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<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Sense and Sensibility</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Jane Austen</div>
<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: September, 1994 [eBook #161]<br />
[Most recently updated: March 16, 2021]</div>
<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div>
<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div>
<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Special thanks are due to Sharon Partridge for extensive proofreading and correction of this etext.</div>
<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SENSE AND SENSIBILITY ***</div>

<h1>Sense and Sensibility</h1>

<h2 class="no-break">by Jane Austen</h2>

<h3>(1811)</h3>

<hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap01">CHAPTER I</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap02">CHAPTER II</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap03">CHAPTER III</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap04">CHAPTER IV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap05">CHAPTER V</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap06">CHAPTER VI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap07">CHAPTER VII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap08">CHAPTER VIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap09">CHAPTER IX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap10">CHAPTER X</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap11">CHAPTER XI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap12">CHAPTER XII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap13">CHAPTER XIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap14">CHAPTER XIV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap15">CHAPTER XV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap16">CHAPTER XVI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap17">CHAPTER XVII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap18">CHAPTER XVIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap19">CHAPTER XIX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap20">CHAPTER XX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap21">CHAPTER XXI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap22">CHAPTER XXII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap23">CHAPTER XXIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap24">CHAPTER XXIV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap25">CHAPTER XXV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap26">CHAPTER XXVI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap27">CHAPTER XXVII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap28">CHAPTER XXVIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap29">CHAPTER XXIX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap30">CHAPTER XXX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap31">CHAPTER XXXI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap32">CHAPTER XXXII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap33">CHAPTER XXXIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap34">CHAPTER XXXIV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap35">CHAPTER XXXV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap36">CHAPTER XXXVI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap37">CHAPTER XXXVII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap38">CHAPTER XXXVIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap39">CHAPTER XXXIX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap40">CHAPTER XL</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap41">CHAPTER XLI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap42">CHAPTER XLII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap43">CHAPTER XLIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap44">CHAPTER XLIV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap45">CHAPTER XLV</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap46">CHAPTER XLVI</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap47">CHAPTER XLVII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap48">CHAPTER XLVIII</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap49">CHAPTER XLIX</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#chap50">CHAPTER L</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap01"></a>CHAPTER I.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s fortune was also secured to her
child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;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;&mdash;but to his son, and his son&rsquo;s son, a child of four years
old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of
providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision
by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole
was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his
father and mother at Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle,
by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three
years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way,
many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of
all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her
daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection
for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dashwood&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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:&mdash;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;&mdash;more narrow-minded and
selfish.
</p>

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

<p>
No sooner was his father&rsquo;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&rsquo;s from the moment of his father&rsquo;s decease; but the
indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in Mrs.
Dashwood&rsquo;s situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly
unpleasing;&mdash;but in <i>her</i> mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a
generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or
received, was to her a source of immovable disgust. Mrs. John Dashwood had
never been a favourite with any of her husband&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly
did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter,
she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest
girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender
love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for
their sakes avoid a breach with their brother.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to
Elinor&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she
had already imbibed a good deal of Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap02"></a>CHAPTER II.</h2>

<p>
Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of Norland; and her mother
and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors. As such,
however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with
as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and
their child. He really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland
as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood as
remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the
neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;It was my father&rsquo;s last request to me,&rdquo; replied her husband,
&ldquo;that I should assist his widow and daughters.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, <i>let</i> something be done for them; but <i>that</i>
something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider,&rdquo; she added,
&ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, to be sure,&rdquo; said her husband, very gravely, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure it would.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were
diminished one half.&mdash;Five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase
to their fortunes!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth would do half so much
for his sisters, even if <i>really</i> his sisters! And as it is&mdash;only
half blood!&mdash;But you have such a generous spirit!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I would not wish to do any thing mean,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is no knowing what <i>they</i> may expect,&rdquo; said the lady,
&ldquo;but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you
can afford to do.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;something of the annuity kind I
mean.&mdash;My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A
hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To be sure,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is certainly an unpleasant thing,&rdquo; replied Mr. Dashwood,
&ldquo;to have those kind of yearly drains on one&rsquo;s income. One&rsquo;s
fortune, as your mother justly says, is <i>not</i> one&rsquo;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&rsquo;s independence.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be
no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them occasionally will be of far
greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge
their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be
sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly be much
the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever
being distressed for money, and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise
to my father.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;ll lay my
life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and
unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood, how excessively
comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of
seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the
girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they
will pay their mother for their board out of it. Altogether, they will have
five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for
more than that?&mdash;They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be
nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants;
they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive
how comfortable they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot imagine
how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite
absurd to think of it. They will be much more able to give <i>you</i>
something.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; said Mr. Dashwood, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; returned Mrs. John Dashwood. &ldquo;But, however,
<i>one</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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
<i>they</i> can ever afford to live in. But, however, so it is. Your father
thought only of <i>them</i>. 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 <i>them</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap03"></a>CHAPTER III.</h2>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months; not from any disinclination
to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent
emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive,
and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its
affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and
indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of
Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible. But she could
hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and
suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected
several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have
approved.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the
part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly
reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had
doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters&rsquo; sake with
satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller
provision than 7000£ would support her in affluence. For their brother&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo; continuance at Norland.
</p>

<p>
This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the
brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was
introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister&rsquo;s establishment at
Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there.
</p>

<p>
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 keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of
disposition; and that Elinor&rsquo;s merit should not be acknowledged by every
one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;as&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of
Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is enough,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;to say that he is unlike Fanny is
enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think you will like him,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;when you know more
of him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Like him!&rdquo; replied her mother with a smile. &ldquo;I feel no
sentiment of approbation inferior to love.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You may esteem him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his
heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In a few months, my dear Marianne,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;Elinor will,
in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her; but <i>she</i> will
be happy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! Mama, how shall we do without her?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s heart. But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your
sister&rsquo;s choice?&rdquo;
</p>

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


</p> <p>
&ldquo;He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I
thought so at the time; but you <i>would</i> give him Cowper.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap04"></a>CHAPTER IV.</h2>

<p>
&ldquo;What a pity it is, Elinor,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;that Edward
should have no taste for drawing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No taste for drawing!&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind
of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of
other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion,
could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake,
she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to Edward which produced it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope, Marianne,&rdquo; continued Elinor, &ldquo;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 <i>that</i> were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of
estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes,
as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and
sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; replied Elinor, with a smile, &ldquo;that his dearest
friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of his sense and his goodness,&rdquo; continued Elinor, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s conviction of their attachment
agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one
moment, they believed the next&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not attempt to deny,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that I think very
highly of him&mdash;that I greatly esteem, that I like him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne here burst forth with indignation&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted!
Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room
this moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor could not help laughing. &ldquo;Excuse me,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;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&mdash;the hope of
his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than
this you must <i>not</i> 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&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and
herself had outstripped the truth.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you really are not engaged to him!&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Yet it
certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay.
<i>I</i> shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity
of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so
indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so far
stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would
be!&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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&rsquo;s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo;s resolution that
both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman
who attempted to <i>draw him in;</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post,
which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small
house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of
consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman
himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He
understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now
offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done
to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He
earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to
come with her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses were in
the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He
seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was
written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his
cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and
unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. She needed no time for
deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation
of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a
few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To
quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of
desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her
daughter-in-law&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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
<i>that</i> head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother&rsquo;s
intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described by Sir
John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to
leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was
not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from
the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her
mother from sending a letter of acquiescence.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap05"></a>CHAPTER V.</h2>

<p>
No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood indulged herself in the
pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided
with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were
ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood
said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far
from Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into
Devonshire.&mdash;Edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a
voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated,
&ldquo;Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what
part of it?&rdquo; She explained the situation. It was within four miles
northward of Exeter.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is but a cottage,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.&mdash;The furniture was all sent around by water. It
chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome
pianoforte of Marianne&rsquo;s. Mrs. John Dashwood saw the packages depart with
a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;s income
would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome
article of furniture.
</p>

<p>
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.&mdash;The horses which were left her by her husband had
been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of
her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her
eldest daughter. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her
own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Elinor prevailed.
<i>Her</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to
prepare the house for their mistress&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much
beloved. &ldquo;Dear, dear Norland!&rdquo; said Marianne, as she wandered alone
before the house, on the last evening of their being there; &ldquo;when shall I
cease to regret you!&mdash;when learn to feel a home elsewhere!&mdash;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!&mdash;And you, ye well-known
trees!&mdash;but you will continue the same.&mdash;No leaf will decay because
we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no
longer!&mdash;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!&mdash;But who will remain to enjoy you?&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap06"></a>CHAPTER VI.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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!&mdash;but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the
house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on
their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It
was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the
place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its
favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting
approbation.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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. &ldquo;As for the house itself, to be sure,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves
tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for
improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I
shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such
parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; and I have some
thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the
other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a
new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above,
will make it a very snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome.
But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it would be no difficult
matter to widen them. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in
the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap07"></a>CHAPTER VII.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo;s gratification, the latter for that of his lady. They were
scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they
kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It
was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and
outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of
talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as
society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir John was a sportsman, Lady
Middleton a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and
these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the advantage of being able
to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir John&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him,
and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now
procured for his cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty, and
unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was
all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her
person. The friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating
those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as
unfortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real
satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his
cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he
esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous
of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own
manor.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by Sir John,
who welcomed them to Barton Park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended
them to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the
same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any
smart young men to meet them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there
besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was
neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they would all excuse the smallness
of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had
been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to
their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements.
Luckily Lady Middleton&rsquo;s mother had arrived at Barton within the last
hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies
would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young ladies, as well
as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of
the party, and wished for no more.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to
play. The instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and
Marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the
songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and
which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for
her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her
mother&rsquo;s account, she had played extremely well, and by her own was very
fond of it.
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;s attention could be diverted from music for a
moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular song which Marianne had just
finished. Colonel Brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in
raptures. He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect
for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their
shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that
ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when
contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was
reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have
outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She
was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel&rsquo;s advanced
state of life which humanity required.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap08"></a>CHAPTER VIII.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo; 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
<i>he</i> was rich, and <i>she</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old
bachelor.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But at least, Mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation,
though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is
certainly younger than Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be <i>my</i>
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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Infirmity!&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism? and is not that the
commonest infirmity of declining life?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dearest child,&rdquo; said her mother, laughing, &ldquo;at this rate
you must be in continual terror of <i>my</i> decay; and it must seem to you a
miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s being thirty-five any objection to his marrying
<i>her</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A woman of seven and twenty,&rdquo; said Marianne, after pausing a
moment, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would be impossible, I know,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But he talked of flannel waistcoats,&rdquo; said Marianne; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Soon after this, upon Elinor&rsquo;s leaving the room, &ldquo;Mama,&rdquo; said
Marianne, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Had you any idea of his coming so soon?&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood.
&ldquo;<i>I</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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to her yesterday
of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no
immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for
some time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap09"></a>CHAPTER IX.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Their visitors, except those from Barton Park, were not many; for, in spite of
Sir John&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Is there a felicity in the world,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;superior
to this?&mdash;Margaret, we will walk here at least two hours.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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,&mdash;it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep
side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

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

<p>
His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of
general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Marianne
received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Marianne herself had
seen less of his person than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over
her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him
after their entering the house. But she had seen enough of him to join in all
the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her
praise. His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the
hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so
little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly
recommended the action to her. Every circumstance belonging to him was
interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village,
and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most
becoming. Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain
of a sprained ankle was disregarded.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s accident being
related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name
of Willoughby at Allenham.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Willoughby!&rdquo; cried Sir John; &ldquo;what, is <i>he</i> in the
country? That is good news however; I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to
dinner on Thursday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know him then,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Know him! to be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what sort of a young man is he?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And is <i>that</i> all you can say for him?&rdquo; cried Marianne,
indignantly. &ldquo;But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance?
What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir John was rather puzzled.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my soul,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I do not know much about him as to
all <i>that</i>. But he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the
nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him
today?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But Marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr.
Willoughby&rsquo;s pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his
mind.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But who is he?&rdquo; said Elinor. &ldquo;Where does he come from? Has
he a house at Allenham?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not believe,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood, with a good humoured smile,
&ldquo;that Mr. Willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of
<i>my</i> daughters towards what you call <i>catching him</i>. 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived,&rdquo;
repeated Sir John. &ldquo;I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the
park, he danced from eight o&rsquo;clock till four, without once sitting
down.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did he indeed?&rdquo; cried Marianne with sparkling eyes, &ldquo;and
with elegance, with spirit?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aye, aye, I see how it will be,&rdquo; said Sir John, &ldquo;I see how
it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor
Brandon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is an expression, Sir John,&rdquo; said Marianne, warmly,
&ldquo;which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which
wit is intended; and &lsquo;setting one&rsquo;s cap at a man,&rsquo; or
&lsquo;making a conquest,&rsquo; 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Sir John did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if
he did, and then replied,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap10"></a>CHAPTER X.</h2>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and
her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called
a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her
skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly
brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and
in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness,
which could hardly be seen without delight. From Willoughby their expression
was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his
assistance created. But when this passed away, when her spirits became
collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he
united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that
of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of
approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the
rest of his stay.
</p>

<p>
It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk.
She could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither
shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their
enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general
conformity of judgment in all that related to either. Encouraged by this to a
further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the
subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon
with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have
been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of
such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The
same books, the same passages were idolized by each&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Marianne,&rdquo; said Elinor, as soon as he had left them,
&ldquo;for <i>one</i> morning I think you have done pretty well. You have
already ascertained Mr. Willoughby&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Elinor,&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My love,&rdquo; said her mother, &ldquo;you must not be offended with
Elinor&mdash;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.&rdquo; Marianne was softened in a moment.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s heart, for with all
this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind
which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which
recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
In Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;s estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;That is exactly what I think of him,&rdquo; cried Marianne.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do not boast of it, however,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That he is patronised by <i>you</i>,&rdquo; replied Willoughby,
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In defence of your <i>protégé</i> you can even be saucy.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;That is to say,&rdquo; cried Marianne contemptuously, &ldquo;he has told
you, that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are
troublesome.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He <i>would</i> have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such
inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previously
informed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; said Willoughby, &ldquo;his observations may have
extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I may venture to say that <i>his</i> observations have stretched much
further than <i>your</i> candour. But why should you dislike him?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Add to which,&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;that he has neither genius,
taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no
ardour, and his voice no expression.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass,&rdquo; replied
Elinor, &ldquo;and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the
commendation <i>I</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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Miss Dashwood,&rdquo; cried Willoughby, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap11"></a>CHAPTER XI.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have
known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr.
Jennings&rsquo;s last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes
before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being
more silent. Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was
a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her
husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore
neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she
had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her
spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties
arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and her
two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment
from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, and a far less
agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon,
unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne,
and in conversing with Elinor he found the greatest consolation for the
indifference of her sister.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that
the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion
was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the
park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others
were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and, after a silence of some
minutes, he said, with a faint smile, &ldquo;Your sister, I understand, does
not approve of second attachments.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;her opinions are all romantic.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This will probably be the case,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot agree with you there,&rdquo; said Elinor. &ldquo;There are
inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s being pardonable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;cannot hold; but a change, a total change
of sentiments&mdash;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&mdash;from a series of unfortunate circumstances&mdash;&rdquo; 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&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap12"></a>CHAPTER XII.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for
it,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend
all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused
to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle;
Mama she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for
<i>him;</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are mistaken, Elinor,&rdquo; said she warmly, &ldquo;in supposing I
know very little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world,
except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine
intimacy;&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
sister&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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,&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Elinor!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I have such a secret to tell you
about Marianne. I am sure she will be married to Mr. Willoughby very
soon.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Take care, Margaret. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of
<i>his</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Margaret&rsquo;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&rsquo;s particular favourite, which
had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Margaret answered by looking
at her sister, and saying, &ldquo;I must not tell, may I, Elinor?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to
repeat them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never had any conjectures about it,&rdquo; replied Margaret; &ldquo;it
was you who told me of it yourself.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! pray, Miss Margaret, let us know all about it,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Jennings. &ldquo;What is the gentleman&rsquo;s name?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I must not tell, ma&rsquo;am. But I know very well what it is; and I
know where he is too.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, <i>that</i> he is not. He is of no profession at all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Margaret,&rdquo; said Marianne with great warmth, &ldquo;you know that
all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in
existence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, he is lately dead, Marianne, for I am sure there was such a
man once, and his name begins with an F.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment,
&ldquo;that it rained very hard,&rdquo; though she believed the interruption to
proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
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;&mdash;and Mrs. Dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by
Elinor to stay at home.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap13"></a>CHAPTER XIII.</h2>

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

<p>
By ten o&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there
was one for Colonel Brandon;&mdash;he took it, looked at the direction, changed
colour, and immediately left the room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What is the matter with Brandon?&rdquo; said Sir John.
</p>

<p>
Nobody could tell.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope he has had no bad news,&rdquo; said Lady Middleton. &ldquo;It
must be something extraordinary that could make Colonel Brandon leave my
breakfast table so suddenly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
In about five minutes he returned.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No bad news, Colonel, I hope;&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, as soon as he
entered the room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;None at all, ma&rsquo;am, I thank you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is
worse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of
business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter
of business? Come, come, this won&rsquo;t do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth
of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear madam,&rdquo; said Lady Middleton, &ldquo;recollect what you are
saying.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?&rdquo; said
Mrs. Jennings, without attending to her daughter&rsquo;s reproof.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, indeed, it is not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is
well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Whom do you mean, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; said he, colouring a little.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! you know who I mean.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am particularly sorry, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said he, addressing Lady
Middleton, &ldquo;that I should receive this letter today, for it is on
business which requires my immediate attendance in town.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In town!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings. &ldquo;What can you have to do in
town at this time of year?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My own loss is great,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
What a blow upon them all was this!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon,&rdquo; said
Marianne, eagerly, &ldquo;will it not be sufficient?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He shook his head.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We must go,&rdquo; said Sir John.&mdash;&ldquo;It shall not be put off
when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Brandon, that is
all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay
my journey for one day!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If you would but let us know what your business is,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Jennings, &ldquo;we might see whether it could be put off or not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You would not be six hours later,&rdquo; said Willoughby, &ldquo;if you
were to defer your journey till our return.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot afford to lose <i>one</i> hour.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have no doubt of it,&rdquo; replied Marianne.
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;Well, then, when will you come back again?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope we shall see you at Barton,&rdquo; added her ladyship, &ldquo;as
soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to
Whitwell till you return.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! he must and shall come back,&rdquo; cried Sir John. &ldquo;If he is
not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ay, so do, Sir John,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;and then perhaps
you may find out what his business is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not want to pry into other men&rsquo;s concerns. I suppose it is
something he is ashamed of.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Colonel Brandon&rsquo;s horses were announced.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You do not go to town on horseback, do you?&rdquo; added Sir John.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had
better change your mind.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I assure you it is not in my power.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He then took leave of the whole party.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this
winter, Miss Dashwood?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid, none at all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to
do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Come Colonel,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;before you go, do let us
know what you are going about.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can guess what his business is, however,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings
exultingly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can you, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; said almost every body.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; it is about Miss Williams, I am sure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And who is Miss Williams?&rdquo; asked Marianne.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s, my dear; a very
near relation. We will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young
ladies.&rdquo; Then, lowering her voice a little, she said to Elinor,
&ldquo;She is his natural daughter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare. I dare say the Colonel will
leave her all his fortune.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
Marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, &ldquo;Where, pray?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did not you know,&rdquo; said Willoughby, &ldquo;that we had been out in
my curricle?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to
find out <i>where</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, Marianne, but I would not go while Mrs. Smith was there, and with
no other companion than Mr. Willoughby.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;that the pleasantness of an
employment does not always evince its propriety.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s grounds, or in
seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby&rsquo;s,
and&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If they were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be
justified in what you have done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after
a ten minutes&rsquo; interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again,
and said with great good humour, &ldquo;Perhaps, Elinor, it <i>was</i> 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.&mdash;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,&mdash;but if it were newly fitted
up&mdash;a couple of hundred pounds, Willoughby says, would make it one of the
pleasantest summer-rooms in England.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Could Elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she
would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap14"></a>CHAPTER XIV.</h2>

