary accommodation to yourself- such, in short, as might

establish all your views of happiness."

    What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be

expected that any one else should say it 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 any thing else, that

she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor appeared.

    "Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up to 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."

    "Ready," 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 to poor Mr. Ferrars,

I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for

him. Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody

that is in orders already."

    "My dear ma'am," said Elinor, "what can you be thinking of? Why,

Colonel Brandon's only object is to be of use to Mr. Ferrars."

    "Lord bless you, my dear! Sure you do not mean to persuade me that

the Colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr.

Ferrars!"

    The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation

immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement

for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either;

for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another,

and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first.

    "Ay, ay, 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 gratefull 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 wordly

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

Berkely 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 tete-a-tete 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 Berkely 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 or 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. Ay, ay, 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 off

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 improverished.

    "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.

    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 hers, 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 bas 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 southeast, could

fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy

that from their summits Combe Magna might be seen.

    In such moments of precious, of invaluable misery, she rejoiced in

tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a

different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of

country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and

luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every

day, while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such

solitary rambles.

    She returned just in time to join the others, as they quitted

the house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and

the rest of the morning was easily whiled away in lounging round the

kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to

the gardener's lamentations upon blights,- in dawdling through the

greenhouse, 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 had

talked of the friends they had left behind; arranged Lady

Middleton's engagements, and wondered whether Mr. Palmer and Colonel

Brandon would get farther than Reading that night. Elinor, however

little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Marianne, who

had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library,

however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured

herself a book.

    Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and

friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.

The openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that

want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in

the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a

face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting,

because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every

thing but her laugh.

    The two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner,

affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome

variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same

continued rain had reduced very low.

    Elinor had seen so little of Mr. Palmer, and in that little had

seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that

she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. She found

him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his

visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she

found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only

prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy

himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself

to be to Mrs. Jennings and Charlotte. For the rest of his character

and habits, they were marked, as far as Elinor could perceive, with no

traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life. He was nice in

his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though

affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards,

which ought to have been devoted to business. She liked him,

however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her

heart was not sorry that she could like him no more; not sorry to be

driven by the observation of his epicurism, his selfishness, and his

conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of Edward's

generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings.

    Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received

intelligence from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire

lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of

Mr. Ferrars, and the kind 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 delighted 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

enquiry 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 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 the infant; and Mr. Palmer, though treating

their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of

his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was

fixed on; and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set

off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near

relation of Mr. Palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of

Bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join

her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with

her mother to accompany her. Mrs. Jennings, however, with a kindness

of heart which made Elinor really love her, declared her resolution of

not stirring from Cleveland as long as Marianne remained ill, and of

endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of

the mother she had taken her from; and Elinor found her, on every

occasion, a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all

her fatigues, and often, by her better experience in nursing, of

material use.

    Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady,

and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that

to-morrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what to-morrow

would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every

ailment 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 emergency.

    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 mamma 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 mamma,

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 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 5 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 fear 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, coming 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 fervant

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 enquiry 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 the moment she heard a carriage driving up to the

house; and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of

the almost impossibility of their being already come, that she moved

into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to

be satisfied of the truth. She instantly saw that her ears had not

deceived her. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in

view. By their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to

be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her

poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected

rapidity.

    Never in her life had Elinor found it so difficult to be calm as

at that moment. The knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as

the carriage stopped at the door- of her doubt- her dread- perhaps her

despair!- and of what she had to tell! with such knowledge it was

impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be

speedy; and, therefore, staying only till she could leave Mrs.

Jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.

    The bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby,

assured her that they were already in the house. She rushed to the

drawing-room: she entered it- and saw only Willoughby.

                          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 enquiry with yet greater

eagerness.

    "For God's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"

    "We hope she is."

    He rose up, and walked across the room.

    "Had I known as much half an hour ago;- but since I am here,"

speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat,- "what

does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood- it will be the last time,

perhaps- let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for

gaiety. Tell me honestly," a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks, "do

you think me most a knave or a fool?"

    Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She

began to think that be 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 overset 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 nunchion 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

than 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

    "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 anything

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?"

    "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?"

    "All!- no:- have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous

letter? Did she show it you?"

    "Yes, I saw every note that passed."

    "When the first of 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

my 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 every body 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 on Mrs.