<p>
The sudden termination of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure,&rdquo; said
she. &ldquo;I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances
may be bad. The estate at Delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a
year, and his brother left everything sadly involved. I do think he must have
been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it
is so. I would give anything to know the truth of it. Perhaps it is about Miss
Williams and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when
I mentioned her. May be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely,
for I have a notion she is always rather sickly. I would lay any wager it is
about Miss Williams. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his
circumstances <i>now</i>, 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
So wondered, so talked Mrs. Jennings. Her opinion varying with every fresh
conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Elinor, though she
felt really interested in the welfare of Colonel Brandon, could not bestow all
the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which Mrs. Jennings was desirous of
her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify
such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise
disposed of. It was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and
Willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to
them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and
more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly
acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each
other declared to have taken place, Elinor could not imagine.
</p>

<p>
She could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their
power; for though Willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe
him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir John at about six or seven hundred a
year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal,
and he had himself often complained of his poverty. But for this strange kind
of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact
concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly
contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes
entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to
prevent her making any inquiry of Marianne.
</p>

<p>
Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than
Willoughby&rsquo;s behaviour. To Marianne it had all the distinguishing
tenderness which a lover&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What!&rdquo; he exclaimed&mdash;&ldquo;Improve this dear cottage! No.
<i>That</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do not be alarmed,&rdquo; said Miss Dashwood, &ldquo;nothing of the kind
will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am heartily glad of it,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;May she always be
poor, if she can employ her riches no better.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;I am,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose,&rdquo;
said Elinor.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;I flatter myself,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;How often did I wish,&rdquo; added he, &ldquo;when I was at Allenham
this time twelvemonth, that Barton cottage were inhabited! I never passed
within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one
should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I
should hear from Mrs. Smith, when I next came into the country, would be that
Barton cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in
the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should
experience from it, can account for. Must it not have been so, Marianne?&rdquo;
speaking to her in a lowered voice. Then continuing his former tone, he said,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be
attempted.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are a good woman,&rdquo; he warmly replied. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The promise was readily given, and Willoughby&rsquo;s behaviour during the
whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood, when he
was leaving them. &ldquo;I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must
walk to the park, to call on Lady Middleton.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He engaged to be with them by four o&rsquo;clock.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap15"></a>CHAPTER XV.</h2>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;s visit to Lady Middleton took place the next day, and two
of her daughters went with her; but Marianne excused herself from being of the
party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded
that a promise had been made by Willoughby the night before of calling on her
while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
</p>

<p>
On their return from the park they found Willoughby&rsquo;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 over-powered Marianne.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is anything the matter with her?&rdquo; cried Mrs. Dashwood as she
entered&mdash;&ldquo;is she ill?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope not,&rdquo; he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a
forced smile presently added, &ldquo;It is I who may rather expect to be
ill&mdash;for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Disappointment?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;To London!&mdash;and are you going this morning?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Almost this moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is very unfortunate. But Mrs. Smith must be obliged;&mdash;and her
business will not detain you from us long I hope.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He coloured as he replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied,
&ldquo;You are too good.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood looked at Elinor with surprise. Elinor felt equal amazement. For
a few moments every one was silent. Mrs. Dashwood first spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>that</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My engagements at present,&rdquo; replied Willoughby, confusedly,
&ldquo;are of such a nature&mdash;that&mdash;I dare not flatter
myself&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He stopped. Mrs. Dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause
succeeded. This was broken by Willoughby, who said with a faint smile,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s uneasiness was at least equal to her mother&rsquo;s. She thought
of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Willoughby&rsquo;s behaviour
in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness,
and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother&rsquo;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;s love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
</p>

<p>
But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
In about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her
countenance was not uncheerful.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Our dear Willoughby is now some miles from Barton, Elinor,&rdquo; said
she, as she sat down to work, &ldquo;and with how heavy a heart does he
travel?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;Gone too without intending to
return!&mdash;Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He
did not speak, he did not behave like himself. <i>You</i> 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see
<i>that</i>. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over I
assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed
strange to me as well as to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can you, indeed!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory
way;&mdash;but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can&mdash;it will not
satisfy <i>you</i>, I know; but you shall not talk <i>me</i> 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;&mdash;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 <i>does</i>
disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his
engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent
situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a
while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may <i>not</i> 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil
upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and
guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to
think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his
usual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or
for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be
accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man
whom we have all 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&mdash;I am happy&mdash;and he is acquitted.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they
<i>are</i> engaged) from Mrs. Smith&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I want no proof of their affection,&rdquo; said Elinor; &ldquo;but of
their engagement I do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am perfectly satisfied of both.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of
them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months,
without telling her of his affection;&mdash;that they should part without a
mutual exchange of confidence?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I confess,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;that every circumstance except
<i>one</i> is in favour of their engagement; but that <i>one</i> is the total
silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every
other.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I cannot think that. He must and does love her I am sure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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>I</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&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I hope not, I believe not,&rdquo; cried Elinor. &ldquo;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;&mdash;he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness
with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his
affairs as you have supposed. He had just parted from my sister, had seen her
leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of
offending Mrs. Smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet
aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for
some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our
family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and
open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour I think, as
well as more consistent with his general character;&mdash;but I will not raise
objections against any one&rsquo;s conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a
difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right
and consistent.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You speak very properly. Willoughby certainly does not deserve to be
suspected. Though <i>we</i> have not known him long, he is no stranger in this
part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in
a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd
that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but
this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously
begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even
secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s silently pressing her hand with tender
compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into
tears and left the room.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap16"></a>CHAPTER XVI.</h2>

<p>
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!
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why do you not ask Marianne at once,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
It was several days before Willoughby&rsquo;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;&mdash;but one
evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare,
exclaimed,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>that</i> happens.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Months!&rdquo; cried Marianne, with strong surprise. &ldquo;No&mdash;nor
many weeks.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s <i>mind</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is he; it is indeed;&mdash;I know it is!&rdquo;&mdash;and was
hastening to meet him, when Elinor cried out,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken. It is not Willoughby. The
person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He has, he has,&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;I am sure he has. His air,
his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s,
joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see
and welcome Edward Ferrars.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>him</i>, and in her sister&rsquo;s
happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
</p>

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

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A fortnight!&rdquo; she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the
same county with Elinor without seeing her before.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Have you been lately in Sussex?&rdquo; said Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was at Norland about a month ago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And how does dear, dear Norland look?&rdquo; cried Marianne.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear, dear Norland,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;probably looks much as it
always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with
dead leaves.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is not every one,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;who has your passion for
dead leaves.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;It is a beautiful country,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;but these bottoms
must be dirty in winter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Because,&rdquo; replied he, smiling, &ldquo;among the rest of the
objects before me, I see a very dirty lane.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How strange!&rdquo; said Marianne to herself as she walked on.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Middletons pleasant
people?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, not all,&rdquo; answered Marianne; &ldquo;we could not be more
unfortunately situated.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Marianne,&rdquo; cried her sister, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Marianne, in a low voice, &ldquo;nor how many painful
moments.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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, &amp;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap17"></a>CHAPTER XVII.</h2>

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

<p>
&ldquo;What are Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo;s views for you at present, Edward?&rdquo;
said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; &ldquo;are
you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Strange that it would!&rdquo; cried Marianne. &ldquo;What have wealth or
grandeur to do with happiness?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Grandeur has but little,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;but wealth has much
to do with it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Elinor, for shame!&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; said Elinor, smiling, &ldquo;we may come to the same
point. <i>Your</i> competence and <i>my</i> 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than
<i>that</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor laughed. &ldquo;<i>two</i> thousand a year! <i>one</i> is my wealth! I
guessed how it would end.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income,&rdquo; said
Marianne. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Hunters!&rdquo; repeated Edward&mdash;&ldquo;but why must you have
hunters? Every body does not hunt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne coloured as she replied, &ldquo;But most people do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish,&rdquo; said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, &ldquo;that
somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh that they would!&rdquo; cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose,&rdquo; said Elinor,
&ldquo;in spite of the insufficiency of wealth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh dear!&rdquo; cried Margaret, &ldquo;how happy I should be! I wonder
what I should do with it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Dashwood, &ldquo;if my children were all to be rich without my help.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You must begin your improvements on this house,&rdquo; observed Elinor,
&ldquo;and your difficulties will soon vanish.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London,&rdquo;
said Edward, &ldquo;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&mdash;and as for
Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in
London to content her. And books!&mdash;Thomson, Cowper, Scott&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I love to be reminded of the past, Edward&mdash;whether it be melancholy
or gay, I love to recall it&mdash;and you will never offend me by talking of
former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent&mdash;some of it, at least&mdash;my loose cash would certainly be
employed in improving my collection of music and books.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;your opinion on that point is unchanged, I
presume?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,&rdquo; said Elinor,
&ldquo;she is not at all altered.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She is only grown a little more grave than she was.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nay, Edward,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;<i>you</i> need not reproach
me. You are not very gay yourself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why should you think so!&rdquo; replied he, with a sigh. &ldquo;But
gaiety never was a part of <i>my</i> character.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nor do I think it a part of Marianne&rsquo;s,&rdquo; said Elinor;
&ldquo;I should hardly call her a lively girl&mdash;she is very earnest, very
eager in all she does&mdash;sometimes talks a great deal and always with
animation&mdash;but she is not often really merry.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I believe you are right,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;and yet I have always
set her down as a lively girl.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;But I thought it was right, Elinor,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general
civility,&rdquo; said Edward to Elinor, &ldquo;Do you gain no ground?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Quite the contrary,&rdquo; replied Elinor, looking expressively at
Marianne.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My judgment,&rdquo; he returned, &ldquo;is all on your side of the
question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your sister&rsquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers,&rdquo; said
Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She knows her own worth too well for false shame,&rdquo; replied Edward.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But you would still be reserved,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;and that
is worse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Edward started&mdash;&ldquo;Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, very.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not understand you,&rdquo; replied he, colouring.
&ldquo;Reserved!&mdash;how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you
suppose?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject,
she said to him, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Edward made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their
fullest extent&mdash;and he sat for some time silent and dull.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap18"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
He joined her and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the
others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness
as far as she could, soon left them to themselves. But before she was half way
upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to
see Edward himself come out.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am going into the village to see my horses,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;as
you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.&rdquo;
</p>

<hr />

<p>
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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;You must not enquire too far, Marianne&mdash;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&mdash;the hills are steep,
the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and
snug&mdash;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&mdash;and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you
admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey
moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the
picturesque.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid it is but too true,&rdquo; said Marianne; &ldquo;but why
should you boast of it?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;It is very true,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am convinced,&rdquo; said Edward, &ldquo;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&mdash;and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than
the finest banditti in the world.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne looked with amazement at Edward, with compassion at her sister. Elinor
only laughed.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Is
that Fanny&rsquo;s hair? I remember her promising to give you some. But I
should have thought her hair had been darker.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt&mdash;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, &ldquo;Yes; it is my sister&rsquo;s hair. The setting always
casts a different shade on it, you know.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Edward&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
instructions, extended.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You <i>must</i> drink tea with us to night,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;for
we shall be quite alone&mdash;and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us,
for we shall be a large party.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Jennings enforced the necessity. &ldquo;And who knows but you may raise a
dance,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;And that will tempt <i>you</i>, Miss
Marianne.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A dance!&rdquo; cried Marianne. &ldquo;Impossible! Who is to
dance?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who! why yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers to be
sure.&mdash;What! you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that
shall be nameless is gone!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish with all my soul,&rdquo; cried Sir John, &ldquo;that Willoughby
were among us again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This, and Marianne&rsquo;s blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. &ldquo;And
who is Willoughby?&rdquo; said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he
was sitting.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Shall I tell you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well then; I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at the
quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment&rsquo;s silence, said,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Edward! How can you?&mdash;But the time will come I hope...I am sure
you will like him.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not doubt it,&rdquo; 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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap19"></a>CHAPTER XIX.</h2>

<p>
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&mdash;he grew more and more partial to the house
and environs&mdash;never spoke of going away without a sigh&mdash;declared his
time to be wholly disengaged&mdash;even doubted to what place he should go when
he left them&mdash;but still, go he must. Never had any week passed so
quickly&mdash;he could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly;
other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the
lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Norland; he detested being in town;
but either to Norland or London, he must go. He valued their kindness beyond
any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must
leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and
without any restraint on his time.
</p>

<p>
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his
mother&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
disposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his
purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same
inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old well-established
grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. She
would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this
opposition was to yield,&mdash;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think, Edward,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood, as they were at breakfast
the last morning, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;you would know where to
go when you left them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do assure you,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood,
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They will be brought up,&rdquo; said he, in a serious accent, &ldquo;to
be as unlike myself as is possible. In feeling, in action, in condition, in
every thing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think,&rdquo; replied Edward, &ldquo;that I may defy many months to
produce any good to me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;with strong affections it was
impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That her sister&rsquo;s
affections <i>were</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state
of her spirits at different times could produce,&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
From a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused
one morning, soon after Edward&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we have brought you some strangers. How do
you like them?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hush! they will hear you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Where is Marianne? Has she run away because we are come? I see her
instrument is open.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She is walking, I believe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were now joined by Mrs. Jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till
the door was opened before she told <i>her</i> story. She came hallooing to the
window, &ldquo;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&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, but they were much more
prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit,
except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. Her husband was a grave
looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and
sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He
entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies,
without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their
apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as
long as he staid.
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Palmer does not hear me,&rdquo; said she, laughing; &ldquo;he never
does sometimes. It is so ridiculous!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;You may believe how glad we all were to see them,&rdquo; 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; &ldquo;but, however, I can&rsquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She expects to be confined in February,&rdquo; continued Mrs. Jennings.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, none at all,&rdquo; he replied, and read on.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Here comes Marianne,&rdquo; cried Sir John. &ldquo;Now, Palmer, you
shall see a monstrous pretty girl.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s eye was
now caught by the drawings which hung round the room. She got up to examine
them.
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;My love, have you been asleep?&rdquo; said his wife, laughing.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Sir John had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park.
Mrs. Dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at
the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as
they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Palmer ate
their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They
attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was
uncertain, and not likely to be good. But Sir John would not be
satisfied&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why should they ask us?&rdquo; said Marianne, as soon as they were gone.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now,&rdquo; said Elinor,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap20"></a>CHAPTER XX.</h2>

<p>
As the Miss Dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one
door, Mrs. Palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and
merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and
expressed great delight in seeing them again.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am so glad to see you!&rdquo; said she, seating herself between Elinor
and Marianne, &ldquo;for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come,
which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. We must go, for
the Westons come to us next week you know. It was quite a sudden thing our
coming at all, and I knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the
door, and then Mr. Palmer asked me if I would go with him to Barton. He is so
droll! He never tells me any thing! I am so sorry we cannot stay longer;
however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not go to town!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Palmer, with a laugh, &ldquo;I shall
be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, my love,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Palmer to her husband, who just then
entered the room&mdash;&ldquo;you must help me to persuade the Miss Dashwoods
to go to town this winter.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;How horrid all this is!&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Such weather makes every
thing and every body disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as
without, by rain. It makes one detest all one&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The rest of the company soon dropt in.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid, Miss Marianne,&rdquo; said Sir John, &ldquo;you have not
been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t be so sly before us,&rdquo; said Mrs. Palmer; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Much nearer thirty,&rdquo; said her husband.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah, well! there is not much difference. I never was at his house; but
they say it is a sweet pretty place.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life,&rdquo; said Mr. Palmer.
</p>

<p>
Marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her
interest in what was said.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is it very ugly?&rdquo; continued Mrs. Palmer&mdash;&ldquo;then it must
be some other place that is so pretty I suppose.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said he to his lady, &ldquo;it is very provoking that we
should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You and I, Sir John,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;should not stand
upon such ceremony.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then you would be very ill-bred,&rdquo; cried Mr. Palmer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My love you contradict every body,&rdquo; said his wife with her usual
laugh. &ldquo;Do you know that you are quite rude?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I did not know I contradicted any body in calling your mother
ill-bred.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ay, you may abuse me as you please,&rdquo; said the good-natured old
lady, &ldquo;you have taken Charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back
again. So there I have the whip hand of you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Palmer is so droll!&rdquo; said she, in a whisper, to Elinor.
&ldquo;He is always out of humour.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;but she knew that this kind of
blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.
It was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his
contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing
before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive
was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by
establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one
to him except his wife.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, my dear Miss Dashwood,&rdquo; said Mrs. Palmer soon afterwards,
&ldquo;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,&mdash;and come
while the Westons are with us. You cannot think how happy I shall be! It will
be quite delightful!&mdash;My love,&rdquo; applying to her husband,
&ldquo;don&rsquo;t you long to have the Miss Dashwoods come to
Cleveland?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; he replied, with a sneer&mdash;&ldquo;I came into
Devonshire with no other view.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There now,&rdquo;&mdash;said his lady, &ldquo;you see Mr. Palmer expects
you; so you cannot refuse to come.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;How charming it will be,&rdquo; said Charlotte, &ldquo;when he is in
Parliament!&mdash;won&rsquo;t it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous
to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.&mdash;But do you know, he
says, he will never frank for me? He declares he won&rsquo;t. Don&rsquo;t you,
Mr. Palmer?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Palmer took no notice of her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He cannot bear writing, you know,&rdquo; she continued&mdash;&ldquo;he
says it is quite shocking.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I never said any thing so irrational.
Don&rsquo;t palm all your abuses of language upon me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There now; you see how droll he is. This is always the way with him!
Sometimes he won&rsquo;t speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes
out with something so droll&mdash;all about any thing in the world.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; said Elinor; &ldquo;he seems very agreeable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well&mdash;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&rsquo;t think how disappointed he will be if you don&rsquo;t come
to Cleveland.&mdash;I can&rsquo;t imagine why you should object to it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s general character, than could be
gathered from the Middletons&rsquo; partial acquaintance with him; and she was
eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove
the possibility of fear from Marianne. She began by inquiring if they saw much
of Mr. Willoughby at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted
with him.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;you know much more of the
matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear Mrs. Palmer!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my honour I did.&mdash;I met Colonel Brandon Monday morning in
Bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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,
&lsquo;So, Colonel, there is a new family come to Barton cottage, I hear, and
mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be
married to Mr. Willoughby of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? for of course you
must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what did the Colonel say?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Brandon was very well I hope?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say
fine things of you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I
think him uncommonly pleasing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be
so grave and so dull. Mama says <i>he</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is Mr. Willoughby much known in your part of Somersetshire?&rdquo; said
Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Palmer&rsquo;s information respecting Willoughby was not very material;
but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am so glad we are got acquainted at last,&rdquo; continued
Charlotte.&mdash;&ldquo;And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You
can&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have been long acquainted with Colonel Brandon, have not you?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Did not Colonel Brandon know of Sir John&rsquo;s proposal to your mother
before it was made? Had he never owned his affection to yourself?&rdquo;
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap21"></a>CHAPTER XXI.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo;s being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Palmer&rsquo;s acting
so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often
existed between husband and wife, before Sir John&rsquo;s and Mrs.
Jennings&rsquo;s active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other
new acquaintance to see and observe.
</p>

<p>
In a morning&rsquo;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,&mdash;whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no
proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for
nothing at all. Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and
Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s confidence in his own judgment rose
with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the
Miss Dashwoods of the Miss Steeles&rsquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do come now,&rdquo; said he&mdash;&ldquo;pray come&mdash;you must
come&mdash;I declare you shall come&mdash;You can&rsquo;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. <i>You</i> are my cousins, and they are my wife&rsquo;s, so
you must be related.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But Sir John could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling
at the Park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their
indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the Miss
Steeles, as he had been already boasting of the Miss Steeles to them.
</p>

<p>
When their promised visit to the Park and consequent introduction to these
young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was
nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire;
but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they
acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp
quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance
or grace, gave distinction to her person. Their manners were particularly
civil, and Elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw
with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves
agreeable to Lady Middleton. With her children they were in continual raptures,
extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and
such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this
politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was
doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some
elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into
unceasing delight. Fortunately for those who pay their court through such
foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most
rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are
exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and
endurance of the Miss Steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by
Lady Middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal
complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which
her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about
their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen
away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no
other surprise than that Elinor and Marianne should sit so composedly by,
without claiming a share in what was passing.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;John is in such spirits today!&rdquo; said she, on his taking Miss
Steeles&rsquo;s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of
window&mdash;&ldquo;He is full of monkey tricks.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And soon afterwards, on the second boy&rsquo;s violently pinching one of the
same lady&rsquo;s fingers, she fondly observed, &ldquo;How playful William
is!&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;Poor little creatures!&rdquo; said Miss Steele, as soon as they were
gone. &ldquo;It might have been a very sad accident.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yet I hardly know how,&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a sweet woman Lady Middleton is!&rdquo; said Lucy Steele.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And Sir John too,&rdquo; cried the elder sister, &ldquo;what a charming
man he is!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here too, Miss Dashwood&rsquo;s commendation, being only simple and just, came
in without any eclat. She merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured
and friendly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine
children in my life.&mdash;I declare I quite doat upon them already, and indeed
I am always distractedly fond of children.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should guess so,&rdquo; said Elinor, with a smile, &ldquo;from what I
have witnessed this morning.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have a notion,&rdquo; said Lucy, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I confess,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;that while I am at Barton Park,
I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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,
&ldquo;And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very
sorry to leave Sussex.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?&rdquo; added Miss
Steele.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,&rdquo; said Lucy, who
seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think every one <i>must</i> admire it,&rdquo; replied Elinor,
&ldquo;who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can
estimate its beauties as we do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But why should you think,&rdquo; said Lucy, looking ashamed of her
sister, &ldquo;that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as
Sussex?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nay, my dear, I&rsquo;m sure I don&rsquo;t pretend to say that there
an&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;m sure there&rsquo;s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but
you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I
was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had
not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care
about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I
think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil.
But I can&rsquo;t bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men&rsquo;s being beaux&mdash;they
have something else to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lord! Anne,&rdquo; cried her sister, &ldquo;you can talk of nothing but
beaux;&mdash;you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing
else.&rdquo; And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and
the furniture.
</p>

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

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

<p>
To do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve,
by making the Miss Steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his
cousins&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau
since she came to Barton.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&rsquo;Twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be
sure,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious
handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon,&mdash;but perhaps
you may have a friend in the corner already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor could not suppose that Sir John would be more nice in proclaiming his
suspicions of her regard for Edward, than he had been with respect to Marianne;
indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and
more conjectural; and since Edward&rsquo;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&mdash;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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;His name is Ferrars,&rdquo; said he, in a very audible whisper;
&ldquo;but pray do not tell it, for it&rsquo;s a great secret.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ferrars!&rdquo; repeated Miss Steele; &ldquo;Mr. Ferrars is the happy
man, is he? What! your sister-in-law&rsquo;s brother, Miss Dashwood? a very
agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How can you say so, Anne?&rdquo; cried Lucy, who generally made an
amendment to all her sister&rsquo;s assertions. &ldquo;Though we have seen him
once or twice at my uncle&rsquo;s, it is rather too much to pretend to know him
very well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor heard all this with attention and surprise. &ldquo;And who was this
uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted?&rdquo; She wished very much
to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself;
but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she
thought Mrs. Jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or
in a disposition to communicate it. The manner in which Miss Steele had spoken
of Edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather
ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady&rsquo;s knowing, or
fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.&mdash;But her curiosity
was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Ferrars&rsquo;s name by
Miss Steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir John.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap22"></a>CHAPTER XXII.</h2>

<p>
Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence,
vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was
at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be
pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the
invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every
endeavour at intimacy on their side, Elinor principally attributed that
preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but
especially of Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation,
or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication
of her sentiments.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You will think my question an odd one, I dare say,&rdquo; said Lucy to
her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
cottage&mdash;&ldquo;but pray, are you personally acquainted with your
sister-in-law&rsquo;s mother, Mrs. Ferrars?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor <i>did</i> think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; replied Lucy; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of
Edward&rsquo;s mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed
impertinent curiosity; &ldquo;I know nothing of her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way,&rdquo; said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; &ldquo;but
perhaps there may be reasons&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>you;</i> indeed, I should be very glad of your
advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however,
there is no occasion to trouble <i>you</i>. I am sorry you do not happen to
know Mrs. Ferrars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry I do <i>not</i>,&rdquo; said Elinor, in great astonishment,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;but the time <i>may</i> come&mdash;how
soon it will come must depend upon herself&mdash;when we may be very intimately
connected.&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Lucy, &ldquo;not to Mr. <i>Robert</i> Ferrars&mdash;I
never saw him in my life; but,&rdquo; fixing her eyes upon Elinor, &ldquo;to
his eldest brother.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
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&mdash;&ldquo;May I ask if your engagement
is of long standing?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We have been engaged these four years.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Four years!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I did not know,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that you were even acquainted
till the other day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my
uncle&rsquo;s care, you know, a considerable while.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your uncle!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think I have,&rdquo; replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits,
which increased with her increase of emotion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

<p>
&ldquo;It is strange,&rdquo; replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity,
&ldquo;that I should never have heard him even mention your name.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>occasion</i> for ever mentioning my name to
you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister&rsquo;s suspecting
any thing, <i>that</i> was reason enough for his not mentioning it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She was silent.&mdash;Elinor&rsquo;s security sunk; but her self-command did
not sink with it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Four years you have been engaged,&rdquo; said she with a firm voice.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Edward!
It puts him quite out of heart.&rdquo; Then taking a small miniature from her
pocket, she added, &ldquo;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.&mdash;I have had it
above these three years.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging
the likeness.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;You are quite in the right,&rdquo; replied Elinor calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sure,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I certainly did not seek your confidence,&rdquo; said Elinor; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s countenance suffered no change.
</p>

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

<p>
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very compassionate.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sometimes.&rdquo; continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, &ldquo;I think
whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter
entirely.&rdquo; As she said this, she looked directly at her companion.
&ldquo;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&mdash;so dear as he is to
me&mdash;I don&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; replied Elinor, startled by the question; &ldquo;but I
can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct
you.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Did he come from your uncle&rsquo;s, then, when he visited us?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came
directly from town?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy&rsquo;s veracity; &ldquo;I remember he told us,
that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth.&rdquo;
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?&rdquo; repeated Lucy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a
fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid it
is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from
him just before I left Exeter;&rdquo; taking a letter from her pocket and
carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. &ldquo;You know his hand, I dare
say,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor saw that it <i>was</i> 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&rsquo;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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Writing to each other,&rdquo; said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, &ldquo;is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes,
<i>I</i> have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
<i>that</i>. 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I did,&rdquo; 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.
</p>

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

<p class="center">
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap23"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2>

<p>
However small Elinor&rsquo;s general dependence on Lucy&rsquo;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&rsquo;s visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his
dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself,
the intimate knowledge of the Miss Steeles as to Norland and their family
connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring,
formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning
him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside,
his ill-treatment of herself.&mdash;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 <i>he</i>, 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&mdash;illiterate, artful, and selfish?
</p>

<p>
The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing
but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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!
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
The necessity of concealing from her mother and Marianne, what had been
entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing
exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
superior claims on Edward, and be taught to avoid him in future? She had little
difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Elinor any
chance of engaging Lucy in private, when Sir John called at the cottage one
morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady
Middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she
would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two Miss Steeles.
Elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a
party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the
tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Middleton than when her husband united
them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation;
Margaret, with her mother&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s attention to attempt
it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was
then placed, and Elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained
a hope of finding time for conversation at the park. They all rose up in
preparation for a round game.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am glad,&rdquo; said Lady Middleton to Lucy, &ldquo;you are not going
to finish poor little Annamaria&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This hint was enough, Lucy recollected herself instantly and replied,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are very good, I hope it won&rsquo;t hurt your eyes&mdash;will you
ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly
disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though I
told her it certainly would not, I am sure she depends upon having it
done.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that <i>she</i> had never made
so rude a speech.
</p>

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

<p>
The remaining five were now to draw their cards.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps,&rdquo; continued Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! that would be terrible, indeed,&rdquo; said Miss Steele. &ldquo;Dear
little soul, how I do love her!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are very kind,&rdquo; said Lady Middleton to Elinor; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap24"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2>

<p>
In a firm, though cautious tone, Elinor thus began.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if
I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I
will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; cried Lucy warmly, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me,&rdquo; and Elinor
spoke it with the truest sincerity, &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of I know.&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

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

<p>
Elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
</p>

<p>
Lucy went on. &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All this,&rdquo; thought Elinor, &ldquo;is very pretty; but it can
impose upon neither of us.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But what,&rdquo; said she after a short silence, &ldquo;are your views?
or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo;s death, which is a
melancholy and shocking extremity?&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty
measures.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness
beyond reason.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lucy looked at Elinor again, and was silent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know Mr. Robert Ferrars?&rdquo; asked Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all&mdash;I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his
brother&mdash;silly and a great coxcomb.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A great coxcomb!&rdquo; repeated Miss Steele, whose ear had caught those
words by a sudden pause in Marianne&rsquo;s music. &ldquo;Oh, they are talking
of their favourite beaux, I dare say.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No sister,&rdquo; cried Lucy, &ldquo;you are mistaken there, our
favourite beaux are <i>not</i> great coxcombs.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can answer for it that Miss Dashwood&rsquo;s is not,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Jennings, laughing heartily; &ldquo;for he is one of the modestest, prettiest
behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Lucy, she is such a sly little
creature, there is no finding out who <i>she</i> likes.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; cried Miss Steele, looking significantly round at them,
&ldquo;I dare say Lucy&rsquo;s beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as
Miss Dashwood&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should always be happy,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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&mdash;<i>that</i> must be recommendation enough to her
husband.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But Mrs. John Dashwood would not much approve of Edward&rsquo;s going
into orders.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were again silent for many minutes. At length Lucy exclaimed with a deep
sigh,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; answered Elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated
feelings, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed you wrong me,&rdquo; replied Lucy, with great solemnity; &ldquo;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, &lsquo;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,&rsquo; I should resolve upon doing it
immediately.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor blushed for the insincerity of Edward&rsquo;s future wife, and replied,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;&rsquo;Tis because you are an indifferent person,&rdquo; said Lucy, with
some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo; duration, succeeded this speech, and Lucy was still the first to
end it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Shall you be in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?&rdquo; said she with
all her accustomary complacency.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly not.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry for that,&rdquo; returned the other, while her eyes
brightened at the information, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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 <i>her</i> 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.
</p>

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

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap25"></a>CHAPTER XXV.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I <i>do</i>
beg you will favour me with your company, for I&rsquo;ve quite set my heart
upon it. Don&rsquo;t fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I
shan&rsquo;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 <i>that</i>. 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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have a notion,&rdquo; said Sir John, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

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

<p>
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&rsquo;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&mdash;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&rsquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
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
<i>her</i> account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then
began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that
would accrue to them all, from this separation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am delighted with the plan,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;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 <i>should</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness,&rdquo; said Elinor,
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;s countenance sunk.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And what,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood, &ldquo;is my dear prudent Elinor
going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward? Do not
let me hear a word about the expense of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose
protection will give us consequence.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is very true,&rdquo; replied her mother, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,&rdquo;
said Marianne, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without
any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will have you <i>both</i> go,&rdquo; said Mrs. Dashwood; &ldquo;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&rsquo;s family.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her
mother&rsquo;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, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap26"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s intentions were; in all probability he was
already in town. Marianne&rsquo;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&mdash;she
must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret
which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of Marianne.
</p>

<p>
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in
coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at
a great school in town to some effect.
</p>

<p>
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. &ldquo;<i>I</i> am
writing home, Marianne,&rdquo; said Elinor; &ldquo;had not you better defer
your letter for a day or two?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am <i>not</i> going to write to my mother,&rdquo; replied Marianne,
hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more;
it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and the
conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they
might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though
not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with
greater alacrity. Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;Oh, Elinor, it is
Willoughby, indeed it is!&rdquo; and seemed almost ready to throw herself into
his arms, when Colonel Brandon appeared.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is your sister ill?&rdquo; said he.
</p>

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

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

<p>
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. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied, with some
embarrassment, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer&rsquo;s, where I have
been dining.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that
you will certainly see her to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two
young ladies with me, you see&mdash;that is, you see but one of them now, but
there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too&mdash;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&mdash;worse luck for me. However,
I got a very good husband, and I don&rsquo;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&rsquo;s have no secrets among friends.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came
laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say
whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the Miss
Dashwoods again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she
had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother&rsquo;s
invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would
never have forgiven them if they had not come!
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;What do
you think he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in
other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on
Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs.
Palmer&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
The man replied that none had.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How very odd!&rdquo; said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How odd, indeed!&rdquo; repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her
sister with uneasiness. &ldquo;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>I</i> long to inquire; and how will <i>my</i> interference be
borne.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap27"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2>

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

<p>
&ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; cried Marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to
the window as she spoke, to examine the day. &ldquo;I had not thought of
<i>that</i>. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
&ldquo;It is charming weather for <i>them</i> indeed,&rdquo; she continued, as
she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. &ldquo;How much
they must enjoy it! But&rdquo; (with a little return of anxiety) &ldquo;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&mdash;nay, perhaps it may
freeze tonight!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At any rate,&rdquo; said Elinor, wishing to prevent Mrs. Jennings from
seeing her sister&rsquo;s thoughts as clearly as she did, &ldquo;I dare say we
shall have Sir John and Lady Middleton in town by the end of next week.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ay, my dear, I&rsquo;ll warrant you we do. Mary always has her own
way.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And now,&rdquo; silently conjectured Elinor, &ldquo;she will write to
Combe by this day&rsquo;s post.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs.
Jennings&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Don&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
The Miss Dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs.
Jennings&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
drive.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;he has been here while we were
out.&rdquo; Elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured
to say, &ldquo;Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow.&rdquo; But Marianne
seemed hardly to hear her, and on Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s entrance, escaped with
the precious card.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street
during their absence; but a moment&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For me!&rdquo; cried Marianne, stepping hastily forward.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am, for my mistress.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But Marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is indeed for Mrs. Jennings; how provoking!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are expecting a letter, then?&rdquo; said Elinor, unable to be
longer silent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, a little&mdash;not much.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After a short pause. &ldquo;You have no confidence in me, Marianne.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nay, Elinor, this reproach from <i>you</i>&mdash;you who have confidence
in no one!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Me!&rdquo; returned Elinor in some confusion; &ldquo;indeed, Marianne, I
have nothing to tell.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nor I,&rdquo; answered Marianne with energy, &ldquo;our situations then
are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not
communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

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

<p>
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&mdash;<i>he</i> was not there&mdash;and she sat down,
equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. After they had been
assembled about an hour, Mr. Palmer sauntered towards the Miss Dashwoods to
express his surprise on seeing them in town, though Colonel Brandon had been
first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something
very droll on hearing that they were to come.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought you were both in Devonshire,&rdquo; said he.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you?&rdquo; replied Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When do you go back again?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not know.&rdquo; And thus ended their discourse.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aye, aye,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Invited!&rdquo; cried Marianne.
</p>

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

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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 &ldquo;your sister looks unwell
to-day,&rdquo; or &ldquo;your sister seems out of spirits,&rdquo; he had
appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something
particular about her. After a pause of several minutes, their silence was
broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to
congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother? Elinor was not prepared for
such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple
and common expedient, of asking what he meant? He tried to smile as he replied,
&ldquo;your sister&rsquo;s engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally
known.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It cannot be generally known,&rdquo; returned Elinor, &ldquo;for her own
family do not know it.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By many&mdash;by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you
are most intimate, Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I
might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to
be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had
not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand,
directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister&rsquo;s writing. I came to inquire,
but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is every thing finally
settled? Is it impossible to&mdash;? 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s affection for Willoughby, could leave no
hope of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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, &ldquo;to your
sister I wish all imaginable happiness; to Willoughby that he may endeavour to
deserve her,&rdquo;&mdash;took leave, and went away.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s unhappiness, and was prevented
even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must
confirm it.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap28"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2>

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

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

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;he is there&mdash;he is
there&mdash;Oh! why does he not look at me? why cannot I speak to him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pray, pray be composed,&rdquo; cried Elinor, &ldquo;and do not betray
what you feel to every body present. Perhaps he has not observed you
yet.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

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

<p>
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&rsquo;s pause, he spoke with calmness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But have you not received my notes?&rdquo; cried Marianne in the wildest
anxiety. &ldquo;Here is some mistake I am sure&mdash;some dreadful mistake.
What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Willoughby; for heaven&rsquo;s sake
tell me, what is the matter?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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, &ldquo;Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving
the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send
me,&rdquo; turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Go to him, Elinor,&rdquo; she cried, as soon as she could speak,
&ldquo;and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again&mdash;must
speak to him instantly.&mdash;I cannot rest&mdash;I shall not have a
moment&rsquo;s peace till this is explained&mdash;some dreadful misapprehension
or other. Oh, go to him this moment.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How can that be done? No, my dearest Marianne, you must wait. This is
not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Lady Middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that
Marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going
away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon as the
carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to
Berkeley Street. Marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for
tears; but as Mrs. Jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly
to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself. She was
soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her
sister then left her, and while she waited the return of Mrs. Jennings, had
leisure enough for thinking over the past.
</p>

<p>
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, <i>she</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>esteem</i> 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&mdash;in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap29"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2>

<p>
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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Marianne, may I ask&mdash;?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, Elinor,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;ask nothing; you will soon know
all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was
dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her
wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.
</p>

<p>
At breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and
Elinor&rsquo;s attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in
pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs.
Jennings&rsquo;s notice entirely to herself.
</p>

<p>
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. Jennings&rsquo;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&rsquo;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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my word, I never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my
life! <i>My</i> 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&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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, &ldquo;And have you really, Ma&rsquo;am, talked yourself into a
persuasion of my sister&rsquo;s being engaged to Mr. Willoughby? I thought it
had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must
beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you
that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be
married.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For shame, for shame, Miss Dashwood! how can you talk so? Don&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed, Ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said Elinor, very seriously, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Jennings laughed again, but Elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager
at all events to know what Willoughby had written, hurried away to their room,
where, on opening the door, she saw Marianne stretched on the bed, almost
choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others lying by her.
Elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed,
took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a
burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s letter, read as follows:
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Bond Street, January.
</p>