Jennings. 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 Willoughby was! Marianne, beautiful as an

angel on one side, calling me 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, looking all that was- Well, it does not

signify; it is over now. Such an evening! I ran away from you all as

soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face as

white as death. That was the last, last look I ever had of her; the

last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! yet

when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort

to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who

saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me,

as I travelled, in the same look and hue."

    A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first

rousing himself, broke it thus:-

    "Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly

better, certainly out of danger?"

    "We are assured of it."

    "Your poor mother, too! doting on Marianne."

    "But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter: have you 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 handwriting 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 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 pocketbook, 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 honor, 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-by."

    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 mantel-piece, as if

forgetting he was to go.

    Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied,

wished him well- was even interested in his happiness- and added

some gentle counsel as to the behavior 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-by. 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-by-

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 enquire after her, no voice even for Elinor: but she, waiting

neither for salutation nor enquiry, 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 enquiry, 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 any thing that

Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or

constant, whichever 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 every thing; 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, every body

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 sittingroom, 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.

    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 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 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 or 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, every thing 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 enquiries 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 mamma," 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 prearranging its results, 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

unbiassed 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 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 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

enquiries 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 enquiry, had

intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by

Elinor's countenance, how much she really suffered; and, in a moment

afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on

which child to bestow her principal attention.

    The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had

sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's

assistance, supported her into the other room. By that time,

Marianne was rather better; and her mother, leaving her to the care of

Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much

disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to

be just beginning an enquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his

intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on

herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the

exertion of seeking it.

    "Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?"

    "I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and

his lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the

door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from

Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I

happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly

it was the youngest Miss Steele, so I took off my hat, and she knew me

and called to me, and enquired 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

table-cloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.

Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.

Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost; and Margaret

might think herself very well off that, with so much uneasiness as

both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had

often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to

go without her dinner before.

    When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and

Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a

similarity of 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 of 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 enquiry

which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going

on.

    "I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see than

to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and

should not be surprised to see him walk in to-day, or to-morrow, or

any day."

    This was gaining something,- something to look forward to. Colonel

Brandon must have some information to give.

    Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on

horseback drew her eyes to the window. He stopped at their gate. It

was a gentleman,- it was Colonel Brandon himself. Now she 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.

    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

enquire 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 away, and perhaps saw,

or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into

a reverie, which no remarks, no enquiries, no affectionate address

of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate; and at last, without saying a

word, left 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 learned

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 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 every thing 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 every thing, therefore, I hope, foolish as our

engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way 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 familiarised 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 quite 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 sometime, he believed, half

stupefied between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a

deliverance. He put the letter into Elinor's hands.

      "DEAR SIR,

    "Being very sure I have long lost your affections. I have

thought myself at liberty to bestow my own on another, and have no

doubt of being as happy with him as I once used to think I might be

with you; but I scorn to accept a hand while the heart was

another's. Sincerely wish you happy in your choice, and it shall not

be my fault if we are not always good friends, as our near

relationship now makes proper. I can safely say I owe you no ill-will,

and am sure you will be too generous to do us any ill offices. Your

brother has gained my affections entirely; and as we could not live

without one another, we are just returned from the altar, and are

now on our way to Dawlish for a few weeks; which place your dear

brother has great curiosity to see, but thought I would first

trouble you with these few lines, and shall always remain,

         "Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,

                                "LUCY FERRARS.

    "I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the

first opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls- but the ring with

my hair you are very welcome to keep."

    Elinor read and returned it without any comment.

    "I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said Edward.

"For worlds would not I have had a letter of 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 anything 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 be 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 lover's

first tete-a-tete 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.

Everything 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 brokenhearted, at Oxford. "I do think," she

continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two

days before Lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me. Not a

soul suspected anything of the matter, not even Nancy, who, poor soul!

came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of Mrs.

Ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to Plymouth; for Lucy, it

seems, borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on

purpose, we suppose, to make a show with, and poor Nancy had not seven

shillings in the world; so I was very glad to give her five guineas to

take her down to Exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four

weeks with Mrs. Burgess, in hopes, as I tell her, to fall in with

the Doctor again. And I must say that Lucy's crossness not to take

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."

    Mrs. 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 pentinent 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 any body 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 favor 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 reestablished him completely in her favor.

    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 everything 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: he 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