<p class="letter">
M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAR</small> M<small>ADAM</small>,<br />
    &ldquo;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.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;I am, dear Madam,                        <br />
&ldquo;Your most obedient                <br />
&ldquo;humble servant,        <br />
&ldquo;J<small>OHN</small> W<small>ILLOUGHBY</small>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&mdash;a letter of
which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in
hardened villainy.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I only wish,&rdquo; replied her sister, &ldquo;there were any thing I
<i>could</i> do, which might be of comfort to you.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Exert yourself, dear Marianne,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;if you would not
kill yourself and all who love you. Think of your mother; think of her misery
while <i>you</i> suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot, I cannot,&rdquo; cried Marianne; &ldquo;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, <i>you</i> cannot have an idea of what I suffer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you call <i>me</i> happy, Marianne? Ah! if you knew!&mdash;And can
you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Forgive me, forgive me,&rdquo; throwing her arms round her
sister&rsquo;s neck; &ldquo;I know you feel for me; I know what a heart you
have; but yet you are&mdash;you must be happy; Edward loves you&mdash;what, oh
what, can do away such happiness as that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Many, many circumstances,&rdquo; said Elinor, solemnly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, no, no,&rdquo; cried Marianne wildly, &ldquo;he loves you, and only
you. You <i>can</i> have no grief.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can
do away.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Engagement!&rdquo; cried Marianne, &ldquo;there has been no
engagement.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No engagement!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith
with me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But he told you that he loved you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes&mdash;no&mdash;never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never
professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been, but it never was.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yet you wrote to him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes: could that be wrong after all that had passed? But I cannot
talk.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p class="right">
Berkeley Street, January.
</p>

<p class="letter">
&ldquo;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.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;M.D.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the
Middletons&rsquo;, was in these words:&mdash;
</p>

<p class="letter">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;M.D.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The contents of her last note to him were these:&mdash;
</p>

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

<p class="right">
&ldquo;M.D.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;I felt myself,&rdquo; she added, &ldquo;to be as solemnly engaged to
him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I can believe it,&rdquo; said Elinor; &ldquo;but unfortunately he did
not feel the same.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He <i>did</i> feel the same, Elinor&mdash;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&mdash;his
distress&mdash;can I ever forget his distress?&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;Elinor, I have been cruelly used; but not by Willoughby.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dearest Marianne, who but himself? By whom can he have been
instigated?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;whoever she be&mdash;or any one, in short, but your own dear self,
mama, and Edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me. Beyond you three, is
there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than
Willoughby, whose heart I know so well?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor would not contend, and only replied, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
&ldquo;But for my mother&rsquo;s sake and mine&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so
miserable&mdash;Oh! who can require it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s letter, and, after shuddering over
every sentence, exclaimed,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is too much! Oh, Willoughby, Willoughby, could this be yours! Cruel,
cruel&mdash;nothing can acquit you. Elinor, nothing can. Whatever he might have
heard against me&mdash;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?
&lsquo;The lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,) which you so
obligingly bestowed on me&rsquo;&mdash;That is unpardonable. Willoughby, where
was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously
insolent!&mdash;Elinor, can he be justified?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, Marianne, in no possible way.&rdquo;
</p>

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

<p>
Another pause ensued; Marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Elinor, I must go home. I must go and comfort mama. Can not we be gone
to-morrow?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To-morrow, Marianne!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Willoughby&rsquo;s
sake&mdash;and now who cares for me? Who regards me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;how am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a
woman as Lady Middleton! Oh, what would <i>he</i> say to that!&rdquo;
</p>

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

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap30"></a>CHAPTER XXX.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How do you do my dear?&rdquo;&mdash;said she in a voice of great
compassion to Marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;t disturb her any longer, for she had better have
her cry out at once and have done with. The Parrys and Sandersons luckily are
coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her
young friend&rsquo;s affliction could be increased by noise.
</p>

<p>
Marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them. Elinor
even advised her against it. But &ldquo;no, she would go down; she could bear
it very well, and the bustle about her would be less.&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s kindness, though its effusions
were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those
acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not
make or return for herself. Their good friend saw that Marianne was unhappy,
and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so.
She treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards
a favourite child on the last day of its holidays. Marianne was to have the
best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the
house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. Had not
Elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she
could have been entertained by Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poor soul!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings, as soon as she was gone,
&ldquo;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!&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The lady then&mdash;Miss Grey I think you called her&mdash;is very
rich?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;t come before it&rsquo;s
wanted; for they say he is all to pieces. No wonder! dashing about with his
curricle and hunters! Well, it don&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;t do now-a-days; nothing in
the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know what kind of a girl Miss Grey is? Is she said to be
amiable?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And who are the Ellisons?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Her guardians, my dear. But now she is of age and may choose for
herself; and a pretty choice she has made!&mdash;What now,&rdquo; after pausing
a moment&mdash;&ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear ma&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aye, I believe that will be best for her. Let her name her own supper,
and go to bed. Lord! no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down
this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over her head
as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am
sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked her about it for all
my money. But then you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of
its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to
be laughed at about them. Lord! how concerned Sir John and my daughters will be
when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit
Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them
tomorrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 &rsquo;tis blown
over and forgot. And what good does talking ever do you know?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>this</i> justice to Mr. Willoughby&mdash;he has
broken no positive engagement with my sister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Law, my dear! Don&rsquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor, for her sister&rsquo;s sake, could not press the subject farther, and
she hoped it was not required of her for Willoughby&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear, &rsquo;tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will
be all the better for Colonel Brandon. He will have her at last; aye, that he
will. Mind me, now, if they an&rsquo;t married by Mid-summer. Lord! how
he&rsquo;ll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. It will be all
to one a better match for your sister. Two thousand a year without debt or
drawback&mdash;except the little love-child, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but
she may be &rsquo;prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify?
Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old
fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great
garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and
such a mulberry tree in one corner! Lord! how Charlotte and I did stuff the
only time we were there! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful
stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could
wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a
mile from the turnpike-road, so &rsquo;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! &rsquo;tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village,
and the parsonage-house within a stone&rsquo;s throw. To my fancy, a thousand
times prettier than Barton Park, where they are forced to send three miles for
their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall
spirit up the Colonel as soon as I can. One shoulder of mutton, you know,
drives another down. If we <i>can</i> but put Willoughby out of her
head!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ay, if we can do <i>that</i>, Ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;we
shall do very well with or without Colonel Brandon.&rdquo; 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&rsquo;s entrance, had been her only light.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You had better leave me,&rdquo; was all the notice that her sister
received from her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will leave you,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;if you will go to
bed.&rdquo; But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering,
she at first refused to do. Her sister&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said she, entering, &ldquo;I have just recollected that
I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was
tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your sister. My poor husband! how
fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it
did him more good than any thing else in the world. Do take it to your
sister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear Ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; replied Elinor, smiling at the difference of
the complaints for which it was recommended, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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, &ldquo;The Colonel looks as
grave as ever you see. He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look which
perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Marianne is not well,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;She has been indisposed
all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps, then,&rdquo; he hesitatingly replied, &ldquo;what I heard this
morning may be&mdash;there may be more truth in it than I could believe
possible at first.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What did you hear?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think&mdash;in short, that a man,
whom I <i>knew</i> to be engaged&mdash;but how shall I tell you? If you know it
already, as surely you must, I may be spared.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You mean,&rdquo; answered Elinor, with forced calmness, &ldquo;Mr.
Willoughby&rsquo;s marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we <i>do</i> 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;In a stationer&rsquo;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&mdash;it was no longer to be a secret&mdash;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:&mdash;as soon as the ceremony was over, they were
to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment!&mdash;but it
would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady I learnt,
on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison,
and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Miss Grey&rsquo;s
guardian.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It may be so; but Willoughby is capable&mdash;at least I
think&rdquo;&mdash;he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to
distrust itself, &ldquo;And your sister&mdash;how did she&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;but <i>I</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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Colonel Brandon, &ldquo;there is, indeed! But your
sister does not&mdash;I think you said so&mdash;she does not consider quite as
you do?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still
justify him if she could.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s communication, in such an
instantaneous gaiety on Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap31"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;s entering
into her sorrows with any compassion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, no, no, it cannot be,&rdquo; she cried; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister
was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own
mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong
sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the
world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with
excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor
candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her
own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions
on herself. Thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in
their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Jennings still
lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove
a source of fresh pain to herself, though Mrs. Jennings was governed in it by
an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
</p>

<p>
With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the
persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you
good.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne heard enough. In one moment her imagination placed before her a letter
from Willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had
passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by Willoughby himself,
rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his
eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the
next. The hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before
her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy
of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&rsquo;s
application, to intreat from Marianne greater openness towards them both; and
this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for Willoughby, and such
a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony
through the whole of it.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister&rsquo;s consent to
wait for that knowledge.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who can this be?&rdquo; cried Elinor. &ldquo;So early too! I thought we
<i>had</i> been safe.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne moved to the window.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is Colonel Brandon!&rdquo; said she, with vexation. &ldquo;We are
never safe from <i>him</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He will not come in, as Mrs. Jennings is from home.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will not trust to <i>that</i>,&rdquo; retreating to her own room.
&ldquo;A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his
intrusion on that of others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and
error; for Colonel Brandon <i>did</i> come in; and Elinor, who was convinced
that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who saw <i>that</i>
solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though
brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so
lightly.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,&rdquo; said he, after the first
salutation, &ldquo;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&mdash;my wish&mdash;my sole wish in
desiring it&mdash;I hope, I believe it is&mdash;is to be a means of giving
comfort;&mdash;no, I must not say comfort&mdash;not present comfort&mdash;but
conviction, lasting conviction to your sister&rsquo;s mind. My regard for her,
for yourself, for your mother&mdash;will you allow me to prove it, by relating
some circumstances which nothing but a <i>very</i> sincere regard&mdash;nothing
but an earnest desire of being useful&mdash;I think I am justified&mdash;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?&rdquo; He stopped.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I understand you,&rdquo; said Elinor. &ldquo;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. <i>My</i>
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end,
and <i>hers</i> must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last
October,&mdash;but this will give you no idea&mdash;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
<i>shall</i> be a short one. On such a subject,&rdquo; sighing heavily,
&ldquo;can I have little temptation to be diffuse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation&mdash;(it is not to
be supposed that it could make any impression on you)&mdash;a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park&mdash;it was the evening of a
dance&mdash;in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in
some measure, your sister Marianne.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; answered Elinor, &ldquo;I have <i>not</i> forgotten
it.&rdquo; He looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;married against her inclination to my brother. Her
fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered. And this, I fear, is
all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and
guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. I had hoped
that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some
time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great
unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that
nothing&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s point was gained. I had depended
on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;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,&rdquo; he continued, in a voice of great
agitation, &ldquo;was of trifling weight&mdash;was nothing to what I felt when
I heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was <i>that</i> which
threw this gloom,&mdash;even now the recollection of what I
suffered&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned to
England. My first care, when I <i>did</i> 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 <i>did</i> find her. Regard for a former servant of my
own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a
spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house,
under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister. So altered&mdash;so
faded&mdash;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&mdash;but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to
describe it&mdash;I have pained you too much already. That she was, to all
appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Again he stopped to recover himself; and Elinor spoke her feelings in an
exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your sister, I hope, cannot be offended,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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&mdash;a subject such as this&mdash;untouched for fourteen
years&mdash;it is dangerous to handle it at all! I <i>will</i> be more
collected&mdash;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&mdash;better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and
ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she
certainly knew all. He, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted
man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally
confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making
what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he
was convinced himself, of his daughter&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Good heavens!&rdquo; cried Elinor, &ldquo;could it be&mdash;could
Willoughby!&rdquo;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The first news that reached me of her,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;came
in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford,
and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and
this was the reason of my leaving Barton so suddenly, which I am sure must at
the time have appeared strange to every body, and which I believe gave offence
to some. Little did Mr. Willoughby imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured
me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the
relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but <i>had</i> 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
<i>can</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is beyond every thing!&rdquo; exclaimed Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>was</i> 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&mdash;but what could I do? I had no
hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your sister&rsquo;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 <i>will</i> turn with gratitude towards
her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor Eliza, when she
considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures
her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her
own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through
life. Surely this comparison must have its use with her. She will feel her own
sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no
disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by
them. Concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must
strengthen every attachment. Use your own discretion, however, in communicating
to her what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but
had I not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might
lessen her regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this
account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been
intended to raise myself at the expense of others.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have been more pained,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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,&rdquo; she
continued, after a short silence, &ldquo;ever seen Mr. Willoughby since you
left him at Barton?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he replied gravely, &ldquo;once I have. One meeting was
unavoidable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What? have you met him to&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier
she presumed not to censure it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Such,&rdquo; said Colonel Brandon, after a pause, &ldquo;has been the
unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! and so imperfectly
have I discharged my trust!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is she still in town?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap32"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.</h2>

<p>
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
<i>was</i> carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the
effect of it, in her no longer avoiding Colonel Brandon when he called, in her
speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate
respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before,
she did not see her less wretched. Her mind did become settled, but it was
settled in a gloomy dejection. She felt the loss of Willoughby&rsquo;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 <i>once</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Dashwood on receiving and
answering Elinor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s, and an indignation even greater than Elinor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s affliction be, when her mother could talk of
fortitude! mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets,
which <i>she</i> could wish her not to indulge!
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a
surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than even in
the retirement of Barton, where it might force him before her while paying that
visit at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Dashwood, from foreseeing at
first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne had promised to be guided by her mother&rsquo;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&rsquo;s rest.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing Willoughby&rsquo;s
name mentioned, was not thrown away. Marianne, though without knowing it
herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither Mrs. Jennings, nor Sir John, nor
even Mrs. Palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her. Elinor wished that the
same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible,
and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.
</p>

<p>
Sir John, could not have thought it possible. &ldquo;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&rsquo;s puppies! and this was the
end of it!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Palmer, in her way, was equally angry. &ldquo;She was determined to drop
his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been
acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not
so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off
to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name
again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he
was.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The rest of Mrs. Palmer&rsquo;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&rsquo;s the new carriage was
building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby&rsquo;s portrait was drawn, and at
what warehouse Miss Grey&rsquo;s clothes might be seen.
</p>

<p>
The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Middleton on the occasion was a happy
relief to Elinor&rsquo;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 <i>one</i> person at least among their circle of friends: a great
comfort to know that there was <i>one</i> who would meet her without feeling
any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister&rsquo;s health.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or
twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, &ldquo;It is very
shocking, indeed!&rdquo; and by the means of this continual though gentle vent,
was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest
emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter;
and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided
censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to
attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though
rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once
be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she
married.
</p>

<p>
Colonel Brandon&rsquo;s delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to
Miss Dashwood. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of
her sister&rsquo;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. <i>These</i>
assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards
himself, and <i>these</i> gave Elinor hopes of its being farther augmented
hereafter; but Mrs. Jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that
the Colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on
him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at
the end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be
married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match
at all. The good understanding between the Colonel and Miss Dashwood seemed
rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew
arbour, would all be made over to <i>her;</i> and Mrs. Jennings had, for some
time ceased to think at all of Mrs. Ferrars.
</p>

<p>
Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Willoughby&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
The Willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and Elinor now hoped,
as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her
sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out
again by degrees as she had done before.
</p>

<p>
About this time the two Miss Steeles, lately arrived at their cousin&rsquo;s
house in Bartlett&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>still</i> in town.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here
<i>still</i>,&rdquo; said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.
&ldquo;But I always thought I <i>should</i>. I was almost sure you would not
leave London yet awhile; though you <i>told</i> me, you know, at Barton, that
you should not stay above a <i>month</i>. 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 <i>hurry</i> to be gone. I am amazingly
glad you did not keep to <i>your word</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to
make it appear that she did <i>not</i>.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;and how did you
travel?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not in the stage, I assure you,&rdquo; replied Miss Steele, with quick
exultation; &ldquo;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&rsquo;d join him
in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve
shillings more than we did.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, oh!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings; &ldquo;very pretty, indeed! and the
Doctor is a single man, I warrant you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There now,&rdquo; said Miss Steele, affectedly simpering,
&ldquo;everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My
cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I
never think about him from one hour&rsquo;s end to another. &lsquo;Lord! here
comes your beau, Nancy,&rsquo; my cousin said t&rsquo;other day, when she saw
him crossing the street to the house. My beau, indeed! said I&mdash;I cannot
think who you mean. The Doctor is no beau of mine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking&mdash;but it won&rsquo;t
do&mdash;the Doctor is the man, I see.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, indeed!&rdquo; replied her cousin, with affected earnestness,
&ldquo;and I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly
would <i>not</i>, and Miss Steele was made completely happy.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, Miss
Dashwood, when they come to town,&rdquo; said Lucy, returning, after a
cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, I do not think we shall.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, yes, I dare say you will.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Dashwood can spare you both for so
long a time together!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Long a time, indeed!&rdquo; interposed Mrs. Jennings. &ldquo;Why, their
visit is but just begun!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Lucy was silenced.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry we cannot see your sister, Miss Dashwood,&rdquo; said Miss
Steele. &ldquo;I am sorry she is not well&mdash;&rdquo; for Marianne had left
the room on their arrival.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are very good. My sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure
of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous
head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, dear, that is a great pity! but such old friends as Lucy and
me!&mdash;I think she might see <i>us;</i> and I am sure we would not speak a
word.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, if that&rsquo;s all,&rdquo; cried Miss Steele, &ldquo;we can just as
well go and see <i>her</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was
saved the trouble of checking it, by Lucy&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap33"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.</h2>

<p>
After some opposition, Marianne yielded to her sister&rsquo;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&rsquo;s in Sackville Street, where Elinor was
carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her
mother.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, it was resolved, that while her young friends
transacted their&rsquo;s, she should pay her visit and return for them.
</p>

<p>
On ascending the stairs, the Miss Dashwoods found so many people before them in
the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and
they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was, to sit down at that end
of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman
only was standing there, and it is probable that Elinor was not without hope of
exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye,
and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was
giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and
ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a
quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged
by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on
the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a
kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person
and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the
first style of fashion.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s shop, as in her
own bedroom.
</p>

<p>
At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all
received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on
which his existence could be continued without the possession of the
toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another
glance on the Miss Dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than
express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected
indifference.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very
creditable appearance in Mr. Gray&rsquo;s shop. John Dashwood was really far
from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction;
and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive.
</p>

<p>
Elinor found that he and Fanny had been in town two days.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wished very much to call upon you yesterday,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;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. <i>This</i> morning I had fully intended to call on
you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to
do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Fanny a seal. But
tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be
introduced to your friend Mrs. Jennings. I understand she is a woman of very
good fortune. And the Middletons too, you must introduce me to <i>them</i>. As
my mother-in-law&rsquo;s relations, I shall be happy to show them every
respect. They are excellent neighbours to you in the country, I
understand.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in
every particular, is more than I can express.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from their
sister-in-law, for not coming too; &ldquo;but she was so much engaged with her
mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where.&rdquo; 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 <i>them</i>, though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs.
Jennings, most attentively civil; and on Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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 <i>him</i>.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who is Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Me, brother! what do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is
the amount of his fortune?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I believe about two thousand a year.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Two thousand a-year;&rdquo; and then working himself up to a pitch of
enthusiastic generosity, he added, &ldquo;Elinor, I wish with all my heart it
were <i>twice</i> as much, for your sake.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I believe you,&rdquo; replied Elinor; &ldquo;but I am very sure
that Colonel Brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying <i>me</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;in short, you know as to an attachment
of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are
insurmountable&mdash;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&rdquo;&mdash;lowering his
voice to an important whisper&mdash;&ldquo;will be exceedingly welcome to
<i>all parties</i>.&rdquo; Recollecting himself, however, he added, &ldquo;That
is, I mean to say&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It would be something remarkable, now,&rdquo; he continued,
&ldquo;something droll, if Fanny should have a brother and I a sister settling
at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is Mr. Edward Ferrars,&rdquo; said Elinor, with resolution, &ldquo;going
to be married?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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:&mdash;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable;
but your income is a large one.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>has</i> cost me a vast deal of money.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;More than you think it really and intrinsically worth.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for more
than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very
unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not
happened to have the necessary sum in my banker&rsquo;s hands, I must have sold
out to very great loss.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor could only smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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, &amp;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&rsquo;s
kindness is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; said Elinor; &ldquo;and assisted by her liberality, I
hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Another year or two may do much towards it,&rdquo; he gravely replied;
&ldquo;but however there is still a great deal to be done. There is not a stone
laid of Fanny&rsquo;s green-house, and nothing but the plan of the
flower-garden marked out.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Where is the green-house to be?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that
Marianne was not present, to share the provocation.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to
congratulate Elinor on having such a friend as Mrs. Jennings.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure,
which will descend to her children.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few people
of common prudence will do <i>that</i> and whatever she saves, she will be able
to dispose of.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her
daughters, than to us?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, brother, your
anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why, to be sure,&rdquo; said he, seeming to recollect himself,
&ldquo;people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear
Elinor, what is the matter with Marianne?&mdash;she looks very unwell, has lost
her colour, and is grown quite thin. Is she ill?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several
weeks.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry for that. At her time of life, any thing 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
man. There was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly. I
remember Fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did;
not but what she is exceedingly fond of <i>you</i>, but so it happened to
strike her. She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Marianne
<i>now</i>, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the
utmost, and I am very much deceived if <i>you</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her
marrying Colonel Brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to
himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy
with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He
had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to
be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer
from Colonel Brandon, or a legacy from Mrs. Jennings, was the easiest means of
atoning for his own neglect.
</p>

<p>
They were lucky enough to find Lady Middleton at home, and Sir John came in
before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir John
was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Dashwood did not seem to know much
about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while Lady
Middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance
worth having; and Mr. Dashwood went away delighted with both.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I shall have a charming account to carry to Fanny,&rdquo; said he, as he
walked back with his sister. &ldquo;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 <i>her</i>, 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.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap34"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.</h2>

<p>
Mrs. John Dashwood had so much confidence in her husband&rsquo;s judgment, that
she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Jennings and her daughter; and her
confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom
her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for Lady
Middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world!
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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
<i>her</i> she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of
uncordial address, who met her husband&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether
Edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced Fanny voluntarily to
mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with Miss
Morton was resolved on, or till her husband&rsquo;s expectations on Colonel
Brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to
each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on
every occasion. The intelligence however, which <i>she</i> would not give, soon
flowed from another quarter. Lucy came very shortly to claim Elinor&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s engagements. Elinor was pleased that
he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.
</p>

<p>
The Dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the Middletons, that, though
not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them&mdash;a
dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in Harley
Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their sisters
and Mrs. Jennings were invited likewise, and John Dashwood was careful to
secure Colonel Brandon, who, always glad to be where the Miss Dashwoods were,
received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. They
were to meet Mrs. Ferrars; but Elinor could not learn whether her sons were to
be of the party. The expectation of seeing <i>her</i>, however, was enough to
make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet
Edward&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
The interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards
increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the Miss
Steeles were also to be at it.
</p>

<p>
So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Middleton, so agreeable had
their assiduities made them to her, that though Lucy was certainly not so
elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir John to ask
them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to be
particularly convenient to the Miss Steeles, as soon as the Dashwoods&rsquo;
invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party
took place.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s card.
</p>

<p>
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!&mdash;she hardly knew how she could bear it!
</p>

<p>
These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and
certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved however, not by her own
recollection, but by the good will of Lucy, who believed herself to be
inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that Edward certainly
would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the
pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme
affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together.
</p>

<p>
The important Tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this
formidable mother-in-law.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pity me, dear Miss Dashwood!&rdquo; said Lucy, as they walked up the
stairs together&mdash;for the Middletons arrived so directly after Mrs.
Jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same
time:&mdash;&ldquo;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&mdash;that is to be my mother!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of
its being Miss Morton&rsquo;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&mdash;to the utter amazement of Lucy, who,
though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of
irrepressible envy to Elinor.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor could not <i>now</i> be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months ago
it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo; power
to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to the Miss
Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only
amused her. She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and
daughter towards the very person&mdash;for Lucy was particularly
distinguished&mdash;whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they
would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had
comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. But while
she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the
mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions
with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly
despising them all four.
</p>

<p>
Lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Miss Steele
wanted only to be teazed about Dr. Davies to be perfectly happy.
</p>

<p>
The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke
the Mistress&rsquo;s inclination for show, and the Master&rsquo;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;&mdash;no poverty of any kind,
except of conversation, appeared&mdash;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&mdash;Want of sense, either natural or improved&mdash;want of
elegance&mdash;want of spirits&mdash;or want of temper.
</p>

<p>
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was
particularly evident, for the gentlemen <i>had</i> supplied the discourse with
some variety&mdash;the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking
horses&mdash;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&rsquo;s second son William, who were nearly of the same age.
</p>

<p>
Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too
easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it was all
conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally
positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as
they liked.
</p>

<p>
The parties stood thus:
</p>

<p>
The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest,
politely decided in favour of the other.
</p>

<p>
The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were
equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;These are done by my eldest sister,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly
admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood;
and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed
round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being
Elinor&rsquo;s work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had
received gratifying testimony of Lady Middletons&rsquo;s approbation, Fanny
presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time,
that they were done by Miss Dashwood.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Hum&rdquo;&mdash;said Mrs. Ferrars&mdash;&ldquo;very
pretty,&rdquo;&mdash;and without regarding them at all, returned them to her
daughter.
</p>

<p>
Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude
enough,&mdash;for, colouring a little, she immediately said,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They are very pretty, ma&rsquo;am&mdash;an&rsquo;t they?&rdquo; But then
again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably
came over her, for she presently added,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton&rsquo;s style of
painting, Ma&rsquo;am?&mdash;<i>She does</i> paint most delightfully!&mdash;How
beautifully her last landscape is done!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Beautifully indeed! But <i>she</i> does every thing well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne could not bear this.&mdash;She was already greatly displeased with
Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor&rsquo;s expense,
though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her
immediately to say with warmth,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is admiration of a very particular kind!&mdash;what is Miss Morton
to us?&mdash;who knows, or who cares, for her?&mdash;it is Elinor of whom
<i>we</i> think and speak.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law&rsquo;s hands, to
admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than
ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, &ldquo;Miss Morton is Lord
Morton&rsquo;s daughter.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his
sister&rsquo;s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne&rsquo;s warmth
than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs.
Ferrars&rsquo;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&rsquo;s chair, and putting
one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager,
voice,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear, dear Elinor, don&rsquo;t mind them. Don&rsquo;t let them make
<i>you</i> unhappy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on
Elinor&rsquo;s shoulder, she burst into tears. Every body&rsquo;s attention was
called, and almost every body was concerned.&mdash;Colonel Brandon rose up and
went to them without knowing what he did.&mdash;Mrs. Jennings, with a very
intelligent &ldquo;Ah! poor dear,&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poor Marianne!&rdquo; said her brother to Colonel Brandon, in a low
voice, as soon as he could secure his attention: &ldquo;She has not such good
health as her sister,&mdash;she is very nervous,&mdash;she has not
Elinor&rsquo;s constitution;&mdash;and one must allow that there is something
very trying to a young woman who <i>has been</i> a beauty in the loss of her
personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne <i>was</i>
remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor. Now you see
it is all gone.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap35"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.</h2>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;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 <i>own</i> sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from
suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo;s creation, preserved her from
all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at
least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward&rsquo;s being
fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she
<i>ought</i> to have rejoiced.
</p>

<p>
She wondered that Lucy&rsquo;s spirits could be so very much elevated by the
civility of Mrs. Ferrars;&mdash;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 <i>not Elinor</i>, appear a compliment to herself&mdash;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&rsquo;s eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning
more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in
Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she
was.
</p>

<p>
The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she
arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear friend,&rdquo; cried Lucy, as soon as they were by themselves,
&ldquo;I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering
as Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She was certainly very civil to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Civil!&mdash;Did you see nothing but only civility?&mdash;I saw a vast
deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!&mdash;No pride,
no hauteur, and your sister just the same&mdash;all sweetness and
affability!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,&rdquo; said she,
&ldquo;nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;&mdash;but
as that was not the case&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I guessed you would say so,&rdquo;&mdash;replied Lucy
quickly&mdash;&ldquo;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&rsquo;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!&mdash;I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood
was!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
To this Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?&mdash;you seem low&mdash;you don&rsquo;t
speak;&mdash;sure you an&rsquo;t well.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never was in better health.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it. I
should be sorry to have <i>you</i> ill; you, that have been the greatest
comfort to me in the world!&mdash;Heaven knows what I should have done without
your friendship.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it
seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to
Edward&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;&mdash;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!&mdash;I am sure
if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too
high.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she <i>should</i>
tell her sister. Lucy continued.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a
dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without
saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at
me in a pleasant way&mdash;you know what I mean&mdash;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 <i>does</i> dislike, I know it is most
violent.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the
door&rsquo;s being thrown open, the servant&rsquo;s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and
Edward&rsquo;s immediately walking in.
</p>

<p>
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.&mdash;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&rsquo;s business to put herself
forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could
therefore only <i>look</i> her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him,
said no more.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, nor could his conscience have
quite the ease of Elinor&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>was</i> said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all
the information about her mother&rsquo;s health, their coming to town, &amp;c.
which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>that</i> in the
handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place,
with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister. When that
was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for
Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Dear Edward!&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;this is a moment of great
happiness!&mdash;This would almost make amends for every thing!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice
Marianne&rsquo;s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London
agree with her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, don&rsquo;t think of me!&rdquo; she replied with spirited
earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke,
&ldquo;don&rsquo;t think of <i>my</i> health. Elinor is well, you see. That
must be enough for us both.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you like London?&rdquo; said Edward, willing to say any thing that
might introduce another subject.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused&mdash;no one spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I think, Elinor,&rdquo; she presently added, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so
wretchedly dull!&mdash;But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot
be said now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But why were you not there, Edward?&mdash;Why did you not come?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was engaged elsewhere.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps, Miss Marianne,&rdquo; cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on
her, &ldquo;you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no
mind to keep them, little as well as great.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting;
for she calmly replied,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience
only kept Edward from Harley Street. And I really believe he <i>has</i> 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!&mdash;Then you
must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem,
must submit to my open commendation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Going so soon!&rdquo; said Marianne; &ldquo;my dear Edward, this must
not be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could
not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and
Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon
afterwards went away.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What can bring her here so often?&rdquo; said Marianne, on her leaving
them. &ldquo;Could not she see that we wanted her gone!&mdash;how teazing to
Edward!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why so?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of
any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting&mdash;and
this she had every reason to expect.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap36"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
This event, highly important to Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s happiness, produced a
temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like
degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much
as possible with Charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was
dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the Miss Dashwoods,
at the particular request of the Middletons, spent the whole of every day in
Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at
least all the morning, in Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s house; but it was not a thing
to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made
over to Lady Middleton and the two Miss Steeles, by whom their company, in fact
was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>their</i>
ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize. Though
nothing could be more polite than Lady Middleton&rsquo;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 <i>that</i> did not
signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always
came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing
Charlotte&rsquo;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 <i>did</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&rsquo;s happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In
the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun
truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the Miss Dashwoods,
and understanding them to be Mr. Dashwood&rsquo;s sisters, she immediately
concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction
produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well
as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house. The
consequence of which was, that Mrs. John Dashwood was obliged to submit not
only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the
Miss Dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the
unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell
that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of
disappointing them, it was true, must always be 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 any thing better from them.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>her</i> minute observation and general
curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she
knew the price of every part of Marianne&rsquo;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
&ldquo;her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a
great many conquests.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
With such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to
her brother&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
As Elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of
turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and
unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at
pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances she
perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture
on toothpick-cases at Gray&rsquo;s. She perceived him soon afterwards looking
at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to
find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and Mr.
Dashwood introduced him to her as Mr. Robert Ferrars.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s bow must have given the
finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have
begun. But while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did
not find that the emptiness and conceit of the one, put her out of all charity
with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they <i>were</i> different, Robert
explained to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour&rsquo;s
conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme
<i>gaucherie</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my soul,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;I believe it is nothing more; and
so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. &lsquo;My dear
Madam,&rsquo; I always say to her, &lsquo;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&rsquo;s, all this would have been prevented.&rsquo; This is the way in
which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her
error.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s abode in Mr. Pratt&rsquo;s family, with any satisfaction.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You reside in Devonshire, I think,&rdquo;&mdash;was his next
observation, &ldquo;in a cottage near Dawlish.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For my own part,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I am excessively fond of a
cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I
protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one
myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at
any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise every body
who is going to build, to build a cottage. My friend Lord Courtland came to me
the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different
plans of Bonomi&rsquo;s. I was to decide on the best of them. &lsquo;My dear
Courtland,&rsquo; said I, immediately throwing them all into the fire,
&lsquo;do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.&rsquo;
And that I fancy, will be the end of it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s, near Dartford. Lady Elliott wished to give a dance. &lsquo;But
how can it be done?&rsquo; said she; &lsquo;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?&rsquo; <i>I</i> immediately saw that there
could be no difficulty in it, so I said, &lsquo;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.&rsquo; 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of
rational opposition.
</p>

<p>
As John Dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind
was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him
during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation,
when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison&rsquo;s mistake, in
supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being
really invited to become such, while Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not see how it can be done,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s visitors. How can I ask them away from her?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection.
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But
I had just settled within myself to ask the Miss Steeles to spend a few days
with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the
attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Edward. We can ask
your sisters some other year, you know; but the Miss Steeles may not be in town
any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you <i>do</i> like them, you
know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites
with Harry!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dashwood was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting the Miss Steeles
immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his
sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another
year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Elinor to town as Colonel
Brandon&rsquo;s wife, and Marianne as <i>their</i> visitor.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Middleton
could spare them. This was enough to make Lucy really and reasonably happy.
Mrs. Dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her
hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Edward
and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and
such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage
that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of;
and the visit to Lady Middleton, which had not before had any precise limits,
was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days&rsquo;
time.
</p>

<p>
When the note was shown to Elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its
arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of
Lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an
acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from
something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by
time and address, to do every thing that Lucy wished. Her flattery had already
subdued the pride of Lady Middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of
Mrs. John Dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of
greater.
</p>

<p>
The Miss Steeles removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Elinor of their
influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event. Sir John, who
called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they
were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Dashwood had never been so much
pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each
of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Lucy by her Christian name;
and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.
</p>

<p class="center">
END OF THE SECOND VOLUME
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap37"></a>CHAPTER XXXVII.</h2>

<p>
Mrs. Palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no
longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting
herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her
own home, and her own habits, in which she found the Miss Dashwoods very ready
to resume their former share.
</p>

<p>
About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley
Street, Mrs. Jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to Mrs. Palmer,
entered the drawing-room, where Elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of
such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and
giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by
saying,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lord! my dear Miss Dashwood! have you heard the news?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am. What is it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Something so strange! But you shall hear it all. When I got to Mr.
Palmer&rsquo;s, I found Charlotte quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure
it was very ill&mdash;it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples. So I
looked at it directly, and, &lsquo;Lord! my dear,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;it is
nothing in the world, but the red gum;&rsquo; and nurse said just the same. But
Charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so Mr. Donavan was sent for; and luckily
he happened to just come in from Harley Street, so he stepped over directly,
and as soon as ever he saw the child, he said just as we did, that it was
nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Charlotte was easy. And so, just
as he was going away again, it came into my head, I am sure I do not know how I
happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any
news. So upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to
know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, &lsquo;For fear any
unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their
sister&rsquo;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.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What! is Fanny ill?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is exactly what I said, my dear. &lsquo;Lord!&rsquo; says I,
&lsquo;is Mrs. Dashwood ill?&rsquo; So then it all came out; and the long and
the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this. Mr. Edward
Ferrars, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it
turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), Mr. Edward
Ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin
Lucy!&mdash;There&rsquo;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!
<i>That</i> 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. &lsquo;Lord!&rsquo;
thinks she to herself, &lsquo;they are all so fond of Lucy, to be sure they
will make no difficulty about it;&rsquo; and so, away she went to your sister,
who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to
come&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 <i>her</i>. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for your
sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. Nancy,
she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about
the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Dashwood declared they
should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go
down upon <i>his</i> knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had
packed up their clothes. <i>Then</i> she fell into hysterics again, and he was
so frightened that he would send for Mr. Donavan, and Mr. Donavan found the
house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor
cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor Lucy in such
a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and Nancy, she was almost as bad.
I declare, I have no patience with your sister; and I hope, with all my heart,
it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! what a taking poor Mr. Edward will be
in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! for they say he is
monstrous fond of her, as well he may. I should not wonder, if he was to be in
the greatest passion!&mdash;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 <i>she</i> 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&rsquo;s
making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why
Mr. Edward and Lucy should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Ferrars may afford to
do very well by her son, and though Lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows
better than any body how to make the most of every thing; I dare say, if Mrs.
Ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an
appearance with it as any body else would with eight. Lord! how snug they might
live in such another cottage as yours&mdash;or a little bigger&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>him</i> she felt much compassion;&mdash;for Lucy very
little&mdash;and it cost her some pains to procure that little;&mdash;for the
rest of the party none at all.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s office was a painful one.&mdash;She was going to remove what she
really believed to be her sister&rsquo;s chief consolation,&mdash;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
<i>her</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
She was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent
herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had
practised since her first knowledge of Edward&rsquo;s engagement, might suggest
a hint of what was practicable to Marianne. Her narration was clear and simple;
and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by
violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. <i>That</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
But Marianne for some time would give credit to neither. Edward seemed a second
Willoughby; and acknowledging as Elinor did, that she <i>had</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
Her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the
engagement, and the length of time it had existed.&mdash;Marianne&rsquo;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,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How long has this been known to you, Elinor? has he written to
you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have known it these four months. When Lucy first came to Barton Park
last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
At these words, Marianne&rsquo;s eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips
could not utter. After a pause of wonder, she exclaimed&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Four months!&mdash;Have you known of this four months?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor confirmed it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What! while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?
And I have reproached you for being happy!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the
reverse!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Four months!&rdquo; cried Marianne again. &ldquo;So calm! so cheerful!
How have you been supported?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;By feeling that I was doing my duty.&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne seemed much struck.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother,&rdquo;
added Elinor; &ldquo;and once or twice I have attempted it;&mdash;but without
betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Four months! and yet you loved him!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was
dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can
think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my
account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself. I have many
things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment
by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without
spreading it farther. I acquit Edward of essential misconduct. I wish him very
happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may
harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Lucy does not want sense,
and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built. And after
all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and
constant attachment, and all that can be said of one&rsquo;s happiness
depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant&mdash;it is not
fit&mdash;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 <i>her</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If such is your way of thinking,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;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.&mdash;They are brought more within my comprehension.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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 <i>now</i>. 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. <i>Then</i>, if I had not been bound to
silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely&mdash;not even what I owed
to my dearest friends&mdash;from openly showing that I was <i>very</i>
unhappy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne was quite subdued.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! Elinor,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;you have made me hate myself for
ever.&mdash;How barbarous have I been to you!&mdash;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!&mdash;Is this my gratitude?&mdash;Is this the only return I
can make you?&mdash;Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been
trying to do it away.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
She performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.&mdash;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,
&ldquo;Yes, ma&rsquo;am.&rdquo;&mdash;She listened to her praise of Lucy with
only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Jennings talked of
Edward&rsquo;s affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.&mdash;Such
advances towards heroism in her sister, made Elinor feel equal to any thing
herself.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You have heard, I suppose,&rdquo; said he with great solemnity, as soon
as he was seated, &ldquo;of the very shocking discovery that took place under
our roof yesterday.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your sister,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;has suffered dreadfully. Mrs.
Ferrars too&mdash;in short it has been a scene of such complicated
distress&mdash;but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our
being any of us quite overcome. Poor Fanny! she was in hysterics all yesterday.
But I would not alarm you too much. Donavan says there is nothing materially to
be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any
thing. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never
shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so
deceived!&mdash;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! &lsquo;I wish, with all my
heart,&rsquo; says poor Fanny in her affectionate way, &lsquo;that we had asked
your sisters instead of them.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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!&mdash;such a suspicion could never
have entered her head! If she suspected <i>any</i> prepossession elsewhere, it
could not be in <i>that</i> quarter. &lsquo;<i>There</i>, to be sure,&rsquo;
said she, &lsquo;I might have thought myself safe.&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, every thing was
disregarded. I never thought Edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His
mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss
Morton; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of
land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew
desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still
persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that
must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his
all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him
the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a
view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing
in it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here Marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and
cried, &ldquo;Gracious God! can this be possible!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well may you wonder, Marianne,&rdquo; replied her brother, &ldquo;at the
obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very
natural.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All this, however,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Then,&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to
be silent, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
John Dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to
provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good
fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and Elinor&rsquo;s heart wrung
for the feelings of Edward, while braving his mother&rsquo;s threats, for a
woman who could not reward him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;and how did it end?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am sorry to say, ma&rsquo;am, in a most unhappy rupture:&mdash;Edward
is dismissed for ever from his mother&rsquo;s notice. He left her house
yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know;
for <i>we</i> of course can make no inquiry.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poor young man!&mdash;and what is to become of him?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What, indeed, ma&rsquo;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&mdash;how can a man live on it?&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Poor young man!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s heart thanked her for such kindness towards Edward, though she
could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If he would only have done as well by himself,&rdquo; said John
Dashwood, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s power to assist him. And there is one
thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all&mdash;his mother
has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle <i>that</i>
estate upon Robert immediately, which might have been Edward&rsquo;s, on proper
conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the
business.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, &ldquo;that is <i>her</i> revenge.
Everybody has a way of their own. But I don&rsquo;t think mine would be, to
make one son independent, because another had plagued me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne got up and walked about the room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man,&rdquo; continued
John, &ldquo;than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which
might have been his own? Poor Edward! I feel for him sincerely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s conduct, the Dashwoods&rsquo;, and
Edward&rsquo;s.
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap38"></a>CHAPTER XXXVIII.</h2>

<p>
Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward&rsquo;s conduct, but only
Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit. <i>They</i> 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&rsquo;s continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do
away; and Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;s conduct and her own.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in
Harley Street, or Bartlett&rsquo;s Buildings. But though so much of the matter
was known to them already, that Mrs. Jennings might have had enough to do in
spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved
from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as
she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had
prevented her going to them within that time.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s conversation, she was herself left to quiet
reflection. She saw nothing of the Willoughbys, nothing of Edward, and for some
time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be
interesting to her. But at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted
by Miss Steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in
meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of
Mrs. Jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their&rsquo;s. Mrs.
Jennings immediately whispered to Elinor,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you any thing if you ask.
You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s curiosity and Elinor&rsquo;s
too, that she would tell any thing <i>without</i> being asked; for nothing
would otherwise have been learnt.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am so glad to meet you;&rdquo; said Miss Steele, taking her familiarly
by the arm&mdash;&ldquo;for I wanted to see you of all things in the
world.&rdquo; And then lowering her voice, &ldquo;I suppose Mrs. Jennings has
heard all about it. Is she angry?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not at all, I believe, with you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;That is a good thing. And Lady Middleton, is <i>she</i> angry?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I cannot suppose it possible that she should be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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,
<i>you</i> are going to laugh at me too. But why should not I wear pink
ribbons? I do not care if it <i>is</i> the Doctor&rsquo;s favourite colour. I
am sure, for my part, I should never have known he <i>did</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, but Miss Dashwood,&rdquo; speaking triumphantly, &ldquo;people may
say what they chuse about Mr. Ferrars&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, I assure
you,&rdquo; said Elinor.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, did not you? But it <i>was</i> 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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some
where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday,
on purpose to get the better of it. And after thinking it all over and over
again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing
at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it
must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope
of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he
could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?&mdash;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 <i>her</i> sake, and upon <i>her</i> 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&mdash;Oh, la! one can&rsquo;t repeat such kind of things you
know)&mdash;she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to
be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he
might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of
the kind. So then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what
they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must
wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any
more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in
her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to
go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Lucy if she would like to go, but
she did not care to leave Edward; so I just run up stairs and put on a pair of
silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them,&rdquo; said
Elinor; &ldquo;you were all in the same room together, were not you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, indeed, not us. La! Miss Dashwood, do you think people make love
when any body else is by? Oh, for shame!&mdash;To be sure you must know better
than that. (Laughing affectedly.)&mdash;No, no; they were shut up in the
drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the
door.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How!&rdquo; cried Elinor; &ldquo;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, la! there is nothing in <i>that</i>. 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Edward talks of going to Oxford soon,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;but now he
is lodging at No.&mdash;, Pall Mall. What an ill-natured woman his mother is,
an&rsquo;t she? And your brother and sister were not very kind! However, I
shan&rsquo;t say anything against them to <i>you;</i> and to be sure they did
send us home in their own chariot, which was more than I looked for. And for my
part, I was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes
she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them,
and I took care to keep mine out of sight. Edward have got some business at
Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after <i>that</i>, 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&rsquo;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.
&lsquo;La!&rsquo; I shall say directly, &lsquo;I wonder how you could think of
such a thing? <i>I</i> write to the Doctor, indeed!&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;it is a comfort to be prepared against
the worst. You have got your answer ready.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own
party made another more necessary.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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!&mdash;I wonder you was not afraid of its being torn.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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;&mdash;every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting
that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Wait for his having a living!&mdash;ay, we all know how <i>that</i> will
end:&mdash;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 &rsquo;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&rsquo; other day. No, no, they must
get a stout girl of all works. Betty&rsquo;s sister would never do for them
<i>now</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy
herself. It was as follows:
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Bartlett&rsquo;s Building, March.
</p>

<p class="letter">
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.&mdash;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&rsquo;t think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this
way any morning, &rsquo;twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be
proud to know her.&mdash;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,
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;I am, &amp;c.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
As soon as Elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its
writer&rsquo;s real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Jennings, who
read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well indeed!&mdash;how prettily she writes!&mdash;aye, that was
quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Lucy. Poor soul!
I wish I <i>could</i> 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!&mdash;Thank
you, my dear, for showing it me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and
does Lucy&rsquo;s head and heart great credit.&rdquo;
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap39"></a>CHAPTER XXXIX.</h2>

<p>
The Miss Dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and
Marianne&rsquo;s impatience to be gone increased every day. She sighed for the
air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could
give her ease, Barton must do it. Elinor was hardly less anxious than herself
for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected
immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a
journey, which Marianne could not be brought to acknowledge. She began,
however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had
already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with
all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though
detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Elinor altogether
much more eligible than any other. The Palmers were to remove to Cleveland
about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Jennings, with both
her friends, received a very warm invitation from Charlotte to go with them.
This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Miss
Dashwood;&mdash;but it was inforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Palmer
himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them
since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with
pleasure.
</p>

<p>
When she told Marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very
auspicious.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Cleveland!&rdquo;&mdash;she cried, with great agitation. &ldquo;No, I
cannot go to Cleveland.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You forget,&rdquo; said Elinor gently, &ldquo;that its situation is
not&mdash;that it is not in the neighbourhood of&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But it is in Somersetshire.&mdash;I cannot go into
Somersetshire.&mdash;There, where I looked forward to going...No, Elinor, you
cannot expect me to go there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such
feelings;&mdash;she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on
others;&mdash;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&rsquo;s journey; and their mother&rsquo;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&rsquo; time. As Marianne&rsquo;s affection for her mother was sincere, it
must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them
very earnestly to return with her again from Cleveland. Elinor was grateful for
the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother&rsquo;s
concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was
arranged as far as it could be;&mdash;and Marianne found some relief in drawing
up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from Barton.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah! Colonel, I do not know what you and I shall do without the Miss
Dashwoods;&rdquo;&mdash;was Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s address to him when he first
called on her, after their leaving her was settled&mdash;&ldquo;for they are
quite resolved upon going home from the Palmers;&mdash;and how forlorn we shall
be, when I come back!&mdash;Lord! we shall sit and gape at one another as dull
as two cats.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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 <i>not</i> 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&rsquo;s turning from one lesson to
another, some words of the Colonel&rsquo;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
<i>that</i> 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&rsquo;s
performance brought her these words in the Colonel&rsquo;s calm voice,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am afraid it cannot take place very soon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry
out, &ldquo;Lord! what should hinder it?&rdquo;&mdash;but checking her desire,
confined herself to this silent ejaculation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is very strange!&mdash;sure he need not wait to be older.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This delay on the Colonel&rsquo;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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I shall always think myself very much obliged to you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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 <i>sang-froid</i>, and go away without
making her any reply! She had not thought her old friend could have made so
indifferent a suitor.
</p>

<p>
What had really passed between them was to this effect.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have heard,&rdquo; said he, with great compassion, &ldquo;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?;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor told him that it was.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty,&rdquo; he replied, with great
feeling, &ldquo;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&mdash;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&rsquo;s post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance;
but <i>that</i>, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may
be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a
rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than
200£ 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 it to him, will be very great. Pray assure
him of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;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 <i>she</i>, 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&rsquo;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 <i>her</i>, 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 <i>then</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The smallness of the house,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I cannot imagine any
inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and
income.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
By which the Colonel was surprised to find that <i>she</i> was considering Mr.
Ferrars&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This little rectory <i>can</i> do no more than make Mr. Ferrars
comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say
that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive. If,
however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther,
I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready
to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am
now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little
towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage
must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very
soon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap40"></a>CHAPTER XL.</h2>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, Miss Dashwood,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings, sagaciously smiling, as
soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, &ldquo;I do not ask you what the Colonel
has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I <i>tried</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Thank you, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said Elinor. &ldquo;It <i>is</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Lord! my dear, you are very modest. I an&rsquo;t the least astonished at
it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more
likely to happen.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You judged from your knowledge of the Colonel&rsquo;s general
benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so
very soon occur.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Opportunity!&rdquo; repeated Mrs. Jennings&mdash;&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You mean to go to Delaford after them I suppose,&rdquo; said Elinor,
with a faint smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;He spoke of its being out of repair.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, and whose fault is that? why don&rsquo;t he repair it?&mdash;who
should do it but himself?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were interrupted by the servant&rsquo;s coming in to announce the carriage
being at the door; and Mrs. Jennings immediately preparing to go, said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, ma&rsquo;am, I shall tell Marianne of it; but I shall not
mention it at present to any body else.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh! very well,&rdquo; said Mrs. Jennings rather disappointed.
&ldquo;Then you would not have me tell it to Lucy, for I think of going as far
as Holborn to-day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am, not even Lucy if you please. One day&rsquo;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 <i>that</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo; reflection, however, produced a very happy
idea, and she exclaimed;&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Oh, ho!&mdash;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?&mdash;sure,
he is the proper person.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s speech,
neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to
its conclusion.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Colonel Brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to
announce his intentions to Mr. Ferrars than himself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And so <i>you</i> are forced to do it. Well <i>that</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And away she went; but returning again in a moment,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have just been thinking of Betty&rsquo;s sister, my dear. I should be
very glad to get her so good a mistress. But whether she would do for a
lady&rsquo;s maid, I am sure I can&rsquo;t tell. She is an excellent housemaid,
and works very well at her needle. However, you will think of all that at your
leisure.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; replied Elinor, not hearing much of what
she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.
</p>

<p>
How she should begin&mdash;how she should express herself in her note to
Edward, was now all her concern. The particular circumstances between them made
a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest
thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and
sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by
the entrance of Edward himself.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity,
that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it
was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her
visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all. Her
astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance. She had
not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since
his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what
she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel
particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. He too was much distressed; and
they sat down together in a most promising state of
embarrassment.&mdash;Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first
coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe
side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after
taking a chair.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Jennings told me,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that you wished to speak
with me, at least I understood her so&mdash;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&mdash;it is not probable that I should soon
have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You would not have gone, however,&rdquo; said Elinor, recovering
herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as
possible, &ldquo;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&mdash;it is about two hundred a-year&mdash;were much more considerable,
and such as might better enable you to&mdash;as might be more than a temporary
accommodation to yourself&mdash;such, in short, as might establish all your
views of happiness.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that
any one else should say for him. He <i>looked</i> all the astonishment which
such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but
he said only these two words,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Colonel Brandon!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the
worst was over, &ldquo;Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern
for what has lately passed&mdash;for the cruel situation in which the
unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Colonel Brandon give <i>me</i> a living!&mdash;Can it be
possible?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find
friendship any where.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied he, with sudden consciousness, &ldquo;not to find it
in <i>you;</i> for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it
all.&mdash;I feel it&mdash;I would express it if I could&mdash;but, as you well
know, I am no orator.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;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&mdash;indeed I know he <i>has</i>, still greater
pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my
solicitation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;at last, and as if it
were rather an effort, he said,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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 <i>should</i> be all
this.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,&rdquo; said he,
soon afterwards, rising from his chair.
</p>

<p>
Elinor told him the number of the house.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not
allow me to give <i>you;</i> to assure him that he has made me a very&mdash;an
exceedingly happy man.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest
assurance on <i>her</i> side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in
every change of situation that might befall him; on <i>his</i>, with rather an
attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When I see him again,&rdquo; said Elinor to herself, as the door shut
him out, &ldquo;I shall see him the husband of Lucy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
When Mrs. Jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she
had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say,
her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession,
than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Elinor
appeared.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, my dear,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;I sent you up the young man. Did
not I do right?&mdash;And I suppose you had no great difficulty&mdash;You did
not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am; <i>that</i> was not very likely.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, and how soon will he be ready?&mdash;For it seems all to depend
upon that.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Two or three months!&rdquo; cried Mrs. Jennings; &ldquo;Lord! my dear,
how calmly you talk of it; and can the Colonel wait two or three months! Lord
bless me!&mdash;I am sure it would put <i>me</i> quite out of
patience!&mdash;And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr.
Ferrars, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.
Sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in
orders already.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;My dear ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;what can you be thinking
of? Why, Colonel Brandon&rsquo;s only object is to be of use to Mr.
Ferrars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one,&rdquo; said she, after the
first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, &ldquo;and very likely
<i>may</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But Colonel Brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living&rsquo;s
being enough to allow them to marry.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;t go if Lucy an&rsquo;t there.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for
any thing more.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap41"></a>CHAPTER XLI.</h2>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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
<i>would</i> give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the
most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly
declared that no exertion for their good on Miss Dashwood&rsquo;s part, either
present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of
doing any thing in the world for those she really valued. As for Colonel
Brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover
truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious
that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and secretly resolved to avail
herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his
carriage, his cows, and his poultry.
</p>

<p>
It was now above a week since John Dashwood had called in Berkeley Street, and
as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife&rsquo;s
indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Elinor began to feel it necessary to
pay her a visit.&mdash;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&rsquo;s going at all; and Mrs. Jennings,
though her carriage was always at Elinor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s
part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The
consequence was, that Elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no
one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tête-à-tête
with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house,
her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting
Elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and,
assuring her that Fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in.
</p>

<p>
They walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.&mdash;Nobody was there.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Fanny is in her own room, I suppose,&rdquo; said he: &ldquo;I will go to
her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world
to seeing <i>you</i>. Very far from it, indeed. <i>Now</i> especially there
cannot be&mdash;but however, you and Marianne were always great favourites. Why
would not Marianne come?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor made what excuse she could for her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am not sorry to see you alone,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;for I have a
good deal to say to you. This living of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;s&mdash;can it be
true?&mdash;has he really given it to Edward?&mdash;I heard it yesterday by
chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is perfectly true.&mdash;Colonel Brandon has given the living of
Delaford to Edward.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Really!&mdash;Well, this is very astonishing!&mdash;no
relationship!&mdash;no connection between them!&mdash;and now that livings
fetch such a price!&mdash;what was the value of this?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;About two hundred a year.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Very well&mdash;and for the next presentation to a living of that
value&mdash;supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and
likely to vacate it soon&mdash;he might have got I dare say&mdash;fourteen
hundred pounds. And how came he not to have settled that matter before this
person&rsquo;s death? <i>Now</i>, indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a
man of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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&mdash;on recollection&mdash;that the case may probably be <i>this</i>.
Edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Colonel has
really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the
fact, depend upon it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had
herself been employed in conveying the offer from Colonel Brandon to Edward,
and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to
submit to her authority.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is truly astonishing!&rdquo;&mdash;he cried, after hearing what she
said&mdash;&ldquo;what could be the Colonel&rsquo;s motive?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A very simple one&mdash;to be of use to Mr. Ferrars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, well; whatever Colonel Brandon may be, Edward is a very lucky
man.&mdash;You will not mention the matter to Fanny, however, for though I have
broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well,&mdash;she will not like to hear
it much talked of.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought
Fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother,
by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Ferrars,&rdquo; added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming
so important a subject, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>that</i> 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,&mdash;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!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Ah! Elinor,&rdquo; said John, &ldquo;your reasoning is very good, but it
is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Edward&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory
by <i>this</i> time.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Ferrars is one of the most affectionate
mothers in the world.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor was silent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We think <i>now</i>,&rdquo;&mdash;said Mr. Dashwood, after a short
pause, &ldquo;of <i>Robert&rsquo;s</i> marrying Miss Morton.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother&rsquo;s
tone, calmly replied,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Choice!&mdash;how do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Certainly, there can be no difference; for Robert will now to all
intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son;&mdash;and as to any thing
else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one is
superior to the other.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor said no more, and John was also for a short time silent.&mdash;His
reflections ended thus.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Of <i>one</i> thing, my dear sister,&rdquo; kindly taking her hand, and
speaking in an awful whisper, &ldquo;I may assure you;&mdash;and I <i>will</i>
do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason to
think&mdash;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,&mdash;but I
have it from the very best authority,&mdash;not that I ever precisely heard
Mrs. Ferrars say it herself&mdash;but her daughter <i>did</i>, and I have it
from her,&mdash;that in short, whatever objections there might be against a
certain&mdash;a certain connection, you understand me,&mdash;it would have been
far preferable to her,&mdash;it would not have given her half the vexation that
<i>this</i> does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Ferrars
considered it in that light; a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.
&lsquo;It would have been beyond comparison,&rsquo; she said, &lsquo;the least
evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound <i>now</i> for nothing
worse.&rsquo; But however, all that is quite out of the question,&mdash;not to
be thought of or mentioned&mdash;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,&mdash;quite as
well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Colonel Brandon been with
you lately?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her
self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind;&mdash;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&rsquo; chat, John Dashwood,
recollecting that Fanny was yet uninformed of her sister&rsquo;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&rsquo;s love
and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his
own dissipated course of life, and that brother&rsquo;s integrity, was
confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>him</i>. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of
Edward&rsquo;s being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house,
diverted him beyond measure;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We may treat it as a joke,&rdquo; said he, at last, recovering from the
affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the
moment; &ldquo;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 <i>your</i> 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,&mdash;the same address. Poor
fellow! to see him in a circle of strangers! To be sure it was pitiable enough;
but upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I
declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all
burst forth. I could not believe it. My mother was the first person who told me
of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said
to her, &lsquo;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>I</i> never will see him again.&rsquo; That was what I said
immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! Poor Edward! he has done
for himself completely,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Have you ever seen the lady?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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
<i>then</i>, 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.
&lsquo;My dear fellow,&rsquo; I should have said, &lsquo;consider what you are
doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your
family are unanimous in disapproving.&rsquo; 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Mrs.
John Dashwood put an end to the subject. But though <i>she</i> 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;&mdash;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap42"></a>CHAPTER XLII.</h2>

<p>
One other short call in Harley Street, in which Elinor received her
brother&rsquo;s congratulations on their travelling so far towards Barton
without any expense, and on Colonel Brandon&rsquo;s being to follow them to
Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters
in town;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
It amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to
Delaford;&mdash;a place, in which, of all others, she would now least chuse 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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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 <i>she</i> could have no share, without
shedding many tears.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;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&rsquo;s regret to be divided for
ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of Lucy&rsquo;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&rsquo;s peace of
mind, and confirming her own.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they
drove up to Cleveland.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the
consciousness of being only eighty miles from Barton, and not thirty from Combe
Magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others
were busily helping Charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted
it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to
be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, her
eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly
rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their
summits Combe Magna might be seen.
</p>

<p>
In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony
to be at Cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to the house,
feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to
place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour
of every day while she remained with the Palmers, in the indulgence of such
solitary rambles.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s lamentations upon
blights, in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite
plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the
laughter of Charlotte,&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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
<i>she</i> could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
</p>

<p>
Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Palmer had her
child, and Mrs. Jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had
left behind, arranged Lady Middleton&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;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&rsquo;s generous temper,
simple taste, and diffident feelings.
</p>

<p>
Of Edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence
from Colonel Brandon, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who, treating
her at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Ferrars, and the kind confidante
of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described
its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing
them.&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the
nicest observer of the two;&mdash;she watched his eyes, while Mrs. Jennings
thought only of his behaviour;&mdash;and while his looks of anxious solicitude
on Marianne&rsquo;s feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy
cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady&rsquo;s
observation;&mdash;<i>she</i> could discover in them the quick feelings, and
needless alarm of a lover.
</p>

<p>
Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being
there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds,
and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something
more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the
grass was the longest and wettest, had&mdash;assisted by the still greater
imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings&mdash;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap43"></a>CHAPTER XLIII.</h2>

<p>
Marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied
that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her
accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire
with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and
languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at
last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Colonel Brandon was only
astonished at her sister&rsquo;s composure, who, though attending and nursing
her the whole day, against Marianne&rsquo;s inclination, and forcing proper
medicines on her at night, trusted, like Marianne, to the certainty and
efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s advice, of sending for the Palmers&rsquo; apothecary.
</p>

<p>
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
&ldquo;infection&rdquo; to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Palmer, on
her baby&rsquo;s account. Mrs. Jennings, who had been inclined from the first
to think Marianne&rsquo;s complaint more serious than Elinor, now looked very
grave on Mr. Harris&rsquo;s report, and confirming Charlotte&rsquo;s fears and
caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and Mr.
Palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and
importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore,
was fixed on; and within an hour after Mr. Harris&rsquo;s arrival, she set off,
with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of Mr.
Palmer&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Poor Marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling
herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her
recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this
unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have
begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs.
Jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following
forenoon. The little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay;
though Elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she
<i>then</i> really believed herself, that it would be a very short one.
</p>

<p>
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.&mdash;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&rsquo;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, &amp;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&rsquo;s entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Palmer,
who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well
able to assist or advise Miss Dashwood in any emergence.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Palmer&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s room, and Elinor remained alone with Marianne.
</p>

<p>
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,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is mama coming?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Not yet,&rdquo; cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting
Marianne to lie down again, &ldquo;but she will be here, I hope, before it is
long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Barton.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But she must not go round by London,&rdquo; cried Marianne, in the same
hurried manner. &ldquo;I shall never see her, if she goes by London.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while
attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse. It was lower and quicker than
ever! and Marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so
rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and
despatching a messenger to Barton for her mother. To consult with Colonel
Brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which
immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had
rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the
drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour
than the present.
</p>

<p>
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:&mdash;he listened to them in silent despondence;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Colonel Brandon&mdash;or such a
companion for her mother,&mdash;how gratefully was it felt!&mdash;a companion
whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship
might soothe her!&mdash;as far as the shock of such a summons <i>could</i> be
lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.
</p>

<p>
<i>He</i>, 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&rsquo;clock, and she returned to her
sister&rsquo;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&rsquo;s side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Elinor&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
She was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if <i>he</i> could not
come, for some other advice, when the former&mdash;but not till after five
o&rsquo;clock&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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;&mdash;and as for their mother, when
Mrs. Jennings considered that Marianne might probably be to <i>her</i> what
Charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in <i>her</i> sufferings was very
sincere.
</p>

<p>
Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit;&mdash;but he came to be
disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had
failed;&mdash;the fever was unabated; and Marianne only more quiet&mdash;not
more herself&mdash;remained in a heavy stupor. Elinor, catching all, and more
than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But he
judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh
application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit
concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not
enter the heart of Miss Dashwood. She was calm, except when she thought of her
mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon,
scarcely stirring from her sister&rsquo;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&rsquo;s disappointment had brought on. Elinor felt
all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her
reflections.
</p>

<p>
About noon, however, she began&mdash;but with a caution&mdash;a dread of
disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend&mdash;to
fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister&rsquo;s
pulse;&mdash;she waited, watched, and examined it again and again;&mdash;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;&mdash;and
Elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to
hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its
anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch&mdash;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&rsquo;clock;&mdash;when his assurances, his felicitations on a
recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence,
comfort, and tears of joy.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor could not be cheerful. Her joy was of a different kind, and led to any
thing rather than to gaiety. Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to
her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite
comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;&mdash;but it led to no outward
demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Elinor&rsquo;s breast
was satisfaction, silent and strong.
</p>

<p>
She continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole
afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled
spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every
breath. The possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to
remind her of what anxiety was&mdash;but when she saw, on her frequent and
minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Marianne
at six o&rsquo;clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance
comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
</p>

<p>
The time was now drawing on, when Colonel Brandon might be expected back. At
ten o&rsquo;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!&mdash;perhaps scarcely less an object of
pity!&mdash;Oh!&mdash;how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in
ignorance!
</p>

<p>
At seven o&rsquo;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;&mdash;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&rsquo;s arrival, and allow
<i>her</i> 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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;they had a rich
reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
</p>

<p>
The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Elinor would have been convinced that
at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was
the persuasion that she <i>did</i>, in spite of the <i>almost</i> 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&rsquo;s alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
</p>

<p>
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 stopt
at the door&mdash;of her doubt&mdash;her dread&mdash;perhaps her
despair!&mdash;and of what <i>she</i> had to tell!&mdash;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&rsquo;s maid with her
sister, she hurried down stairs.
</p>

<p>
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,&mdash;she
entered it,&mdash;and saw only Willoughby.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap44"></a>CHAPTER XLIV.</h2>

<p>
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,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Miss Dashwood, for half an hour&mdash;for ten minutes&mdash;I entreat
you to stay.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; she replied with firmness, &ldquo;I shall <i>not</i>
stay. Your business cannot be with <i>me</i>. The servants, I suppose, forgot
to tell you that Mr. Palmer was not in the house.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Had they told me,&rdquo; he cried with vehemence, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;With me!&rdquo;&mdash;in the utmost amazement&mdash;&ldquo;well,
sir,&mdash;be quick&mdash;and if you can&mdash;less violent.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Sit down, and I will be both.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She hesitated; she knew not what to do. The possibility of Colonel
Brandon&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Pray be quick, sir,&rdquo;&mdash;said Elinor,
impatiently;&mdash;&ldquo;I have no time to spare.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your sister,&rdquo; said he, with abruptness, a moment
afterwards&mdash;&ldquo;is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be
praised!&mdash;But is it true? is it really true?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor would not speak. He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;For God&rsquo;s sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she
not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We hope she is.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He rose up, and walked across the room.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Had I known as much half an hour ago;&mdash;but since I <i>am</i>
here,&rdquo; speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his
seat,&mdash;&ldquo;what does it signify? For once, Miss Dashwood&mdash;it will
be the last time, perhaps&mdash;let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine
mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly&rdquo; a deeper glow overspreading his
cheeks, &ldquo;do you think me most a knave or a fool?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. She began to think
that he must be in liquor;&mdash;the strangeness of such a visit, and of such
manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she
immediately rose, saying,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Willoughby, I advise you at present to return to Combe. I am not at
leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, it
will be better recollected and explained to-morrow.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I understand you,&rdquo; he replied, with an expressive smile, and a
voice perfectly calm; &ldquo;yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my
cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At Marlborough!&rdquo;&mdash;cried Elinor, more and more at a loss to
understand what he would be at.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&mdash;I left London this morning at eight o&rsquo;clock, and the
only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a
nuncheon at Marlborough.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s recollection,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mr. Willoughby, you <i>ought</i> to feel, and I certainly <i>do</i>,
that after what has passed, your coming here in this manner, and forcing
yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that
you mean by it?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; said he, with serious energy, &ldquo;if I can, to make
you hate me one degree less than you do <i>now</i>. I mean to offer some kind
of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to
you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a blockhead, I have
not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Ma&mdash;
from your sister.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is this the real reason of your coming?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Upon my soul it is,&rdquo;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If that is all, you may be satisfied already; for Marianne <i>does</i>,
she has <i>long</i> forgiven you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Has she?&rdquo; he cried, in the same eager tone. &ldquo;Then she has
forgiven me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again,
and on more reasonable grounds. <i>Now</i> will you listen to me?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor bowed her assent.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not know,&rdquo; said he, after a pause of expectation on her side,
and thoughtfulness on his own, &ldquo;how <i>you</i> 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,&mdash;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&rsquo;s lovely person and
interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost
from the first, was of a kind&mdash;it is astonishing, when I reflect on what
it was, and what <i>she</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Miss Dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry
contempt, stopped him, by saying,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is hardly worth while, Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me
to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any
thing. Do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I insist on you hearing the whole of it,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;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,&mdash;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
<i>then</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You did then,&rdquo; said Elinor, a little softened, &ldquo;believe
yourself at one time attached to her?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>then</i>, 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&mdash;nor will I stop for <i>you</i> 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&mdash;in the interim of
the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of
speaking with her in private&mdash;a circumstance occurred&mdash;an unlucky
circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A
discovery took place,&rdquo;&mdash;here he hesitated and looked down.
&ldquo;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&mdash;but I need not explain myself farther,&rdquo; he added,
looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring
eye,&mdash;&ldquo;your particular intimacy&mdash;you have probably heard the
whole story long ago.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have,&rdquo; returned Elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her
heart anew against any compassion for him, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Remember,&rdquo; cried Willoughby, &ldquo;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&mdash;that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because
<i>I</i> was a libertine, <i>she</i> must be a saint. If the violence of her
passions, the weakness of her understanding&mdash;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&mdash;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&mdash;Oh! how infinitely superior!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl&mdash;I must
say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well
be&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But, upon my soul, I did <i>not</i> know it,&rdquo; he warmly replied;
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir, and what said Mrs. Smith?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. The night
following this affair&mdash;I was to go the next morning&mdash;was spent by me
in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was
great&mdash;but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough
conviction of her attachment to me&mdash;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;&mdash;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&mdash;and left her
hoping never to see her again.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Why did you call, Mr. Willoughby?&rdquo; said Elinor, reproachfully;
&ldquo;a note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to
call?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;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&mdash;I never
shall forget it&mdash;united too with such reliance, such confidence in
me!&mdash;Oh, God!&mdash;what a hard-hearted rascal I was!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
They were both silent for a few moments. Elinor first spoke.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you tell her that you should soon return?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I do not know what I told her,&rdquo; he replied, impatiently;
&ldquo;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.&mdash;It
won&rsquo;t do.&mdash;Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with
all her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it <i>did</i> 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&mdash;travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously&mdash;no
creature to speak to&mdash;my own reflections so cheerful&mdash;when I looked
forward every thing so inviting!&mdash;when I looked back at Barton, the
picture so soothing!&mdash;oh, it was a blessed journey!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He stopped.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said Elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient
for his departure, &ldquo;and this is all?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;All!&mdash;no:&mdash;have you forgot what passed in town? That
infamous letter? Did she show it you?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, I saw every note that passed.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in
town the whole time,) what I felt is&mdash;in the common phrase, not to be
expressed; in a more simple one&mdash;perhaps too simple to raise any
emotion&mdash;my feelings were very, very painful.&mdash;Every line, every word
was&mdash;in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here,
would forbid&mdash;a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town
was&mdash;in the same language&mdash;a thunderbolt.&mdash;Thunderbolts and
daggers!&mdash;what a reproof would she have given me!&mdash;her taste, her
opinions&mdash;I believe they are better known to me than my own,&mdash;and I
am sure they are dearer.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this
extraordinary conversation, was now softened again;&mdash;yet she felt it her
duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;This is not right, Mr. Willoughby.&mdash;Remember that you are married.
Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Marianne&rsquo;s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as
in former days,&mdash;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,&mdash;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 chusing 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, &lsquo;I
shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.&rsquo; 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;&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Watched us out of the house!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how
often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to
avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street,
there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of
you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most
invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us
so long. I avoided the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody
else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their
being in town, however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of
his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;s. He asked
me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he <i>not</i> 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&mdash;still affectionate, open, artless,
confiding&mdash;everything that could make <i>my</i> conduct most hateful. I
could not answer it. I tried&mdash;but could not frame a sentence. But I
thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you <i>can</i> pity me,
Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was <i>then</i>. With my head and heart
full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!
Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not
tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! what an evening
of agony it was! Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me
Willoughby in such a tone! Oh, God! holding out her hand to me, asking me for
an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on
my face! and Sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that
was&mdash;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&rsquo;s sweet face as white as death. <i>That</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing
himself, broke it thus:
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better,
certainly out of danger?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;We are assured of it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your poor mother, too!&mdash;doting on Marianne.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to
say about that?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, yes, <i>that</i> 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,&mdash;and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from
my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia&rsquo;s eye before it caught
mine&mdash;and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing
altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her
before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed
within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was,
and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness,
therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter
directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read
what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her
passion&mdash;her malice&mdash;At all events it must be appeased. And, in
short&mdash;what do you think of my wife&rsquo;s style of
letter-writing?&mdash;delicate&mdash;tender&mdash;truly feminine&mdash;was it
not?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your wife!&mdash;The letter was in your own hand-writing.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;her own happy
thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do!&mdash;we were engaged, every
thing in preparation, the day almost fixed&mdash;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. &lsquo;I am ruined for ever in their
opinion,&rsquo; said I to myself: &lsquo;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.&rsquo; Such were my reasonings, as, in a
sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife&rsquo;s words, and parted with
the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes,&mdash;unluckily they were all in
my pocketbook, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for
ever,&mdash;I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the
lock of hair&mdash;that too I had always carried about me in the same
pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating
virulence,&mdash;the dear lock,&mdash;all, every memento was torn from
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blamable,&rdquo; said Elinor,
while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion;
&ldquo;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&mdash;nor can I suppose it a
relief to your own conscience.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do not talk to me of my wife,&rdquo; said he with a heavy sigh;
&ldquo;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,&mdash;be it only one
degree,&mdash;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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, you have certainly removed something&mdash;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&mdash;the
misery that you have inflicted&mdash;I hardly know what could have made it
worse.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what I have been
telling you?&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>would</i>, 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&mdash;a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her
danger most imminent&mdash;the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &amp;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&mdash;for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been
imputed? <i>One</i> person I was sure would represent me as capable of
anything&mdash;What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at
eight o&rsquo;clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;Extravagance and vanity had made him
cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the
expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance,
or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each
faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every
better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable,
governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with
little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of
unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this
kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing
himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for
going, and said&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There is no use in staying here; I must be off.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Are you going back to town?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No&mdash;to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a
day or two. Good bye.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers;&mdash;he pressed
it with affection.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And you <i>do</i> think something better of me than you did?&rdquo; said
he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he
was to go.
</p>

<p>
Elinor assured him that she did;&mdash;that she forgave, pitied, wished him
well&mdash;was even interested in his happiness&mdash;and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very
encouraging.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As to that,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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&mdash;it may put me on my guard&mdash;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&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor stopped him with a reproof.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Well,&rdquo;&mdash;he replied&mdash;&ldquo;once more good bye. I shall
now go away and live in dread of one event.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your sister&rsquo;s marriage.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is
now.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&mdash;but I will not stay
to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have
most injured I can least forgive. Good bye,&mdash;God bless you!&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap45"></a>CHAPTER XLV.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s heart was full. The past, the present, the future,
Willoughby&rsquo;s visit, Marianne&rsquo;s safety, and her mother&rsquo;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&rsquo;s leaving the house, she
was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.&mdash;Eager to
save her mother from every unnecessary moment&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the
conviction of Marianne&rsquo;s being no more, had no voice to inquire after
her, no voice even for Elinor; but <i>she</i>, waiting neither for salutation
nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it with
all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she
had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between
her daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still
unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals
to press Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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 <i>would</i> sit up with her all night; and
Elinor, in compliance with her mother&rsquo;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, &ldquo;poor Willoughby,&rdquo; 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 <i>his</i>
sufferings and <i>his</i> constancy far more than to his rival&rsquo;s, the
reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs.
Willoughby&rsquo;s death.
</p>

<p>
The shock of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs.
Dashwood&rsquo;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;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not
surprised, was all silent attention.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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&rsquo;s marrying one of you as the object most
desirable. And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the
two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;but her mother must always be carried away by
her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an
inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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;&mdash;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&mdash;or rather, not thinking at
all, I suppose&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Here, however, Elinor perceived,&mdash;not the language, not the professions of
Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother&rsquo;s active
fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;His regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that Willoughby ever
felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant&mdash;which
ever we are to call it&mdash;has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear
Marianne&rsquo;s unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!&mdash;and
without selfishness&mdash;without encouraging a hope!&mdash;could he have seen
her happy with another&mdash;Such a noble mind!&mdash;such openness, such
sincerity!&mdash;no one can be deceived in <i>him</i>.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Colonel Brandon&rsquo;s character,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;as an
excellent man, is well established.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know it is,&rdquo;&mdash;replied her mother seriously, &ldquo;or after
such a warning, <i>I</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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;His character, however,&rdquo; answered Elinor, &ldquo;does not rest on
<i>one</i> 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>I</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?&mdash;Did you allow
him to hope?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>did</i> say, for
at first I was quite overcome, that if she lived, as I trusted she might, my
greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our
arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully,
have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I
tell him, will do everything; Marianne&rsquo;s heart is not to be wasted for
ever on such a man as Willoughby. His own merits must soon secure it.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;To judge from the Colonel&rsquo;s spirits, however, you have not yet
made him equally sanguine.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. He thinks Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;s eyes at times, which I did not like.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor could <i>not</i> remember it; but her mother, without waiting for her
assent, continued,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And his manners, the Colonel&rsquo;s manners are not only more pleasing
to me than Willoughby&rsquo;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 <i>him</i> as she will be with Colonel
Brandon.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused.&mdash;Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent
was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At Delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me,&rdquo; added
Mrs. Dashwood, &ldquo;even if I remain at Barton; and in all
probability,&mdash;for I hear it is a large village,&mdash;indeed there
certainly <i>must</i> be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit
us quite as well as our present situation.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Poor Elinor!&mdash;here was a new scheme for getting her to Delaford!&mdash;but
her spirit was stubborn.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;His fortune too!&mdash;for at my time of life you know, everybody cares
about <i>that;</i>&mdash;and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it
really is, I am sure it must be a good one.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap46"></a>CHAPTER XLVI.</h2>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s
wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton. On <i>her</i> measures depended
those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not quit Cleveland during the
Dashwoods&rsquo; 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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field
and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew
silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat
earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Elinor could neither wonder nor
blame; and when she saw, as she assisted Marianne from the carriage, that she
had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any
thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise. In
the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened
to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute
firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every
object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be connected.&mdash;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.&mdash;That would not do.&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength,&rdquo;
said she, &ldquo;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&rsquo;s new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we
will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations
as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the
summer will pass happily away. I mean never to be later in rising than six, and
from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and
reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of
serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for
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 twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to
want.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s health were more secure, before she appointed it.
But the resolution was made only to be broken.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s wishes and the
mother&rsquo;s confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor&rsquo;s arm, was
authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the
house.
</p>

<p>
The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had advanced
only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important
hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, Marianne calmly
said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;There, exactly there,&rdquo;&mdash;pointing with one hand, &ldquo;on
that projecting mound,&mdash;there I fell; and there I first saw
Willoughby.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot!
shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?&rdquo; hesitatingly it was said.
&ldquo;Or will it be wrong? I <i>can</i> talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to
do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;As for regret,&rdquo; said Marianne, &ldquo;I have done with that, as
far as <i>he</i> is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings
have been for him, but what they are <i>now</i>. At present, if I could be
satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not
<i>always</i> acting a part, not <i>always</i> deceiving me; but above all, if
I could be assured that he never was so <i>very</i> wicked as my fears have
sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what <i>he</i> has been to
<i>me</i>, 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&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;How then,&rdquo; asked her sister, &ldquo;would you account for his
behaviour?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I would suppose him,&mdash;Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only
fickle, very, very fickle.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I am not wishing him too much good,&rdquo; said Marianne at last with a
sigh, &ldquo;when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than
my own. He will suffer enough in them.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you compare your conduct with his?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Our situations have borne little resemblance.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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,&mdash;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
<i>your</i> 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?&mdash;not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.&mdash;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 <i>that</i> heart which had deserted and
wronged me, and leaving you, for whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be
miserable for my sake.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You are very good.&mdash;The future must be my proof. I have laid down
my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She paused&mdash;and added in a low voice, &ldquo;If I could but know
<i>his</i> heart, everything would become easy.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.&mdash;She
trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than
even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but
she dared not urge one. She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her
hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister&rsquo;s, and tears
covered her cheeks.
</p>

<p>
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, &ldquo;Tell mama,&rdquo; withdrew from her sister
and walked slowly up stairs. Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so
reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne fail to
do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap47"></a>CHAPTER XLVII.</h2>

<p>
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;&mdash;she
was sorry for him;&mdash;she wished him happy. But the feelings of the past
could not be recalled.&mdash;Nothing could restore him with a faith
unbroken&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Had Mrs. Dashwood, like her daughter, heard Willoughby&rsquo;s story from
himself&mdash;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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s deserts;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
In the evening, when they were all three together, Marianne began voluntarily
to speak of him again;&mdash;but that it was not without an effort, the
restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously
sitting&mdash;her rising colour, as she spoke,&mdash;and her unsteady voice,
plainly showed.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wish to assure you both,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that I see every
thing&mdash;as you can desire me to do.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness,
had not Elinor, who really wished to hear her sister&rsquo;s unbiased opinion,
by an eager sign, engaged her silence. Marianne slowly continued,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is a great relief to me&mdash;what Elinor told me this
morning&mdash;I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear.&rdquo;&mdash;For
some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with
greater calmness than before&mdash;&ldquo;I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish
for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner
or later I must have known, all this.&mdash;I should have had no confidence, no
esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I know it&mdash;I know it,&rdquo; cried her mother. &ldquo;Happy with a
man of libertine practices!&mdash;With one who so injured the peace of the
dearest of our friends, and the best of men!&mdash;No&mdash;my Marianne has not
a heart to be made happy with such a man!&mdash;Her conscience, her sensitive
conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to
have felt.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne sighed, and repeated, &ldquo;I wish for no change.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You consider the matter,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;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 <i>less</i> grievous to
you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. <i>Your</i>
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&mdash;and how little
could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun
before your marriage? Beyond <i>that</i>, had you endeavoured, however
reasonably, to abridge <i>his</i> 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?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne&rsquo;s lips quivered, and she repeated the word
&ldquo;Selfish?&rdquo; in a tone that implied&mdash;&ldquo;do you really think
him selfish?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;The whole of his behaviour,&rdquo; replied Elinor, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It is very true. <i>My</i> happiness never was his object.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At present,&rdquo; continued Elinor, &ldquo;he regrets what he has done.
And why does he regret it?&mdash;Because he finds it has not answered towards
himself. It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now
unembarrassed&mdash;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?&mdash;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&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have not a doubt of it,&rdquo; said Marianne; &ldquo;and I have
nothing to regret&mdash;nothing but my own folly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Rather say your mother&rsquo;s imprudence, my child,&rdquo; said Mrs.
Dashwood; &ldquo;<i>she</i> must be answerable.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne would not let her proceed;&mdash;and Elinor, satisfied that each felt
their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her
sister&rsquo;s spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately
continued,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>One</i> observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of
the story&mdash;that all Willoughby&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to
an enumeration of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s illness; and in the first of John&rsquo;s,
there had been this sentence:&mdash;&ldquo;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;&rdquo; 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.
</p>

<p>
Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as
he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the
event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I suppose you know, ma&rsquo;am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s inquiry, had intuitively taken the same
direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor&rsquo;s countenance how much she
really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne&rsquo;s
situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.
</p>

<p>
The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to
call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;s assistance, supported
her into the other room. By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her
mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor,
who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason
and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his
intelligence. Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and
Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma&rsquo;am, this morning in Exeter, and his
lady too, Miss Steele as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the
New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her
brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the
chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my
hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma&rsquo;am, and
the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her
compliments and Mr. Ferrars&rsquo;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 howsever, when they come back, they&rsquo;d make sure to come and see
you.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, ma&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, ma&rsquo;am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look
up;&mdash;he never was a gentleman much for talking.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;s heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward;
and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Was there no one else in the carriage?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am, only they two.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Do you know where they came from?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy&mdash;Mrs. Ferrars told
me.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And are they going farther westward?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, ma&rsquo;am&mdash;but not to bide long. They will soon be back
again, and then they&rsquo;d be sure and call here.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s, near Plymouth.
</p>

<p>
Thomas&rsquo;s intelligence seemed over. Elinor looked as if she wished to hear
more.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did you see them off, before you came away?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;No, ma&rsquo;am&mdash;the horses were just coming out, but I could not
bide any longer; I was afraid of being late.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes, ma&rsquo;am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was
always a very handsome young lady&mdash;and she seemed vastly contented.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth,
now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Marianne had already sent
to say, that she should eat nothing more. Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;s and
Elinor&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s representation of herself; and justly concluded that every
thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of
unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne. She found that
she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter,
to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter
in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be.
She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay,
almost unkind, to her Elinor;&mdash;that Marianne&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap48"></a>CHAPTER XLVIII.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s. What had Edward felt on being within four miles from
Barton, on seeing her mother&rsquo;s servant, on hearing Lucy&rsquo;s message!
</p>

<p>
They would soon, she supposed, be settled at
Delaford.&mdash;Delaford,&mdash;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;&mdash;pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the
favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend. In
Edward&mdash;she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;&mdash;happy
or unhappy,&mdash;nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every
sketch of him.
</p>

<p>
Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would
write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; was an inquiry
which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to
hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be
surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon
<i>must</i> have some information to give.
</p>

<p>
Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew
her eyes to the window. He stopt 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 <i>not</i> 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,&mdash;it <i>was</i> Edward.
She moved away and sat down. &ldquo;He comes from Mr. Pratt&rsquo;s purposely
to see us. I <i>will</i> be calm; I <i>will</i> be mistress of myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no
slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;&mdash;but she had no utterance,
and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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 him with a
look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
</p>

<p>
He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor&rsquo;s lips had
moved with her mother&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
Another pause.
</p>

<p>
Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice,
now said,
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;At Longstaple!&rdquo; he replied, with an air of surprise. &ldquo;No, my
mother is in town.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I meant,&rdquo; said Elinor, taking up some work from the table,
&ldquo;to enquire for Mrs. <i>Edward</i> Ferrars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
She dared not look up;&mdash;but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes
on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some
hesitation, said,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps you mean&mdash;my brother&mdash;you mean Mrs.&mdash;Mrs.
<i>Robert</i> Ferrars.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Robert Ferrars!&rdquo; was repeated by Marianne and her mother in
an accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even
<i>her</i> 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,&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is
lately married to&mdash;to the youngest&mdash;to Miss Lucy Steele.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;they were married last week, and are now at
Dawlish.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as
the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would
never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her,
saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw&mdash;or even heard, her emotion; for
immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries,
no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without
saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the
village&mdash;leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on
a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;&mdash;a perplexity which
they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap49"></a>CHAPTER XLIX.</h2>

<p>
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;&mdash;for after
experiencing the blessings of <i>one</i> imprudent engagement, contracted
without his mother&rsquo;s consent, as he had already done for more than four
years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of <i>that</i>,
than the immediate contraction of another.
</p>

<p>
His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor to
marry him;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;that when they all sat down to table at four o&rsquo;clock, about
three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her
mother&rsquo;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;&mdash;and
elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of
almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire. He
was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to
happiness;&mdash;and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing,
grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;It was a foolish, idle inclination on my side,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;the consequence of ignorance of the world, and want of employment. Had
my mother given me some active profession when I was removed at eighteen from
the care of Mr. Pratt, I think, nay, I am sure, it would never have happened;
for though I left Longstaple with what I thought, at the time, a most
unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had I then had any pursuit, any
object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, I
should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing
more with the world, as in such 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 chuse any myself, I returned home to be completely idle; and for the
first twelvemonth afterwards I had not even the nominal employment, which
belonging to the university would have given me; for I was not entered at
Oxford till I was nineteen. I had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to
fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect
comfortable, as I had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new
acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at Longstaple, where
I always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly
I spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: Lucy
appeared everything that was amiable and obliging. She was pretty too&mdash;at
least I thought so <i>then;</i> and I had seen so little of other women, that I
could make no comparisons, and see no defects. Considering everything,
therefore, I hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in
every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable
piece of folly.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
The change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the
Dashwoods, was such&mdash;so great&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Marianne could speak <i>her</i> happiness only by tears. Comparisons would
occur&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
But Elinor&mdash;how are <i>her</i> 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,&mdash;saw him honourably released from his former
engagement,&mdash;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,&mdash;she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own
felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized
with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to
her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.
</p>

<p>
Edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week;&mdash;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&rsquo;s company, or suffice to
say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the
future;&mdash;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 <i>them</i> no
subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at
least twenty times over.
</p>

<p>
Lucy&rsquo;s marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all,
formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers;&mdash;and
Elinor&rsquo;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,&mdash;a girl too already engaged to his
brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his
family&mdash;it was beyond her comprehension to make out. To her own heart it
was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but
to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;s affairs might have done, if applied to in
time. She repeated it to Edward.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;<i>That</i> was exactly like Robert,&rdquo; was his immediate
observation. &ldquo;And <i>that</i>,&rdquo; he presently added, &ldquo;might
perhaps be in <i>his</i> 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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;and when at last it burst on
him in a letter from Lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half
stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance. He
put the letter into Elinor&rsquo;s hands.
</p>

<p class="letter">
&ldquo;D<small>EAR</small> S<small>IR</small>,<br />
    &ldquo;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&rsquo;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,
</p>

<p class="right">
&ldquo;Your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,            <br />
&ldquo;L<small>UCY</small> F<small>ERRARS</small>.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I have burnt all your letters, and will return your picture the first
opportunity. Please to destroy my scrawls&mdash;but the ring with my hair you
are very welcome to keep.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor read and returned it without any comment.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will not ask your opinion of it as a composition,&rdquo; said
Edward.&mdash;&ldquo;For worlds would not I have had a letter of hers seen by
<i>you</i> in former days.&mdash;In a sister it is bad enough, but in a
wife!&mdash;how I have blushed over the pages of her writing!&mdash;and I
believe I may say that since the first half year of our
foolish&mdash;business&mdash;this is the only letter I ever received from her,
of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;However it may have come about,&rdquo; said Elinor, after a
pause,&mdash;&ldquo;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&rsquo;s marrying Lucy, than she would have
been by your marrying her.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;She will be more hurt by it, for Robert always was her
favourite.&mdash;She will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will
forgive him much sooner.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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 <i>that</i> 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
<i>did</i>, 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.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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&rsquo;s anger, had
been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I thought it my duty,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;independent of my feelings,
to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when I was
renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the
world to assist me. In such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to
tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could I suppose,
when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might
be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement? And
even now, I cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied
advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the
smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world. She could
not foresee that Colonel Brandon would give me a living.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;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 <i>you</i> than be
single.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more
natural than Lucy&rsquo;s conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Your behaviour was certainly very wrong,&rdquo; said she;
&ldquo;because&mdash;to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were
all led away by it to fancy and expect <i>what</i>, as you were <i>then</i>
situated, could never be.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in
the force of his engagement.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I was simple enough to think, that because my <i>faith</i> 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 <i>was</i> 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:&mdash;The danger is my own; I am
doing no injury to anybody but myself.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Elinor smiled, and shook her head.
</p>

<p>
Edward heard with pleasure of Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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&mdash;&ldquo;Which, at present,&rdquo; said he,
&ldquo;after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he
must think I have never forgiven him for offering.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
<i>Now</i> he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.
But so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his
knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of
the land, and rate of the tithes, to Elinor herself, who had heard so much of
it from Colonel Brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely
mistress of the subject.
</p>

<p>
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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother
towards him; and on <i>that</i> 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 chusing herself had been spoken of in Mrs. Ferrars&rsquo;s
flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing Lucy Steele, she
feared that Robert&rsquo;s offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich
Fanny.
</p>

<p>
About four days after Edward&rsquo;s arrival Colonel Brandon appeared, to
complete Mrs. Dashwood&rsquo;s satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of
having, for the first time since her living at Barton, more company with her
than her house would hold. Edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first
comer, and Colonel Brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at
the Park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to
interrupt the lovers&rsquo; first tête-à-tête before breakfast.
</p>

<p>
A three weeks&rsquo; 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&rsquo;s looks, all the kindness of her
welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother&rsquo;s language, to make it
cheerful. Among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive. No
rumour of Lucy&rsquo;s marriage had yet reached him:&mdash;he knew nothing of
what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in
hearing and in wondering. Every thing was explained to him by Mrs. Dashwood,
and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for Mr. Ferrars, since
eventually it promoted the interest of Elinor.
</p>

<p>
It would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of
each other, as they advanced in each other&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
The letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in
Elinor&rsquo;s body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less
emotion than mirth. Mrs. Jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her
honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion
towards poor Mr. Edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless
hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at Oxford. &ldquo;I
do think,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;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&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
Mr. Dashwood&rsquo;s strains were more solemn. Mrs. Ferrars was the most
unfortunate of women&mdash;poor Fanny had suffered agonies of
sensibility&mdash;and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow,
with grateful wonder. Robert&rsquo;s offence was unpardonable, but Lucy&rsquo;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&rsquo;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:&mdash;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;Mrs. Ferrars has never yet mentioned Edward&rsquo;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&rsquo;s heart, and that she wishes
for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;A letter of proper submission!&rdquo; repeated he; &ldquo;would they
have me beg my mother&rsquo;s pardon for Robert&rsquo;s ingratitude to
<i>her</i>, and breach of honour to <i>me?</i> I can make no submission. I am
grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed. I am grown very happy;
but that would not interest. I know of no submission that <i>is</i> proper for
me to make.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;You may certainly ask to be forgiven,&rdquo; said Elinor, &ldquo;because
you have offended;&mdash;and I should think you might <i>now</i> venture so far
as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on
you your mother&rsquo;s anger.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
He agreed that he might.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;And when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be
convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in
<i>her</i> eyes as the first.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
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 intreat her good offices in his favour. &ldquo;And if
they really <i>do</i> interest themselves,&rdquo; said Marianne, in her new
character of candour, &ldquo;in bringing about a reconciliation, I shall think
that even John and Fanny are not entirely without merit.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
After a visit on Colonel Brandon&rsquo;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.
</p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

<h2><a name="chap50"></a>CHAPTER L.</h2>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;told
him, that in Miss Morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger
fortune;&mdash;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 <i>three;</i> 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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;could chuse
papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep. Mrs. Jennings&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
&ldquo;I will not say that I am disappointed, my dear sister,&rdquo; said John,
as they were walking together one morning before the gates of Delaford House,
&ldquo;<i>that</i> 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,&mdash;I have not seen such timber any where in Dorsetshire, as
there is now standing in Delaford Hanger! And though, perhaps, Marianne may not
seem exactly the person to attract him, yet I think it would altogether be
advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as Colonel
Brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen; for, when
people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else,&mdash;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.&rdquo;
</p>

<p>
But though Mrs. Ferrars <i>did</i> come to see them, and always treated them
with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real
favour and preference. <i>That</i> was due to the folly of Robert, and the
cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed
away. The selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn Robert into
the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her
respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as
the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled Mrs. Ferrars to
his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.
</p>

<p>
The whole of Lucy&rsquo;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&rsquo;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 <i>time</i>, 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&rsquo;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,&mdash;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&rsquo;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&mdash;and he drew several
plans for magnificent cottages;&mdash;and from thence returning to town,
procured the forgiveness of Mrs. Ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it,
which, at Lucy&rsquo;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&rsquo;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, <i>she</i> was in every
thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child. They
settled in town, received very liberal assistance from Mrs. Ferrars, were on
the best terms imaginable with the Dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies
and ill-will continually subsisting between Fanny and Lucy, in which their
husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements
between Robert and Lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which
they all lived together.
</p>

<p>
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&rsquo;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;&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Elinor&rsquo;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.
</p>

<p>
With such a confederacy against her&mdash;with a knowledge so intimate of his
goodness&mdash;with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at
last, though long after it was observable to everybody else&mdash;burst on
her&mdash;what could she do?
</p>

<p>
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!&mdash;and <i>that</i>
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,&mdash;and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel
waistcoat!
</p>

<p>
But so it was. Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as
once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,&mdash;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,&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
Colonel Brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he
deserved to be;&mdash;in Marianne he was consoled for every past
affliction;&mdash;her regard and her society restored his mind to animation,
and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that Marianne found her own happiness in
forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend.
Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as
much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.
</p>

<p>
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;&mdash;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&mdash;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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<p>
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.
</p>

<h5>THE END</h5>

</div><!--end chapter-->

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